clinch and struggled around in a circle. Behr was immediately impressed with the man’s balance, which was better than his own, and the smile that didn’t leave his face as he yelled merry encouragement to Behr all the while.
Finally, deciding extended duration wasn’t to his advantage, Behr managed to wrap his arms around the instructor in a body lock, lifted him in the air, and slammed him to the mat. Behr expected a wheezing bag of cracked ribs to be writhing at his feet as the result, but instead found that the man wasn’t hurt or even stunned. He hadn’t really hit the ground at all, but instead had held on to Behr’s arm. He had also gotten his legs around Behr’s arm and shoulder, locked his feet against Behr’s neck, and bridged his hips in a way that hyperextended the elbow and caused Behr to drop to his knees and submit with repeated taps to the man’s leg before the joint could be snapped clean through.
“Welcome, huh,” Aurelio said, letting off the pressure and patting Behr on the back. As the awestruck students went back to their practice, he climbed to his feet. “You strong. You be good, eh,” he said, still smiling. Behr joined up on the spot.
At least that’s what Behr had thought he’d said. For the first three months he had trained there, Behr couldn’t understand a word Aurelio was saying. It wasn’t just the heavy accent, but also what the man was teaching. Using an opponent’s own weight, strength, momentum, and intention against him was not natural to Behr, who typically met force with force. In his life if he ended up facing a brick wall it was a head-on affair until either he or the wall crumbled.
Case in point, Behr thought, grinding his way up Saddle Hill.
But bit by bit, four mornings a week, Aurelio’s teachings had begun to sink in. By the end of each hour at the academy he’d be physically shot, bottomed out and shaky, the proud owner of fresh mat burns, bruises, various painful joint and tendon surprises, and often a wrenched neck thanks to Aurelio’s viselike chokes. The knowledge he’d been gaining sure didn’t come cheap. Before the sessions were over he’d know helplessness, futility, outright failure, and invariably feel tiny bits of information seep down into the deep reaches of muscle memory, the only place they’d do any good if needed in a situation.
He never did get a submission against Aurelio in open sparring. That moment was at least a good five or six years away with steady training, if ever. After all, Aurelio was world class, while he was just a mule. But recently he’d started to take steps-at least the domination wasn’t total anymore. Behr had also seen the pounds peel off his frame as he trained. Everything that wasn’t muscle stripped away until he was as rawboned as he’d been as a seventeen-year-old farm boy. And a certain kinship grew between them too, like some kind of hardy mountain plant that didn’t need tending. When it came to teachers and trainers and the like, it was either hate or this kinship that motivated him. Behr had experienced both, and reflecting on past coaches and police captains, the latter worked a whole lot better for him. He and Aurelio had only gone out for beers and to watch MMA events a few times. Other than that it was just the four mornings a week on the mat. But that was all it took. The bond grew out of the effort and the pain, the stoic lack of complaint in the face of it, in the sharing of knowledge, and as vague as it sounded, in the spirit, Behr concluded, reaching the top of the hill for his eighth rep. After about six months of training he realized he’d made his first friend, save for a client a while back, in fifteen years.
Upon arriving at the top of the hill for the tenth time, Behr bent at the waist and grabbed his shorts. Sweat rolled off of him onto the road like a concentrated rain. He felt his right lower leg barking from a knee bar Aurelio had put him in two days earlier.
The hospitals, he thought suddenly. He’d check the hospitals for certain likely injuries that came along with facing someone like Aurelio: a dislocated elbow, snapped wrist, a broken jaw. Behr straightened and began busting it down the hill toward home.
EIGHT
Holster up if you’re whacking it, bro,” Kenny said, entering his brother Charlie’s room. Charlie rolled over, the bedsheet at his waist. He’d been sleeping.
The Schlegels are hotties, Kathy thought. Not their faces, which are pocky, but their bodies. Then she saw his right wrist and forearm. It was all swollen and purple. Charlie moved a plastic bag of water, ice that had mostly melted, off the edge of the bed, where it left a wet spot.
“Why so fucking early?” Charlie said. He had a voice that was already getting roughed up by cigarettes.
Hot, thought Kathy, catching a glimpse of his package as he got out of bed and slipped on a pair of camo shorts, even though he is like at least twenty-two.
“Mom’s runnin’ her already,” Kenny said of Kathy, while polishing off his breakfast sandwich.
“What happened to your arm?” Kathy wondered. They both looked at her, as if surprised she knew how to speak.
“Fucking hood of my truck fell down on it.”
“Ouch,” she said.
“Yeah,” Charlie agreed. “So, give me your license, I’ll scan it in and change it,” he said, pointing at his computer.
Kathy didn’t move. “I don’t have one,” she said.
Charlie looked to her, then to Kenny. “She’s only fifteen,” Kenny said.
“Okay,” Charlie smiled, “nice.” He crossed the room and pulled a large piece of tag board out from behind a dresser. “We’ll go old school.” On the board was a blown-up version of a state of Illinois driver’s license. The name on it was Mr. Pat Mc-Corkle, with an address in some town called Orland Park. The space for the photo on the right, which was roughly the size of a head, remained blank. Kenny went to the bottom drawer of the dresser and pulled out an elaborate Polaroid-type camera attached to a folded-up tripod. Outside, the dogs were starting to bark.
“Photo comes out the size of the license and we have a laminating machine,” Kenny said, as he telescoped out the tripod legs.
“This is such coolness,” she said.
Charlie found a stenciled letter “S” among the rubble of newspaper, pens, pencils, and coffee cups on his desk. He affixed the “S” over the “R” in “Mr.” Charlie hung the board up on a hook that was already in the wall. She’d soon be Ms. Pat McCorkle, twenty-one and a half years old from Orland Park, Illinois, she realized.
“Okay, stand over here,” Charlie directed. Kathy crossed over and placed the back of her head against the empty photo space on the oversized license. Kenny finished with the camera preparations and zeroed it on her. He brought his face away from the eyepiece.
“All set,” Kenny said.
“Should I put on makeup?” she wondered.
“Where’s the fifty?” Charlie asked. Truth was, the Schlegels were into a lot better shit than selling fake IDs, but with Kenny still in high school, the IDs remained a steady source of fifty-dollar bills and fresh pussy.
The girl turned to Kenny. “But I thought…?” she said.
“That it’d be fifty? You’re right,” Kenny said. The girl stood there for a minute in a snit.
“Look, it’s either that or a morning blowdjie,” Charlie said, pointing to his groin. The girl looked to Kenny, who shrugged.
“Kenny, Charlie…,” their mother’s voice filtered in from across the house, “feed those dogs… And your father says it’s almost time for the morning shake.”
“Either way, hurry it up,” Kenny said.
She clenched her teeth and reached into her jeans for the money.
NINE
Behr sat in his car outside a brown brick office building. He was waiting for his client, Wells Shipman, CPA, to arrive so he could do something foolish. Behr had called, and buzzed at the door, but had gotten no answer. He’d also entered the building when another tenant had gone inside and had knocked at the CPA’s office door. Going back outside he finally got hold of Shipman on his cell; he told him he’d be there in ten minutes. Behr was anxious
