Rogues & Patriots, page 23
First, he asked me what I knew, so I told him. He asked me to prove it so I did, first in slow motion, then at three-quarter speed. It came back quickly. Before long, I was moving freely, throwing left-right combos like I’d never left the ring. Cy whistled between his teeth, spat a load of phlegm into a plastic cup he set down in the corner of the ring, and told me to come at him. We sparred for a while at full speed, pulling our punches and avoiding each other’s heads. Then I showed him some of the tricks Adam had taught me, including the Jack Dempsey falling step and power jab. This brought another whistle of appreciation. Finally, he waved me off, picked up his cup, and told me to follow him. He wanted privacy, so we headed for the back bedroom. One of the guards patted us down, found nothing alarming, and left the room. After Cy unwrapped my hands, he gave me a long look.
“So what gives, Bucko? What’re ya doin’ here?”
“Let’s just say I’m not here by choice.”
“I figgered that. There’s somethin’ funny ’bout this. Usually the fighters come on their own. No guards or anything. Nuttin’ like that. So what did ya do to piss the big boys off?”
“You don’t wanna know.”
He looked at me warily, sucking the inside of his upper dentures. Finally, he nodded his head. “I guess I don’t. It ain’t my business. So let’s talk about how you’re gonna kick Juiceboy’s ass. Here are the rules. The first three rounds are for show. Nobody gets knocked down, but it’s a big plus if somebody gets bloodied up. Rounds four and five are for the money. That’s when the crowd goes crazy, and the betting goes through the roof. The big boys have a team of bookies right there in the crowd taking bets. I’ve been tryin’ to figger out how to separate ’em from their money, but so far I haven’t come up with anything good.”
“How much do you get paid for doing this?”
“Me?” His expression turned cagey. “Pretty good. Pretty damned good, Bucko.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Then he analyzed Tragg in the ring. Said the big guy was slow but was nevertheless a pretty solid boxer. “So here’s what ya do. During rounds one through three, don’t show him what ya really got. Save it for round four. That’s when you catch him napping. As soon as the bell rings for round four, you take control. You hit him with the falling step and the power jab and all that Dempsey shit. I guarantee you Juiceboy has never seen it before. You play this right and you might surprise us all. Wouldn’t that be something? But if you fuck up, he’ll kill ya.”
My mind kept fading in and out. Not good. “What’s he got?”
“The basics. Straight right, left hook, right cross. Good power and decent technique. He can hurt you with any of his punches.”
“What about his jab?”
Cy shook his head. “That’s the good news. It’s purely for show. He throws it flat-footed. A child could shake it off. If you attack in round four and get him backin’ off, he’ll start jabbin’ to buy time. First chance you get, you slip one of them pussy jabs and right cross him like a motherfucker. Like you showed me a few minutes ago in the ring. He’ll clinch to buy time. You pull him into your body, then shove him away with both hands and nail him with an overhand sneaker hook. Just like Jack would’ve done. But you gotta land it square. He’ll be fallin’ away and you don’t wanna waste it.” He looked at me, a curious glint in his rheumy old eyes. “Where did you learn that Dempsey street-fightin’ shit? I haven’t seen anybody do that since my balls dropped.”
I laughed. He was funny. “I learned it from my old man.”
“Figures. It had to be an old-timer.”
“What happens if we go five rounds and nobody gets knocked out?”
Cy smirked. “I’ve never seen that happen here. But if it does, it’s extra innings, Bucko, extra fuckin’ innings. But that’s not gonna happen.”
After that I slept for an hour, which wasn’t long enough. Cy woke me up at ten thirty. I rubbed my eyes and sighed while he tapped impatiently on the face of his Rolex knockoff. I laced up my shoes and held out my hands to be wrapped. Cy shook his head. “The fighters get wrapped and taped up in the ring. To make sure everything’s copacetic…It’s a big crowd, Bucko. Wall-to-wall fat cats and their very expensive ladies. And in some cases, their boyfriends. Then you’ve got your divorcees and their boytoys. You add it all up and you know what it spells?”
I shook my head.
“Money, money, money, baby. That’s what it spells.” He checked his watch. “We go on in five minutes. What’s your ring name?”
I shrugged. “I don’t have one.”
“For fuck’s sake! Ya need one. What’s your last name?”
“Crane.”
“Crane? Like the bird or one of them machines that lifts shit?” I nodded. “All rightee, then. We’ll introduce you as Kid Crane. Not that original, but it has a good ring.” I nodded. I had other worries. “What’s your height and weight?”
“6’1”, 188. I fluctuate.” Then I realized I was the same height and weight as Dempsey when he stepped into the ring with Jess Willard on July 4, 1919 in Toledo, Ohio. Could be a good omen. Maybe. We sat there in silence. Cy kept looking at his watch while running his tongue across the inside of his dentures. Finally, he stood up. “Okay, Bucko. Time to rock and roll.”
I stood up and we filed toward the door. Then Cy stopped me.
“Wait. I forgot somethin’. You already know this fight don’t end till either you or Juiceboy gets knocked out. But there’s one other rule, and it’s important. In these fights, there’s no such thing as a TKO, and there’s no neutral corner rule either. If you knock Juiceboy down, hit him again as soon as he gets up. If he knocks you down, roll away while the ref is counting. Otherwise, he’ll duke ya while you’re still shakin’ the cobwebs out.”
“I understand.”
From the back bedroom to the ring was about ninety feet, but it felt like my own personal Via Dolorosa. And I was no JC. Head bowed, I trailed behind Cy. He wasn’t having it. Spun around and got in my face. “Fuck that weak shit, Bucko. This is a prize fight. You gotta put on a show, get the crowd in your corner. So snap to, motherfuck.” Then he looped his arm around me and gave my right forearm a reassuring squeeze. “Listen, Kid Crane, you’re a fighter. We both know that. While you were asleep, I went out and put some money on ya. So I need ya to stop snivelin’ and act like a man.” Then he released me and marched solemnly down the hallway and into the gym.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
The auditorium was electric. Cy held the rear door open. I could feel the energy. Then he leaned in and whispered, “Let’s do it, Bucko. Let’s kick Juiceboy’s ass.”
Walked in with my hands crossed high above my head. No Tragg. Not yet. Every eye was upon me. I mounted the stairs and slid between the ropes. Began bouncing up and down on the balls of my feet, like a college hoopster getting jacked before tipoff. Revolved in a slow circle, staring at the crowd. Five hundred dollar sweat suits, Rodeo Avenue jeans, bling and pearls galore. Big breasts, some real, some fake. Small breasts jacked up to make ’em look big. Boy toys stripped to the waist, eyeing each other while hanging on the arms of their sugar daddies. No sign of Bobby, which didn’t surprise me. Had the feeling he was near. Motherfucker just fades into the mix. I recognized Quincey, who was holding a drink near the bar. He was talking to an older man with a crop of snowy white hair. Desmond Cole? Perhaps…
The house lights dimmed and the sound system crackled. Kicked in. The William Tell Overture. The lights came back on, and QB Tragg, a corpulent clown in a white satin robe, mounted the steps and plunged into the ring. He’d had his nose repaired since I’d last seen him, and I have to admit, it was an improvement.
The ref appeared wearing the obligatory black trousers, blue oxford shirt, and black bow tie. He motioned me to my corner. I sat down on my stool, and Cy began wrapping and taping my hands. Then Cy pulled on my Cletos and secured the Velcro wrist wraps. The ref moved to Tragg’s corner, where his trainer repeated the same process. Meanwhile, Cy popped in my mouth guard and slathered Vaseline on my cheeks, nose, eyebrow ridges, and forehead.
Quincey’s friend, the gent with the white hair, appeared center ring. “Ladies and gentlemen, we want to thank you all for coming out. We have a great fight on tap tonight, and we think you’re gonna love it. In the far corner, we have Kid Crane. The Kid is 6’1” and weighs in at 188 pounds. His reputation is that of a street brawler, but from what I hear, he’s damned good in the ring. And he’s going to need to be ’cause the Kid’s opponent, in the near corner, is our undefeated house champion, Mr. Oliver “QB” Tragg. QB stands 6’2” and tips the scales at 235 pounds. Those of you who have seen him in action already know what a dangerous beast he is. And from what I hear, there’s bad blood between him and Kid Crane, so this should be interesting.
“Our referee is Jim Mannix and our timekeeper is Jerry Randall. This is a five-round, no-decision, semi-pro fight. The men will fight till one of them is knocked down for the ten-count. If no one is knocked out in five rounds, the fight will continue. Other than that, we follow strict World Boxing Organization rules, with one exception. This fight is not governed by the neutral corner rule. That means after a knockdown, the man still standing is under no obligation to move to a neutral corner. This makes for a more exciting fight, which, we believe, is what all of you are here for. So, without further ado, let’s get to it.”
The ref called us over and went through the rules a second time. I pretended to listen, but mostly I stared at Tragg. His pupils were huge, and I realized he was coked up or on meth. He was gonna come out of his corner like a fuckin’ berserker.
The ref motioned us to our corners. The bell rang, the crowd cheered, and Tragg charged. His jab was useless, like Cy had said, but he threw so many of them in such rapid succession I was winded from batting them away before I even got my bearings. Knew I had to hurt him and fast. Spun away, bounced off the ropes, and got on my bicycle. He chased me around the ring, firing his wuss jab like a lady’s boot pistol spraying blanks, mixing in an occasional right that I slipped with ease. At first, I made no attempt to counterpunch. He landed a right to my spleen. Stung. I went into a low bob and weave, moving fast, no longer winded, my adrenaline kicking in. The crowd in full freakout mode. Weaving, I spun back against the ropes, rope-a-doped, slipped a telegraphed right, and bounced to open space, which closed quickly as Berserker Boy lumbered after me. He was slowing down already, and I knew what to do. Adam had pounded it into my child’s brain. Parried a few more wuss jabs, then fired my first real jab with the classic Dempsey falling step and full-tilt explosion, catching Tragg square on his meaty right cheek. Then I shocked his liver with a tight left hook that couldn’t have traveled more than eight inches. His mouthpiece popped out, and as he tried to counterpunch, I crossed him hard to the jaw. Berserker Boy crashed to the mat.
Stood over him, ready with another combination. The crowd, sensing their fun slipping away far too soon, booed loudly. The ref looked at his watch. Waited at least five seconds. Finally began the count in slow motion…three…four…five…six…seven…Tragg on his hands and knees. I didn’t give a fuck about the crowd or the rules or anything else. I was gonna kill the motherfucker the moment he stood up, but the bell rang at eight and one-half. I walked stone-faced to my corner.
“MOTHERFUCKER! BUCKO!” Cy was beside himself—proud, thrilled, and amazed by how the first round had gone. As soon as I sat down, the adrenaline overload hit me. Thought I was gonna black out. Had to pop back up and bounce on the balls of my feet, trying to get my racing heart and mind in sync. Dimly aware Tragg’s trainer was feeding him far more than smelling salts.
The bell rang. This time, Tragg was careful. No one, not even a berserker, truly wants his bell rung. I thought I could knock him out, but a sliver of caution reminded me I was still a prisoner. The fight had to go four rounds. No sense jumping through the trapdoor. Not with a rope around my neck. The crowd had been sky high, and now it plummeted back to earth.
Would’ve taken the round on points, but points were meaningless. Contented myself with firing a few decent jabs and pulling an occasional right cross to render it harmless. Tragg did manage to sting me with a couple of left hooks that might’ve knocked me down if he hadn’t been pulling his punches just like I was pulling mine. The bell rang and I went back to my corner. My adrenaline was fading. Wondered if maybe it was time. Unlace my gloves. Bow my head. Let the whole damned mob beat me to death. Shook it off. Reached down deeper. The bell rang and I got to my feet.
Round Three was mostly a repeat of Round Two. We both landed punches that stung but did no real damage. The crowd got restless. Started talking shit. It wasn’t pretty, but what the hell! Back in my corner after the bell, Cy was dead serious. “Listen, Bucko, he’s a much better fighter than he’s shown. He came out like a madman in Round One and you jolted him. Now he’s figgerin’ it out. You gotta take him this round. Don’t let this go five. You’re in no shape. He’ll kill you if it goes five. Remember what I told ya. Cross him hard. When he clinches, you gotta go to work. And make your punches count. You gotta do this, Bucko. I got my rent riding on ya.”
Sucking air. All I wanted was to close my eyes and drift. But the bell rang. It always does. This time, Tragg meant business. Came out strong, ready to do damage. I got on the bicycle and scrambled. Legs like lead, lungs screaming. Barely deflected two or three left hook, straight right combos. The crowd smelled blood. Then, like Ali in the jungle, Tragg began throwing straight lead rights, which I blocked every time except for the time I didn’t. The punch caught me square on the jaw. He followed up with a badass left hook, straight right combo to my body. I went down hard.
Blacked out till the three-count when the screeching crowd or some lucky charm woke me up. At six, I rolled away from the giant towering above me, and at eight, I was on my feet rope-a-doping. Very little left in the tank. Tragg, equally winded, threw weak jabs and sloppy rights that I deflected or shook off. Couldn’t be real, but for a moment I swear I saw Adam, stone cold sober, gesturing with both hands, barking commands. I slipped a jab and fired a stinging right cross. Tragg’s head snapped back. He almost fell and looked confused. Instinctively, he leaned into a clinch. I dropped my head down over his left shoulder and grabbed his right elbow with my open left glove, pulling him closer. As he had throughout, the ref let us fight. I sucked in some air. Shoved Tragg violently away and exploded an overhand right sneaker hook. Square on his left temple.
Stopped. Thought he would drop. But he didn’t. Instead, he swayed like a big animal teetering on a ledge. Grimaced. Arms out to steady himself. Still didn’t fall. It was time. Consecutive shovel hooks to each side of his jaw. This time, the big freak toppled. This time, he didn’t get up.
Stood there watching as the ref delayed the count for at least eight seconds. It made no difference. QB wasn’t getting up. With my last remaining strength, I moved to my corner and collapsed onto my stool. Cy was amped—shouting something about money and Las Vegas. The crowd noise was earsplitting, and the ring began to whirl. Slowly, my head fell forward…
Quincey’s voice, like an echo passing through dark water. “Great fight, Kid Crane.”
A second voice, Quincey’s friend, the putative Cole. “That was downright surgical, Thomas. Your boy here fought a helluva fight.” The voices faded and I faded too. Much later, it seemed, I was walking down the corridor, with Cy propping me upright. In the locker room, he unwrapped my hands. Boxing togs off, street clothes on. Slowly, very slowly. The soldiers in their brown leather bomber jackets clustered around the door, talking about the fight. Took my time. Catching my breath and mulling it over. Where was the crack in their armor? If I couldn’t find it, I had to create it. When I was good and ready, I turned and faced them. Decided to play them. No other choice. Proclaimed. “The bigger they come, motherfuckers. The bigger they come.”
“Listen to the man.” Emery’s junior lookalike, dressed in brown like a delivery man, came forward. “Congratulations, Kid Crane. It’s your lucky day. Me an’ my crew are gonna be driving you back to your hotel.” He grinned, but his eyes weren’t smiling. Food scraps and missing teeth. “I’m Todd. That was a killer fight. Now hold out your hands.” He snapped the cuffs on. Loosely. “Forward march, baby.” We were just reaching the ring when Cy bobbed and weaved his way through the phalanx of guards.
“Good luck, Bucko.” He saluted me while kissing a large bill. Then he saw the cuffs. “Holy fuck!” He stared, and I realized I’d forgotten to tip him. Then he was gone. I felt bad. He’d been my ally in my darkest hour.
The crowd was mostly gone now, but knots of stragglers loitered in the parking lot, drinking and laughing. Two or three of them cheered when I passed by, and I raised my cuffed hands in response. Gladiator on parade. It was cold and misty and the air felt good on my face. Could feel Quincey and his white-haired friend watching me from somewhere in the shadows. Where the fuck was Bobby? Stopped. Took a deep breath. Another. He was out there somewhere. I could count on that. Todd pointed, and I climbed into the maw of a dark blue Dodge cargo van.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
I slumped back in my seat, feigning sleep. Todd on my right and a large shapeless creature who smelled of sweat, garlic, and tobacco on my left. The driver and another bogie rode up front. Ten minutes down the road, I jerked as if coming out of a sound sleep. I had one play. First lull, then attack. I sat up straight. Said I was hungry. “Let’s go to In-N-Out, boys. I’ll pay.”
“You hear that?” said Todd. “Good idea. We’ve got a long drive.”
“I’m not a boy,” said the shapeless one on my left.
“Sorry, man.”
