Why do they call him that? Part 3 Final

The airport sat beneath a sky the color of dirty dishwater and the rain came down in thin slanting lines against the windows of Louis Armstrong International. Beyond the glass the planes waited in silence with their mouths open to the world and the smell of burnt coffee and jet fuel drifted through the terminal together. Men in suits hurried past with little rolling coffins behind them and families clung to one another near the gates like survivors preparing to cross some black stretch of sea.

William Still sat alone near Gate B12.

A canvas duffel rested at his boots. Black cargo pants worn thin at the knees. Hands wrapped in old cloth yellowed from sweat and nicotine. A cut still healing beneath one eye. The bruises around his ribs showed dark beneath the collar of his shirt where the fabric hung open. He drank bad airport coffee from a paper cup and watched people move the way stray dogs watch traffic. Not fearful. Just aware.

Sergeant Bedford found him there.

The detective stood for a moment before approaching. Older now than he probably admitted to himself. Tie loosened. Eyes ringed tired from too many nights looking at ugly things. He carried the weight of New Orleans on him the way some men carried smoke.

Mind if I sit?

William looked up.

You already did.

Bedford lowered himself into the chair beside him with a groan in his knees.

You leaving town.

Looks that way.

You gonna tell me where.

Long Island.

What's in Long Island?

William shrugged.

A paycheck.

Bedford nodded slowly.

Wrestling.

Yeah.

You still doing that.

It's one of the few jobs where people don't look surprised when somebody gets hurt.

The detective studied him awhile.

Prime Wrestling, right?

William looked over.

You been doing homework.

Occupational hazard.

William smirked faintly and drank from the cup.

Who's the opponent?

Guy named Toddrick.

You know anything about him?

No.

You care?

Not particularly.

Bedford leaned back in the plastic chair and folded his arms.

That's what concerns me about you.

What is?

You say things like that and mean them.

William watched a child run past dragging a stuffed animal by one leg.

Should I lie instead?

Most people do.

Yeah. That's why most people are hard to stomach.

The loudspeaker crackled overhead with some delayed departure announcement nobody really listened to.

Bedford looked at the bruises on William's face.

I talked to witnesses.

Then you know I didn't start it.

I know that much.

Any of em.

The detective rubbed at his jaw.

But I also know what you did to those men.

William said nothing.

I seen the photographs, Bedford said. Broken orbital bones. Crushed teeth. One of them may never walk right again.

He chose to walk wrong first.

That don't bother you?

William finally looked at him then. Calm. Steady. Eyes black and unreadable as deep water.

You ever see a dog that's been whipped too long?

Bedford frowned slightly.

What.

A dog gets cornered enough times it stops making distinctions. Hand reaches toward it and eventually it bites no matter the intention. That's survival. People ain't much different.

You comparing yourself to a dog.

I'm saying the world trains things to be what it fears.

Bedford was quiet awhile after that.

They watched rain race each other down the windows.

You know, Bedford said, when this started I thought I was hunting some lunatic. Some drifter out there rolling drunks for sport. Then I hear the stories. Every man you put in the hospital had something ugly tied to him. Assaults. Harassment. One of em had priors involving teenage boys.

William shrugged again.

World's full of wolves.

Yeah but most people don't cave a wolf's face in with a barstool.

William smiled faintly at that.

Guess that's why most people ain't me.

Bedford shook his head.

That's the part I still can't decide on. Whether you're defending yourself or whether you just enjoy it.

William considered that honestly.

Both.

Neither man spoke for a bit after that.

Somewhere nearby a woman laughed too loud at something that wasn't funny.

Bedford cleared his throat.

One more thing.

Yeah?

Why do they call you Rotten Socks?

William actually laughed once through his nose.

Jesus Christ.

I'm serious.

William leaned back in the chair.

When I was about thirteen I ended up running with this punk crowd out of Florida. We traveled dirty. Slept in vans. Floors. Abandoned places. Couple weeks at a time with no showers. Everybody smelled bad but apparently I was exceptional.

Bedford smirked.

And it stuck?

One morning somebody said my socks smelled like roadkill left in the sun. Whole van started gagging and laughing. After that I was Rotten Socks. Then eventually just WRS.

Hell of a legacy.

Could've been worse.

Bedford nodded.

Yeah. Usually is.

The boarding call came then.

Passengers for Flight 482 to Islip now boarding Group A.

William stood and slung the duffel over his shoulder. Big man. Scarred and weathered and carrying himself with that strange loose stillness violent men sometimes had. Like something chained but not sleeping.

Bedford stood too.

You know, he said, I still ain't convinced you're a good man.

William adjusted the strap on the bag.

I never said I was.

No. I suppose you didn't.

Bedford looked at him carefully one last time.

You got something in you though. Something worse than anger.

William waited.

The detective sighed.

Capability.

William nodded once.

Most dangerous thing a man can have.

And what are you gonna do with it up there in New York?

William glanced toward the tunnel leading to the plane.

Same thing everybody does.

What's that?

Try to survive long enough to get paid.

He started toward the gate then stopped halfway and looked back.

You know what the difference is between me and most those boys in that ring?

Bedford waited.

When things get ugly...

William smiled tiredly.

...I don't pretend they ain't ugly.

Then he disappeared down the terminal toward Long Island and the rain beat softly against the glass behind him and Sergeant Bedford stood alone among the travelers and listened to the great machinery of the airport groan and hum like some enormous beast carrying souls from one bad decision to the next.