“Easy Money.” A Cocky Black Belt Bet Against a Quiet Farmer — Unaware Who He Was
Five hundred dollars did not buy much anymore.
But in Clayton James’s world, on that particular Friday night, it bought an alternator.
And an alternator meant the difference between thirty acres of wheat being harvested before the storm or rotting beneath it.
That was the only reason he walked into the Iron Horse.
Not pride.
Not revenge.
Not some buried desire to remind everybody what kind of man he had once been.
He needed five hundred dollars.
The combine did not care about dignity.
The wheat did not care about ego.
And the thunderheads building west of Greenfield County certainly did not care whether Clayton James had promised himself twelve years earlier that he was finished proving anything with his hands.
Grease had a way of becoming permanent.
Clayton stood beneath the yellow barn lights, rubbing an old shop rag across his fingers.
It did nothing.
Black engine grease had settled deep into the ridges of his skin.
His knuckles were dark with it.
A scar crossed the back of his left thumb.
Another disappeared beneath his wrist.
The combine stood in front of him with its side panel open.
Green paint faded.
Belts cracked.
Dust packed into every seam.
The alternator lay on the workbench.
Burned.
Finished.
Clayton had tested it twice because denial was free.
Voltage dropped immediately.
The copper windings smelled scorched.
No repair.
Replacement.
He checked his bank account on an old phone with a cracked corner.
$83.41
Mortgage due Tuesday.
Diesel bill unpaid.
Feed store account already thirty days behind.
A remanufactured alternator at Gary’s Auto and Farm Supply:
four hundred eighty-two dollars plus tax.
Clayton placed the phone face down.
Outside, cicadas screamed across the fields.
The heat had settled over central Kansas all afternoon and refused to leave after sunset.
A storm line was forecast for Saturday evening.
Maybe earlier.
Thirty acres of winter wheat stood ready.
Three days too ripe already.
If heavy rain flattened it, the yield would suffer.
If the combine stayed dead, Clayton had no backup.
He could hire somebody.
With money.
Which returned him to the original problem.
He leaned against the workbench.
Thirty-eight years old.
Six feet.
A little over two hundred pounds.
Shoulders built less by a weight room than by moving feed sacks, repairing fence posts, carrying irrigation pipe, and lifting whatever the farm required because there was usually nobody else around to lift it.
His left knee hurt when storms approached.
His lower back hurt when storms did not.
And beneath everything lived the soft electric ringing in his ears.
Constant.
A high metallic whine.
Doctors called it tinnitus.
Clayton called it Tuesday.
It had begun in Iraq.
Ramadi.
Twelve years earlier.
A mortar round close enough to rearrange his relationship with silence.
For years afterward, he had slept with a fan running because quiet made the ringing louder.
Tonight, the barn fan was already running.
It pushed hot air from one end of the building to the other without cooling anything.
Clayton looked toward the wheat through the open barn door.
Then at the dead alternator.
Then at the clock.
8:11 p.m.
Friday.
There was one place in Greenfield County where a man could occasionally earn cash quickly.
That fact irritated Clayton more than the broken machine.
He picked up his truck keys.
The Iron Horse Tavern was not much of a tavern.
Corrugated steel building.
Gravel parking lot.
Beer signs in the windows.
One neon horseshoe above the door with half the lights burned out.
On normal evenings, people played pool and argued about football.
On certain Friday nights, owner Russell “Rusty” Cobb pushed the tables against the walls and hosted what he called challenge nights.
Years earlier, they had been little more than drunken fights.
After the county threatened to shut him down, Rusty changed the format.
Waivers.
Mats.
A referee.
Medical volunteer.
No bare-knuckle head shots.
Four-ounce gloves for striking rounds.
No elbows to the head.
No knees to the head.
Tap meant stop immediately.
Three-minute limit.
It was still not the sort of place any sensible athletic commission would proudly advertise.
But it was considerably less stupid than it had once been.
Clayton had never participated.
He disliked the whole thing.
He had gone twice because Rusty stocked decent hamburgers.
That was enough.
His rusted Ford rolled into the parking lot at 8:47.
The truck coughed when he shut it down.
Another problem for another month.
Clayton stepped out.
Faded brown work pants.
Gray T-shirt stained with diesel and engine oil.
Mud dried along his boots.
He had not showered.
He smelled like a field and a machine shop.
Perfect for the Iron Horse.
Inside, the air-conditioning unit had failed.
Two industrial floor fans blasted humid air across the room.
People crowded around a square of blue mats bordered by low rope.
Mechanics.
Farmhands.
Roofers.
Mill workers.
A few off-duty firefighters.
Several local amateur fighters.
Jukebox playing country music slightly too loudly.
Rusty saw Clayton immediately.
“You look terrible.”
Clayton leaned against the bar.
“Thank you.”
“Beer?”
“Club soda.”
Rusty stared.
“You drive out here for club soda?”
“Combine died.”
“That explains the face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you look like you’re deciding whether arson is covered by crop insurance.”
Clayton almost smiled.
Rusty poured soda into a plastic cup.
“Alternator?”
Clayton looked at him.
“How’d you know?”
“Everybody’s alternator dies eventually.”
“Five hundred.”
Rusty whistled.
“Bad timing.”
“Yeah.”
A roar came from the mat.
Clayton glanced over.
Trent Larson stood in the center.
Twenty-four years old.
Around one hundred eighty-five pounds.
Fast.
Lean.
Aggressively tanned.
Black board shorts.
Training gloves.
Tribal tattoo around his right upper arm.
Hair carefully styled despite the heat.
Trent ran Larson Combat Academy two towns east.
He had a respectable amateur MMA record.
Several regional tournament medals.
Enough skill that people who did not train thought he was unbeatable.
Enough success that Trent occasionally thought the same thing.
Clayton watched him finish a demonstration round against a twenty-two-year-old mechanic.
The mechanic tapped from a choke.
Trent released.
Good.
Then Trent stood over him and announced:
“Twenty-seven seconds.”
Crowd laughed.
The mechanic smiled too.
But Clayton saw the embarrassment.
Rusty followed his gaze.
“Open challenge.”
“How much?”
“Five hundred.”
Clayton looked back at his drink.
Rusty immediately understood.
“No.”
Clayton took a sip.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You did with your face.”
“My face says nothing.”
“Your face has been divorced twice without being married.”
Clayton looked at him.
Rusty continued:
“Three minutes.”
“Last the whole round or make Trent tap.”
“Five hundred cash.”
“Entry?”
“Fifty.”
Clayton stared.
“Fifty?”
“Prize pool has to come from somewhere.”
Clayton looked toward Trent.
The younger man bounced lightly while the referee checked the mats.
A good athlete.
Not a fraud.
Fast feet.
Clean technique.
Better conditioning than Clayton by a considerable margin.
Rusty lowered his voice.
“Don’t do it.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re thirty-eight.”
“Thank you again.”
“And because Trent’s been using these Friday challenges as advertising.”
“Meaning?”
“He doesn’t go easy.”
Clayton watched Trent throw a quick combination into the air.
Sharp.
Balanced.
Rusty continued:
“You haven’t trained in what—ten years?”
“Twelve.”
“That does not improve my opinion.”
Clayton’s fingers closed around the plastic cup.
Five hundred.
Alternator.
Wheat.
Storm.
He hated the equation.
Rusty watched him.
“Borrow money.”
“From who?”
Rusty had no answer.
Clayton said:
“Hold my drink.”
Rusty closed his eyes.
“Of course.”
The crowd noticed the farmer immediately.
Not because Clayton looked dangerous.
Because he looked ridiculous.
He stepped toward the mat still wearing muddy work boots.
Trent stopped bouncing.
Looked him up and down.
Smiled.