A Girl Like You

Prologue

Most people would think getting bit on the balls by a water moccasin while sitting on the toilet in their own home would be the worst thing that could happen that day.

Sam Case knew better.

After hopping around like a Zuni Indian rain dancer and shrieking himself hoarse, Sam called 911. The dispatcher, a young man with a velvety voice named Earl-Please-Calm-Down-Sir-I’m-Only-Trying-To-Help-You, tried to make sense of Sam’s call. It wasn’t working, but Earl had the good sense to tell Sam to unlock his front door.

Sam did, then passed out.

Hours later in Brightside Hospital, Sam pressed the button on the morphine pump and turned his attention to the detectives standing at his bedside.

Did you catch the snake? Sam said.

Not our job, one of them said.

You’re going to what, leave it there?

Don’t you have a housekeeper or something? the other one said.

Sam glanced at the second detective. Maybe it was the angle, or the drugs, or the hospital lighting—but the guy appeared to have no eyebrows. Was that possible? He fixed his gaze on the man’s face.

What happened to your eyebrows?

Fuck my eyebrows, he snarled.

Sam frowned. You can’t just walk around with no eyebrows and expect people not to pose the question.

The first detective chuckled.

You think that’s funny? the second one said.

Sorry, Gene. But yeah, it’s funny.

Sam said, A job like yours, you must encounter children.

Gene said, So?

Kids are honest. They say what’s on their mind. What do you tell them when they recoil in horror and shriek, Oh, dear God! What happened to your fucking eyebrows?"

Gene’s face reddened. Listen, asshole. We can either be friends or I can use your nuts as a speed bag. Which sounds better to you?

One would be as unpleasant as the other, Sam said.

Relax, both of you, the first detective said.

Who are you? Sam said to the less-creepy detective. And why are you here?

I’m Gene Brightside, he said, then nodded at the other guy. My partner, Gene Caruso. Caruso showed Sam his middle finger and mouthed the words fuck you. What Caruso lacked in eyebrows he made up for with an honest-to-God Frito Bandito mustache. Where Brightside sported a navy suit with a red tie and matching pocket square, Caruso had on a brown t-shirt, black leather jacket, and wore a pair of faded Levi’s covered in cat hair.

Fatty acid supplement, Sam said.

What?

You need to upgrade your cat’s diet. A pet’s coat is a reflection of what it eats.

What makes you think I have a cat?

Sam pointed to Caruso’s pants. You’ve got half a cat. The rest of it is on your pants.

Caruso looked down at his legs, then back at Sam and said, Fuck you, Case!

Digestible protein, Sam said. And a fatty acid supplement. Your pet will thank you. Once that’s taken care of, maybe we can work on your wardrobe, Superfly.

How’d you know it was a water moccasin? Brightside said.

What?

You’re in Louisville, Kentucky.

So?

You don’t find many water moccasins in this area.

No shit, Sam said. Then added, Shouldn’t you be asking me how a snake got in my toilet in the first place?

You get a good look at the snake?

Sam studied Detective Brightside’s face. I take Lunesta, he said.

Lunesta.

Yeah, that’s right. To help me sleep.

Detective Brightside looked at Caruso, then back at Sam. What’s that got to do with the snake?

Lunesta works best in a dark room. When I get up in the middle of the night to piss, I keep the lights off. I sit on the toilet to keep from spraying piss on the floor.

Fascinating, Caruso said.

Four o’clock this morning, I get up to take a piss. In the dark. I walk from the bed to the master bath…

How far is the bed from the master bath? Brightside said.

Eleven steps, Sam said. Twenty-eight-point-six feet.

The Genes looked at each other. You believe this guy? Caruso said.

He’s precise, Brightside said. I’ll give him that.

You want to hear the story or what? Sam said.

Please, Brightside said. Go on.

I sit on the toilet, start pissing, and suddenly there’s a white-hot pain in my nuts. I try to jump up, but can’t.

Why not?

Because of the three foot snake attached to my ball sack.

How’d you know it was three feet long?

I reached between my legs and pulled the motherfucker out of the toilet. Squeezed him hard enough to make him detach his fangs. When he did, I slammed his body against the wall two, three times. Then I flung him on the floor and turned on the lights. It was a water moccasin.

You kill him?

No. He slithered away. Sam looked at Brightside. How convenient, right?

Brightside said, This hospital was named after my father, Robin Brightside.

That’s a random thing to say.

I just meant if there’s anything you need, I’ll personally ask the staff.

Sam said, If your family’s that wealthy, how’d you wind up a detective?

The old man died and left all his money to a bimbo. But the staff is sympathetic to me. Again, anything you need, I can help you.

Thanks. I’ll let you know.

Brightside nodded.

Caruso said, Did it hurt? Getting your nut sack bit by a water moccasin?

Sam gave him a withering look.

Brightside said, The police did a walk through while you were on the way to the hospital. According to them, all the doors and windows were locked, except the front door.

I unlocked the front door so the paramedics could get in.

After the snake bit you?

Sam said, Are you really that stupid? Or are you just fucking with me?

Brightside said, I was wondering why the alarm didn’t go off when you opened the door.

Sam’s look made it apparent he hadn’t considered that fact. I must’ve forgot to set it that night.

You have any idea who put a snake in your toilet? Brightside finally asked.

Sam knew exactly who put it there.

And why.

But what he said was, I have no idea.

1.

24 Hours Earlier…

The NYAC is widely considered the world’s greatest athletic club. Located at 180 Central Park South, the 21-story structure boasts 300 guest rooms, a boxing ring, swimming pool, billiards room that overlooks the park, two handball courts, and a number of meeting rooms. The exterior is limestone and concrete, crafted with an Italian Renaissance influence.

When I’m in the city, that’s where I go to work out. You want to find me, come early. Ask for Donovan Creed.

Today I’m miles away from the NYAC. I’m across town, in the financial district, standing in front of The New York Gentlemen’s Gym. The NYGG is twice as plush as the NYAC, if you can just imagine. I’m wearing olive cargo pants and a Dri-Fit training tee, carrying the vintage leather gym bag that had been used on at least one occasion by the Manassa Mauler himself, Jack Dempsey.

Upon entering, the first thing I see is two security guys in the lobby, talking. I stand a few feet away from them and wait politely till they’re finished. Short, wide guy with a hand-stitched tapered shirt is younger, with a no-nonsense air of aggression. He looks me over, sizing me up.

Need somethin’? He says.

Billy King here yet?

He looks me up and down a second time, then looks at his friend.

Short, wide guy juts his chin toward the double doors.

Boxing ring’s in there, he says. Billy’s in it, poundin’ turds outta some poor sap.

I nod.

There’s a check-in area, but no one’s manning the station.

Second security guy is older, maybe fifty. He’s average height, lanky, weighs half as much as his muscle-bound friend. His eyes are kindly, and blue, and framed by ancient scar tissue. In a fair fight between them, my money’s on the older guy.

He looks at my gym bag.

That’s a hell of a nice bag, he says. A classic.

The three of us stand there, looking at my classic gym bag.

Older guy says, Mind if I have a look inside?

What’s your name? I say.

Does it matter?

The police might want a statement later on. I don’t want to have to refer to you as ‘young guy’ and ‘older guy.’

That’s funny, older guy says.

Why’s that?

My name’s Guy, he says.

No shit?

Swear to God.

Now there’s a coincidence.

And you are?

Donovan Creed.

I look at the young guy. He says, What?

Your name, Guy says.

Why does he care? Younger guard says.

I might need a witness later, I say.

He shrugs. He’s so muscle bound, the simple effort of lifting his shoulders nearly doubles the volume of his neck.

You can call me Z.

Z, I say.

That’s right.

That your street name?

You got a problem with that?

Z and I are looking at each other, but out of the corner of my eye I see Guy roll his eyes the slightest bit.

Guy, Z, nice to meet you, I say, turning toward the door that leads to the boxing ring.

Mr. Creed? Guy says.

I turn my head.

Your gym bag? he says.

Oh, right.

I hand it to him. The bag is an ancient leather boxing duffel, circa 1919, with a single compartment, accessed by a zipper that runs the full length on top of the bag. Guy unzips it, looks inside.

Z says, What’s he got, usual assortment of guns, knives and bombs? He laughs.

Guy holds the bag open so Z can see the contents.

Z frowns and shakes his head. Dude. If you’re here to fight Billy the Kid King, you oughta turn around and haul ass before he sees you.

Why’s that?

He’s a three-time former Golden Gloves champion. And he’s half your age.

I nod.

Z looks exasperated. And he’s never been beat.

So far, I say.

Z turns to his friend and says, You believe this guy?

Guy says, What’d he do, push you in the street? Embarrass you in front of your girlfriend? Then challenge you to a fight?

He made an unsavory remark about my therapist.

Z says, "Your therapist?"

I nod.

"What, are you nuts or somethin’?"

Somethin’.

And you mouthed off to him?

Nope. My therapist did. Then she slapped him.

So what happened?

He broke her nose.

Guy says, Sounds like Billy.

Z says, "You saw it? You were there?"

I smile and say, "Had I been there, Billy wouldn’t be here. He’d be in the hospital, or dead."

Z laughs. "You’re big, I’ll give you that. And you look tough, and talk tough."

And he’s got confidence, Guy adds.

He’s got that in spades, Z agrees. But Billy ain’t never been beat. And like I say, he’s half your age.

I nod. Thanks, guys.

Guy says, Wait. He’s got this move. Then he demonstrates a left hook to the body, followed by a left hook to the chin.

Thanks, I say. I’ll look for it.

2.

I go through the door, see the boxing ring, and sure enough, there’s a guy in it beating some poor shlub half to death. You can see the other guy wants to quit, but his pride is keeping him in it. Billy King is taunting him.

I’d love to see it go the other way just once, a voice says, to my left.

I turn and see a frail young man of about thirty in a wheelchair. He looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t place him.

I nod.

How you doing? I say.

He smiles. I’m all right. You here to fight Billy?

If he’s into it.

He laughs. Oh, he’ll be into it, all right.

He reaches his hand up to shake mine. He’s about ten feet away, which means I’d have to walk over to him to take it.

I don’t shake hands with strangers, I say. Nothing personal.

Oh, he says. Then says, What, you got a germ thing? He pauses. Or maybe you don’t like gimps.

I don’t shake hands with strangers because it’s an easy way to get pulled into a knife