Daredevil, page 5
“Joe,” says Fisk. “How are things?”
Joe glances around to make sure no one is listening. “Not so good. The place was robbed again a couple of nights ago.”
Larks watches Fisk feign surprise.
“Sorry to hear that.”
Joe nods. “Cleaned me out,” he says unhappily.
“And your friends?”
Your friends. The Triad.
“Nothing. They haven’t even come ’round.”
Fisk shakes his head. “You wouldn’t get that kind of treatment from me, Joe. I come from around here. I watch over my people.”
Which is why Spilotro picked Fisk in the first place. He wanted someone who knew the area. Who had the streets of the Kitchen in his blood.
“You going to see the Brennans?” asks Joe.
“I am.” Fisk smiles, all charm. “Time for our weekly chat.”
“I won’t keep you, then.” Joe hesitates, then steps closer to Fisk. “What do you think about us maybe having a weekly chat? Maybe you could come by for a drink? On the house, of course.”
“I’d consider it an honor,” says Fisk. “We can talk about these robberies you’ve been having.”
Joe smiles, relieved. “Great. I’ll see you soon, Mr. Fisk. You take care.”
“And you, Joe. And you.”
Fisk carries on walking, and Larks follows close behind. Another one who wants Rigoletto’s protection. The street will soon be theirs. After that … well, a long and careful look along the docks might be in order. The Triads won’t give over control of the docks without a fight, and Rigoletto would be against that—wouldn’t want to upset the enemy. But Fisk?
He couldn’t care less. He has plans, Larks knows. Big plans.
And Larks is going to be there the whole way.
CHAPTER 6
Seven years ago.
The worst thing about hope is … well, it’s the hope itself, thinks Jack. She’s a treacherous mistress. Waits for you to lower your guard, to think things might be going well—then she strikes. And the longer things do seem to be going well, the stronger the fear that builds up in the background, because you know—you just damn well know—that something is coming. Something big.
Take now, for instance. Jack is feeling pretty good about life—and that’s an uneasy feeling, all things considered, because he’s never really experienced happiness before. He’s always just … gotten by. Survived.
But … Matt is doing okay. Hell, Matt is doing great. That kid just amazes him more and more every single day. If it had been Jack who’d been blinded—and not a day goes by when he doesn’t wish it had been—he doesn’t know what he’d have done. But Matt … Matt seems stronger after the accident. Sometimes Jack thinks the kid can see better than him.
And he’s studying constantly, something that brings a smile to Jack’s face every time he sees Matt running his fingers across those Braille books that cost a fortune. Money well spent, though. The kid has brains, and Jack knows he’s going to be the one to take the Murdock name and do something good with it. Because Jack sure as hell isn’t leaving behind any legacy worth talking about.
Jack Murdock? Nah, no idea. What? A boxer? Did he win? Huh? He worked the red suit and horns? Yeah. I remember now. Daredevil, right? Didn’t know his real name.
But maybe all that is behind him now. Rigoletto hasn’t made him wear the suit in months, and Jack has been fighting real bouts. They’re tough matches, sure. Against younger opponents. (Isn’t everyone younger than you these days, Jackie-boy?) But he’s been winning. Six in a row. And the next fight is a big one: Madison Square Garden.
A chance to prove he still has it.
Rigoletto hasn’t even asked Jack to work the collection rounds with Slade for months. Maybe he’s found a new bruiser. Someone who enjoys it more.
The old fire is coming back. The pride.
The hope.
Early morning, Jack jogs through Central Park, watching the moms push strollers through the puddles. People with their dogs. Old couples taking a morning walk. He likes this time of day. Not too early that it’s dark, but early enough that the weight of the day ahead hasn’t yet pulled anyone down into frayed tempers and unhappiness.
It’s a brief interlude, when everyone can pretend they’re happy and normal, and that life might hold promise.
Jack used to feel the same. Lately, though, he’s managed to carry the feeling through the entire day, managed to ignore all the crap that Hell’s Kitchen throws at him.
He jogs along the path. His lungs are burning, but it’s a clean burn. Feels good. Rain’s fallen during the night. Everything is damp and gray. The smell of wet earth hangs in the air, a scent he loves because it’s so rare. Colors stand out, deep and lush. The bark on the trees, the grass, the concrete path, the earth itself. Dark and heavy. Cleansed.
Ten miles a day: That’s the bare minimum if you want to be a boxer. On TV, they always show boxers weightlifting, spending all that time in the gym. But that’s just stupid—it’ll make you too bulky. You need power. Speed. Jogging. Skipping. Dragging tires. That’s the best program for a boxer. Low-tech, but it does the job.
At the edge of the park, he stops at a water fountain and drinks his fill. He straightens up, looks around—
And sees a car slowing down next to him. His stomach sinks.
Rigoletto.
The window lowers.
“You’re pushing yourself too hard, Murdock. You’re not a young man anymore.”
Be polite, Jack thinks—maybe it’s nothing. “Got to keep training, Mr. Rigoletto. ’Specially if I want to keep up my winning streak.”
Rigoletto gives him a confused look. It quickly turns to amusement.
“Murdock … you don’t actually think you’ve been winning those fights, do you?”
Jack frowns. His turn to be confused.
“How many times you been hit in the head? It’s a setup. Those six wins? I arranged them.”
Jack shakes his head. “No. I beat those kids.”
“Murdock. I fixed it so you’re the flavor of the month. Everyone will bet on you to win at the Garden fight.”
“I will win.”
Rigoletto’s voice turns cold. “No. You won’t.”
Realization sinks in. “Mr. Rigoletto—no. I—”
“Usual threats apply, Murdock.” Rigoletto smiles. “How is your son these days? Coping?”
They stare at each other.
“Take a fall in the fourth. Make it look convincing. I’ll give you something extra for your troubles.”
The window goes up, and the car pulls away. Jack watches it go. Stands there staring long after it has disappeared.
He realizes he’s trembling with rage. It had taken all his willpower not to reach into the car and snap Rigoletto’s neck.
He had been about to head home before Rigoletto found him. Now he heads back into the park and runs for another two hours, trying to burn off the fury bubbling away inside.
It doesn’t work.
Mattis at home when Jack gets back, his clothes drenched in sweat, his muscles trembling with fatigue. Matt sits at the small kitchen table, running his fingers across a book.
“Hey,” says Matt.
“Hey yourself. Taking a shower.”
Matt pauses and turns his face in Jack’s direction. “Everything okay?”
Jack hesitates. No use lying. The kid can pick up on that kind of thing now. God alone knows how. “Nervous. Big fight tomorrow.”
Matt smiles. “Your form’s good, old man. You’ll win.”
Jack doesn’t say anything. He heads through to the bathroom and closes the door, leaning his head back against the peeling paint. He turns the water on hot, waits for the steam to fill the room. Then he climbs into the tub and stands beneath the old shower as the water scalds his skin red.
At the dinner table that night, Jack stares at his son. It’s been three years since the accident. Three years since the day he thought he’d lost Matt. He can still remember it, clear as anything: the feeling of utter helplessness. Of failure. Of rage at the world.
And the weeks after, watching Matt screaming in that hospital bed, only at peace when he was dosed up with drugs. And even then he’d mutter and toss in his sleep, crying out that everything was too loud. Begging his dad to make everyone stop talking.
“What are you staring at?” asks Matt.
Jack half-smiles, shakes his head. “Nothing. I was looking out the window.”
“No you weren’t.” Statement of fact. No question there. Jack has heard people say that when you lose one of your senses, the others grow stronger in response. But not like this, surely? It doesn’t seem natural.
“You really think I can win?”
“Sure! You’re in the best shape you’ve ever been in. You’re going to wipe the floor with him.”
Take a fall in the fourth, Murdock. Make it look convincing.
“You’re not worried, are you?” asks Matt.
Jack forces a smile onto his face. “Me? Nah. Piece of cake.” He swallows down his water, gets up to refill it at the sink. “You looking forward to law school?”
Change the subject. Don’t let him know what’s going on.
“Sure.”
“Come on. You’re gonna do good, kid. Gonna learn how to make those rules you’re so good at followin’. Spread your wings, or whatever it is they say.”
“Yeah. Spread my wings.”
Now it’s Jack’s turn to sense something is up. Which is pretty good for him. He knows he isn’t the most perceptive of people. Comes with the territory—one too many blows to the head. He sits down again.
“What’s up?”
“Nothing.”
“Matt …”
Matt sighs. “If I go, who’s going to look after you?”
“Who …” Jack stares at his son in amazement and starts to chuckle.
Matt bristles. “What’s so funny?”
Jack raises his hands in the air, a gesture of surrender. “Nothing. Just … ah, Matt. You’re a good kid, you know that? I’ll be fine. You don’t have to worry about me.” Even as he says it, he remembers all the nights he’d finished a bottle of whisky listening to the Stones and cradling a picture of Mary. The nights Matt had to help him to bed. The times Matt had sewn up his wounds, taped up his ribs. Shopped for groceries when Jack was too hungover to do it himself.
God, he thinks. I’ve been a terrible father.
Jack puts a hand out, hesitates, then lays it lightly over Matt’s. Matt stiffens in surprise and almost pulls his own hand away. Jack has never been one for hugs and stuff like that. Another mistake.
“You think about yourself now, understand? I’ll be fine. You’ve always been there for me, Matt. But it’s your time now. Your turn to find out what life’s all about. Away from this … hellhole.”
He squeezes Matt’s hand, then moves it away.
Matt doesn’t say a word.
Madison Square Garden.
The crowd always makes Jack feel alive. It’s his drug. What gives him strength.
Tonight, he needs it.
His opponent is good. Fast. Faster than Jack.
But Jack can take a punch. That’s his secret. He lets the kid hit him: One. Two. Three. Then he takes a swing. Or a jab. Or hits the kid with an uppercut. Surprises him.
Jack can see the kid didn’t expect this kind of fight—it’s in his eyes. Jack can almost hear his thoughts. Who the hell does this old guy think he is? He’s—what? Pushing 50? And he thinks he can take me?
But that look changes after a couple of rounds, after the blood starts flowing. It becomes … respect. Maybe a bit of fear? But a cockiness, too. A smirk that appears with the passing of the minutes. Like he knows something.
And maybe he does. Maybe he knows Jack is supposed to take a fall. Maybe Rigoletto is setting this kid up as Jack’s replacement. Because, let’s face it, after today, Jack’s career is over. The rumors will start. Whispers on the street. Slade. Larks. Fisk. They’ll all start talking. Word will get out that Jack threw a fight.
He’ll lose all the respect he gained. It’s the one thing people know about Jack Murdock: He’s an honest fighter. He’d never take a fall. Never throw a fight. He is trusted.
Which is why Rigoletto set him up in the first place.
Jack brings his focus back to the fight. The meaty sound of leather gloves hitting skin. The cheers and jeers of the crowd. Bright white flashes in his eyes. Bastards aren’t supposed to take pictures, but they always do. The metallic taste of blood in his mouth. Sweat stinging his eyes. A cut on his eyebrow, gumming up his eye. Opens it wide. Tries to loosen the crud. Not working.
Fight. Dodge. Duck.
The kid’s mouthguard is bright pink. What’s up with that? It’s distracting. Don’t look at it.
Jab. Connect with the ribs. The kid twists to the side, away from the ref. Uses his elbows, hits Jack in the side. Hard.
Jack’s pretty sure he hears a crack. He sure as hell feels a flash of sharp, jagged pain. He really hopes he hasn’t punctured a lung.
The kid uses Jack’s distraction. Rabbit punch to the head.
Jack’s actually impressed. Bright lights flash in his vision. He realizes he’s looking at the mat, staring at the sweat and blood on the canvas. How did he get down here? It’s only the third round. Need to get up.
The ref is counting.
Four …
Five …
On his knees. Get up, old man. Don’t let them see you weak.
Six …
One arm down. Steadying himself.
Seven …
Onto his feet. Cheers from the crowd. Surprised look from the kid. Didn’t except him to get up after that.
The ref is holding his fists.
“You good?”
Jack, nodding.
“You good?” repeats the ref.
“I’m good!” Jack shouts.
The ref nods and releases his fists. Jack doesn’t wait. He charges back into the fight, hits the kid hard in the cheek. Teach him for using his elbows. The kid staggers and falls back against the ropes. Jack goes in, forgetting what he’s supposed to be doing. He only sees the fear in his opponent’s eyes and responds to it. Attacks.
The bells sounds: end of the round.
Jack forces himself to stop—and sees the relief in the kid’s face.
Back to his corner. Onto the stool.
Slade’s there, hanging casually on the ropes while Jack’s trainer wipes the blood away and smears his eye with Vaseline.
“Mr. Rigoletto wanted me to remind you to go down in the next round.”
Jack doesn’t answer.
“Murdock.”
Jack turns his head. Slade’s looking at him funny. “Remember your kid. I saw him in the audience. You don’t want anything to happen to him.”
That surprises Jack. “Matt’s here?”
Slade nods over his shoulder. Jack stands up, spots him instantly. An island of calm in the furor of bloodlust and drunken screaming. What is he doing here? He can’t even see the fight.
“Guess he wanted to support his old man.” Slade pauses, a grin cracking his face. “Least he won’t be able to see you take a dive. Silver linings and all that.”
The bell rings.
Jack stands up. The crowd is on its feet, roaring, screaming like savages—except for Matt. He’s still sitting, holding his white cane against his knees. Dark glasses reflecting the spotlights.
Waiting.
Listening.
“This is for you, Matt.”
Does Matt’s head move slightly? As if he hears the words? No. Impossible. No way he can hear over all the screaming.
But Matt slowly gets to his feet and faces his father directly.
A brief moment of calm as Jack stares at Matt, prouder of that boy than anything in his entire life, and then the kid is coming for him. Grinning now, so that Jack knows he knows. He thinks this is the round he’s going to win.
Jack grins back.
And he hits the kid with everything he has. All the anger he’s had building up over the years. All the frustration at having to work for Rigoletto. All the pain at losing Mary. Everything. It all goes into that one punch.
The uppercut hits so hard the kid goes into the air.
Jack steps back, lowering his hands.
The kid hits the canvas like a doll. He bites his tongue as he lands, and blood sprays out. His head bounces.
The ref is on his knees. Counting.
One …
Two …
Three …
Four …
Five …
Six …
Seven …
Eight …
Nine …
Ten …
Out. The ref on his feet now, coming toward Jack. He holds up Jack’s arm. The winner.
The crowd goes wild. Jack tries to find Matt again in the crowd, but it’s too crazy. Too many people in the way.
Jack glances toward his corner. Sees Slade there, looking at him with … pity? Then Slade slips away into the crowd. Jack knows he’s going to see Rigoletto.
The thing is, Jack isn’t even scared. He’s done what he set out to do. Proved to himself—and Matt—that he still had it. That the old man might be a loser, but he isn’t a quitter.
Jack turns away and slips between the ropes, taking his time. Not showing fear. They’ll be watching. Everything feels hyperreal: The colors too sharp, the sounds strangely loud and clear. He can smell popcorn, beer, hot dogs, and sweat.
People slap him on the back as he hurries across the rubber mats. Some want to shake his hand. Some are shouting angrily at him.
He ignores them all. He doesn’t have much time.
Jack hadn’t planned on ignoring Rigoletto. If he had, he sure as hell would’ve come up with a plan. A packed bag, plane tickets. A rental car. Something waiting to get him out of here. He would have sent Matt away.
