Chapter Three

A Child's Bounty Bought

Elliot yawned and tried to stay focused on the conversation trilling around him. For the most part, it was all lost to the tired man, since none of it really pertained to him. The Rios' were catching up on nearly two years of having not seen Tyson. After a day of trapesing around Tyson's neighborhood, gorging on a lunch, at the corner restaurant, large enough that he'd have been able eat it for a week, followed several hours later with a dinner nearly as large in yet another local eatery, and at a minimum four trips up and down eight flights of stairs, despite his physicality, the man was beat.

The city was a dirty, noisy, crowded mess, and Elliot was about as on edge as he could get. The sidewalks teemed with throngs of pushy people, the cars honked incessantly, crossing the out of control traffic was terrifying, and through all of it he couldn't curse or complain, let alone seem afraid of the crazy whirlpool of humanity Rios and his family had dragged into. It was mind numbing, and all Elliot wanted was five minutes peace and quiet.

He yawned again, and instead tried to focus on the television, which in an effort, he thought, to keep up with the outside noise was turned up to a load roar, and the three Rios' hollered their conversation over it. The news lady, who Salem took a moment to notice that she had nicely sized breasts, was telling about four bodies found floating in the Hudson River sans their heads. Bodies, he was home, and he really didn't want to hear about headless bodies floating anywhere. Bodies were for work, and not vacation. The shot switched to the weather, and a handsome gentleman took over stating that tomorrow would be in the nineties with high humidity and no breeze, making it feel more like just over one hundred. Great, he thought, at least Somalia was a dry heat. He'd sweat his balls off all day if they went tramping all over hell and back like they'd done that day.

Rios turned from his father, and noticed that Elliot was dozing. The younger man had kept a smile on his stubble cloaked face all day despite the frenetic situation surrounding him. Tyson knew Salem's moods, and read him well. He was crashing, and Rios didn't want that to happen. Salem could create as much or more chaos as the next man, but his true nature was one of quiet stillness. He hated noise, he hated confrontation, he hated being around too many people, and that was where he'd spent his entire day since arriving fifteen hours ago. Salem was at his core a Sniper, and Sniper's loved to be alone in their hide with a mission to look forward to; not surrounded by a mass of milling, noisy humanity. He rolled his thick left wrist over and checked the time, 2200 hours. Typically, if he wasn't on duty, Salem crashed hard by 2000. The man pushed himself brutally from sun up in the gym, on ruck marches, on recon missions, and the exertion took its toll. They'd hit the shower, slam a few Corona's from the hidey hole, and Elliot would be asleep, frequently sitting up against the wall at the bottom of Tyson's bunk, an arrangement the bigger man had finally just come to accept by 2000 hours.

"Salem, hit the shower man, go on."

Salem stirred, yawned, and stretched as he sat up straight in the arm chair he occupied at the edge of the trio. He felt guilty for slacking a bit, but after the drive from Georgia and the long day he was really dragging.

"Don't want to be rude."

"Nothing rude about it, Kermit. You're beat. It's been a long few days; so hit it, and I'll be in right after you. Just go easy on the water. The heater's only a small one, ok."

"Roger that." He replied standing up stiffly. "Easy on the water, got it. Good night Mimi, Gus. I had a great time seeing stuff."

After he was away down the hallway Gus went to the kitchen, and returned with two beers. He handed one to Tyson and sat back down. Mimi sat in her recliner reading a book about Bridge strategy, and watching the news. Gus turned the television down slightly, and faced his son.

"He's limping. Limped off and on all day."

Rios twitched a bit at the comment. His father had a way of stating information that made the comment seem to be a criticism. A remark aimed at assigning fault upon Tyson for Elliot's limp. Then again, Rios thought, maybe it was just him being overly touchy to his father's words. He'd certainly suffered enough under the man's harsh tutelage before leaving home. When his father applauded him it was to the fullest, and the young man would bask in the praise. Conversely, when he fouled up, or if the elder Rios perceived that he'd fouled up, the criticism would be harsh, un-forgiving and scathing.

"It's not my doing, dad, Christ. He came with the limp, just like the wonky shoulder, half a dozen other injuries and an attitude from hell. I'm not even gonna get into his fucked up mental state."

"That's not what I meant, Tyson. Just ease up ok. I train athletes. I look at how people move. It's the force of habit. I was merely noting that he's limping."

Tyson sighed took a long swig of beer, and forced himself to relax. This was what he'd been dreading, the first long tense moments alone with his parents, or more accurately, alone with his father.

"Right leg, I really only know that it was caused by some kind of animal trap, like a bear trap."

"How in hell does that happen?"

"Like he said dad, he doesn't talk about work. He shoves the shit down somewhere so fucking deep that it's like it never happened. Sure, he can drag it up, but it's like pulling teeth. Gabe can get him to talk, but that's about it."

"How are they Tyson, Gabe and Dorrie?"

"Great mom, they said to say hello, and that you guys need to come down soon."

"Bear trap?"

"Yea, dad, Sarajevo, I don't have details. A mission to recon mortar emplacements went horribly wrong. Somehow in the first days of the six week op his entire team got themselves whacked. Elliot, he's young, green, and cut off without anything, but what's in his ruck, 170 some odd klicks behind the Serb line. Not a good situation. Not even for someone with experience. All I know for sure is that they decided, since he had to walk out, he might as well carry out his mission if he felt up to it. So, he does just that for nearly a month, calling in, or destroying Serb positions. Something like seventy-five or eighty of them. He's living off the land, sniping guys, blowing fortifications, and wreaking havoc on the bastards.

When I got him he was only one-hundred and fifteen maybe twenty pounds, and beat to shit like I told you in my letters. But anyway, toward the end, he stumbled into some kind of trap, and it shredded his right leg up pretty good. Splintered his shin, chewed up the muscle, just what you'd figure a trap like that would do. That's all we know. They pulled the plug, he made it back to a safe extraction point, and they sent him to us at the F.O.B., well me; and now, according to him, he's mine, and I'm his. So I'd say we're pretty much stuck with the skinny bastard for life."

"It's not good not to talk things through."

"Mom, we all have our own ways of managing the bullshit."

"If you're going to curse, you should let Elliot curse."

"He's not cursing, mom."

"Why?"

"Why, because I said so, mom and Salem does exactly what I tell him to do. The cursing, he's horrible about it. I don't know how he fits fuck into sentences, so many times the way he does, but it's like the lazy Susan; once he starts forget it, it's a disaster. You really need to put it away. I'm telling you mom. He's going to get it going fast, and all of your stuff's going to be slung around the kitchen."

"It survived you and your sister, it will survive Elliot."

"You've been warned."

"Well anyway Tyson, what's your plans for tomorrow?"

"Don't know dad. Didn't really think about it."

"Well, why not come down to school with me. I've got clinics and tutoring all day for summer camp. There's a few boys I'd like to have meet the two of you. Their seniors, and not going on to college, but the military's a good move for them. Hell, it'll pay for their schooling. They're good kids, just falling between the cracks."

Tyson looked at Gus, and tried not to laugh. When he'd first contacted his family after signing up, his father had been furious with him, subsequently ending Tyson's attempt at reconciliation before it even got going. He'd railed about the government and policy and how warped it all was, until Tyson, out frustration, anger and hurt, had packed and left. He'd turned his life around, and it wasn't good enough for Gus. The pain was more than the big man could bear, and he'd sworn to never try to go home again. Gabe had convinced him to forgive and forget and Tyson once again went home two years later, with better results. But, to hear his father now suggesting sending some of his players into service stunned Rios.

"That's a switch."

"Don't pick a fight with your father, Tyson. I'm off to bed. If you or Elliot need anything just knock." Mimi said standing, crossing to Tyson and kissing him on his head.

"Night mom."

"Your mother's right. Don't pick a fight. So what do you say?"

Rios pondered it a bit. Down at Benning, before they'd left for Brooklynn, Elliot had worked for three days with the instructors at the Sniper range helping new shooters. Freddy Yodell, the lead instructor, praised Elliot's skill at instructing the new men. Yodell was Salem's hero and the praise had boosted his flagging confidence immensely. He had a true knack for explaining technique and processes. On top of that, the younger soldier seemed to really enjoy spending time teaching what he'd learned. Rios sighed and then based upon that experience took a sip of beer, and looked up at his dad.

"Sure dad, I think that's a great idea. Elliot's surprisingly good at communicating with the young guys. He seems, contrary to his demeanor, to actually like teaching."

"Great, it's settled then. While we're there I'll teach Elliot those shoulder exercises as well. Be up and ready to go, in work out stuff, by five. Night Tyson and thanks."

Tyson double checked the locked front door, which both of his parents had already double checked, then marched off to shower and sleep. Elliot was sitting up on his bed reading one of the books he dragged around with him tucked away in his ruck.

"Shower ok?"

"Sure Tyse. Was in and out. You going?"

"Old man's in there. Beer?" Rios asked extending the six pack he'd snagged from the refrigerator.

Elliot shrugged, sat up a bit, and took one. He felt better since the shower, actually awake too. Just spending ten minutes alone with only the sound of the water beating down had worked wonders to calm him down.

"What'r you reading now?" Rios snapped, stripping off his socks and jeans. For reasons he could not quite fathom, the fact that Salem read annoyed him

"Oh, Hadji Murad, but in Russian. Tyannikov somehow got me a copy. It's slow going, but I have time."

"What the fuck's that Kermit?"

"I had it in prison. The lady teacher, Ms. Scope, gave it to me after she found out I had some Russian. It's a fucking really sad story by Tolstoy. This guy gave up everything Tyse, to try and get his family back. I mean everything, kissed ass and all but in the end the fuckers raped him anyway. It breaks my heart. He was a great fighter. It's even sadder in Russian."

Rios looked up and across the small room at Elliot. The younger man's words had sounded strident and pained and it caught Tyson off guard. Elliot seldom showed his emotions, outside of anger, so freely, but apparently something in this Hadji Murad had struck a chord. If so, Rios thought, it might just be a way to eek just a bit farther into Elliot's head.

"You have it in English?"

"Sure, I always carry it."

"Hmph, well Kermit maybe you should let me read it one day."

Elliot grinned, and stood up. "Sure Tyse, anytime."

"Great. My old man's outta the shitter, back in ten."

While Elliot waited for Tyson he began once again to study the dozens of trophies decorating Tyson's boyhood room. He may have run away from home, but the room had remained his. The awards were for football, wrestling, track and academic achievements. It seemed that whatever Rios had turned his hand to he'd excelled at. All were first place awards. None boasted second or worse, and Elliot wondered if, because of the sheer amount of the items, the lesser ones had been stowed away someplace.

Tyson's desk was there neat and clean as though he'd never left. A dictionary and Thesaurus as well as an atlas were perched in a corner held up by yet another trophy. Another award for wrestling shaped like a mug held assorted pens, markers and pencils. Dark blue comforters depicting different athletic events dressed the two twin beds which flanked the small tidy room. A window in between them looked out onto a fire escape and the grimy side street, which was really more of an alleyway, below. Salem turned his attention back to the trophies. How could one kid get so many awards? There were trophies spread around the main rooms as well. Tyson must have been an extraordinary athlete. He set a wrestling award that was nearly two feet tall back onto its perch on the crowded dresser top, when Tyson stepped through the door.

"Feel better?"

"Roger fucking that." Rios replied tossing the towel he was dragging over his stubbled head into a corner.

Salem studied the discarded item for a moment, looked warily at Rios and then crossed, picked it up, and began to fold it as Tyson started to dress for sleep.

"The fuck'r doing, Kermit?"

"Your mom probably wouldn't like it on the floor, Tyse."

"My mom won't ever know I threw it there, so put it back."

Elliot shrugged, and dropped the towel back down. God help him if he threw a towel on the floor of their room in the barracks.

"It's hard to believe you won all these."

"No, not really. Not if you knew how the old man drove me like a god damned animal to do it." Rios snapped back plopping down on his bed.

Salem continued his perusal lifting the trophies, and reading the little plates telling what the awards were for. Rios lounged back drinking his beer and watching. Telling Elliot to leave off would be for naught so he was content to let the man satisfy his curiosity. Finally Elliot sighed, and turned to him a lopsided sad smile on his face. Rios knew the look and sat up a bit straighter.

"Have another beer, Elliot, and don't go getting all fucking morose on my aggravated ass."

Salem did as Rios commanded, and sat down on his own bed, leaning against the wall staring across at Tyson.

"No seconds or thirds."

Rios looked around the space, and thought about the remark. Seconds and thirds were un-acceptable in the Rios household so of course there were none to be found.

"Wasn't allowed, seconds and thirds."

"Seems a bit harsh." Elliot replied quietly. Tyse was a little drunk, and he knew to be careful with his words. It didn't take much to set Tyson off sometimes.

"Is a bit harsh. Never had a free fucking minute of my own. He micro-managed my entire childhood until I split."

"Yea, but look at how good you were, are." Elliot said with nearly the same strange awe he'd had in his tone when explain about Hadji Murad.

"Fuck the lot a that."

Tyson's disregard and discontent with his childhood hurt Elliot a bit. He'd have killed to have his life micro-managed. He have done anything to have such a cool bedroom and a desk and a window and a chance to play for trophies.

"Guess he figured he was doing things ok by you." He finally offered meekly.

"Right, more like ok by him. Fucker was just living vicariously through my fucking hard work and success. Fucked his knees up, couldn't play, so he made me do it. Fuck the lot a that. A kid needs to play now and again. Needs to be allowed seconds and thirds. Needs to be allowed to fail."

"Failure gets you killed." Salem replied flatly, chilling Tyson just a bit.

It was true for the younger man, and that hurt Tyson. Salem hadn't a choice in the matter either, but if he failed he paid far more dearly than Tyson even wanted to think about. The conversation in camp before they'd come on leave, when Elliot had told them his story, still haunted him.

"I never had a trophy." Elliot finally said several long tense moments later. "Never even had a chance to win one. You got to play. You had to play to win 'em."

He stood up and started looking at the awards again after taking another beer.

"That shit's not playing, Salem. That kinda of pressure isn't a game. It's for real. I mean play. Like fucking Tag, or Gi Joes, or Hide 'n Seek, fun stuff. I never got to play for just fun."

"Me neither. Didn't even know how. The head docs were always fussing about it, and the foster parents always bitched that I wouldn't play with the other kids. Guess I just didn't get it. Was happy just to beat the shit outta anyone who got into my space. You micro-manage me you know. Guess you got that from your pop."

Rios considered the remark. Elliot seemed content trying to memorize or catalogue all of the trophies so Rios figured they'd be up for a while. He did over manage men. Not just Elliot either. He liked to consider it attention to detail, but Elliot had proven to be a bit of a different partner. He needed to be kept in line; he needed to be set on point, and told to stay there. He almost craved it. Rios couldn't count the times they'd nearly come to blows over it, had come to blows over it. On the one hand Elliot railed against such tight control, but conversely he fucked stuff up seemingly just to get Rios to clamp down on him.

"Yea, I do, but you ask for it you manipulative fuck."

Salem chuckled, and put a football trophy back in its place.

"I know. It's just my dysfunctional nature poking through. They need to be dusted and polished."

"That ain't happening, Kermit."

Salem sat back down on his bed, and seemed suddenly withdrawn, but nearly ready to settle down. Rios took another beer, and studied him. He closed his eyes tight against the vision of Salem, the boy, slouched not on a comfortable little bed in a nice room, but instead huddled, terrified in a filthy closet while his father and his drug addled friends partied. Salem's voice, nearly a whisper, pulled him back from the awful vision.

"Can I have one?"

Tyse sat up straighter, but before he could reply Elliot leapt up, and began pacing to and fro agitatedly, as he was prone to doing when upset.

"Sorry, I mean I know you have to earn them Tyse, I know that, but I've earned things. I never maybe caught a touchdown, or stole a base, or hit the most home runs, or had the most rushing yards, or the fastest 440, or threw a shot put the farthest in the county, or jumped the farthest, or sacked the most guys, or scored the highest on a test, or had the most takedowns wrestling, but I've done good stuff. I studied hard in prison, and despite how fucked up it was I got my high school diploma. Not a GED Tyse, but a real diploma, and that's with dropping out when I was only in like sixth grade, if that. I have a year, a whole year of college credits. A perfect four point zero grade point average too. I made it through basic, and all of that stuff, and it's not my fault that I never got to play. It's not and I always wanted a real trophy, and if nothing else, Tyse, I haven't cursed all day. I ate all of my lunch food. I didn't get smacked by a taxi, or fall under the subway train. I ate all of my supper, and I didn't use up the hot water. Just one and I swear I'll polish it, and keep it safe forever. Fuck, I'll shine all of them once a year 'cause even if you're not I'm damned fucking proud of you."

Tyse was a bit stunned by the outburst. Elliot sat back on the edge of the bed staring expectantly at him. He tore at the label on his beer bottle with his thumb mail, and bounced his left foot on his toes not, Rios knew, not with impatience, but nerves. He knew it had cost Salem to make his request. He never asked for or expected anything to come to him unless he'd suffered for it.

"S'not like you don't have plenty." He finally pouted.

Rios chuckled lightly, smiled and nodded.

"Sure Ellie, pick anyone you'd like. You damn sure have earned it."

Salem stood, and started looking over the trophies once again. It had to be a special one. It couldn't be too large, or he'd not be able to tote it safely. It needed to be for a special event. Something he thought that despite his bitterness Tyson felt proud of. Most were the run of the mil trophy. A guy in the middle of performing a move from the subject sport. One stood out though. It was for wrestling. It stood only six inches tall, far smaller than any of the others, and had a white marble replica of the statue The Dying Gaul set upon a one inch thick, shiny black circle of marble with vibrant blood red veins coursing through it.

Why they'd chosen that particular figure confused him somewhat, because the Gaul lies in defeat. He shrugged the thought away, he understood perfectly why it had been chose and he respected who ever had done it. The semi-circular, tarnished bronze label noted that Tyson Guxti Rios, aged ten won it at an amateur, national event held in Wisconsin in the age group fourteen to sixteen. It was, in Salem's eyes, the finest trophy, because of its pained humility. Something about that particular statue had always torn at his heart. The first time he'd seen it, in prison during a Humanities lesson, he'd cried. He took it from the shelf, blew the dust off, and turned to Rios.

"This is the one. It's the Dying Gaul. A copy of a third century statue. It's wonderful."

Rios stood and crossed to him. He reached out, and touched the small trophy somewhat reverently. He'd wrestled at a higher age group because of his size, but his ferocity, maturity and attention to detail and technique catapulted him into the finals, and into his first nationally ranked first place finish despite the hefty challenge. He recalled the fervor over the design of the trophy as well. Many were angry over the depiction of a loser, a dying man as representative of the winners. Rios hadn't cared. It was just another meet under his belt, another trophy, another pat on the head from his father and another reason for the man to press him ever harder to excel.

"I cried the first time I saw a slide of him in prison in Humanities class. It's ok to have it?"

"It's yours Ellie. It was a good meet. I wrestled up an age group or more maybe at the last minute, because I was big and still swept it. Top ranked players too. It was a proud day, although at the time I think I pretty much just mostly resented it. I pretty much hated all of it. Nobody liked the little trophies though. They pitched a real bitch. Some didn't even take them."

"Sure, Tyse, he's defeated, but look, he's dying with such beauty and grace such humility and valor. It's to remind you how to lose, how things would be, should be if you're defeated, and how you should hold, comport, yourself I death. It's beautiful. I'll take great care of it. Thank you."

Rios smiled, once again baffled by the uncharted depth of Elliot Salem. He'd never figured out the little trophy. He'd not even known it was a copy of a famous work. He hadn't cared. Elliot, finally contented, turned down his covers, and slipped under still gaping at his new treasure. Rios followed suit after telling him the plans for the morning, and turned off the light. Just as he was slipping off Salem's voice, only a hoarse emotional whisper roused him.

I see before me the gladiator lie
He leans upon his hand—his manly brow
Consents to death, but conquers agony,
And his drooped head sinks gradually low—
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one…

"It's Byron, from Childe Harold's Pilgrimageyou should read that one too."

"Is there no end of the depth of your strangeness, Elliot?"

"Nope, night Tyse. Love you."

Rios, lying on his left side, looked over after a short time, and in the inky light flitting through the old Venetian blinds cloaking his bedroom window, he saw Salem curled on his right side, the little trophy clutched tightly in his left hand crushed against his chest, sound asleep.