Brawler

by Neil Connelly

  Harrow calmly took a drink from her glass and stood, her chair scraping the linoleum as she pushed back. “Thank you for the water. I’ve said what I came here to say. You two need to talk.” She left her card with a phone number and made her way to the front door. My mom gave me a desperate look, then hurried after Harrow.

  When my mom came back ten minutes later, she found me sitting right where I had been. Without saying a word, she passed me by and went into the bedroom, a minute later emerging in her Perkins waitress outfit. “I’m late for my shift. Kevin’s going to give me hell. After, I’ll have to go straight to New Hope, but you can call me there around ten, okay? We’ll talk and figure out what’s best. There’s yesterday’s meatloaf in the fridge.”

  I nodded.

  She bent down so our faces were close. “Eddie,” she said, “we’ll get through this. We’ve tackled bigger problems before, and we’ll do this too, together.” Her silver cross dangled from a chain around her neck. After a kiss on my cheek, she said, “It might go a long way if you’d apologize to that ref. Think about it, okay?”

  I told her I would and she hustled off, and I was alone.

  I felt bad for lying to my mom, making a promise I knew I wouldn’t keep. The truth is that I felt horrible for what I did to that referee. I didn’t want to hurt some old man, even one who was such a total geriatric jerk. But the notion of calling that guy up and apologizing to him didn’t feel like something possible for me, like walking through a brick wall.

  My father had taught me that real men never say they’re sorry. By this definition, he remained a real man all the way through his trial. My father never once told me he was sorry for what he did, and even though Mom has explained to me over the years that he’s apologized to her, that he’s a changed man, I know she’s just making that up for me.

  After I heated some of that meatloaf, I watched TV for a couple hours, but there’s only so many repeats of COPS a man can take. Dancing with the Stars was on, Mom’s favorite, but I had no taste for fancy outfits or upbeat music without her. I went online for a while on the ancient PC that Mom inherited when the women’s shelter got a new one last summer. It’s a total piece of crap, but as the only high schooler who can’t afford a phone, I can’t complain. A couple dozen emails waited for me, including one from Shrimp asking how I was doing, seeing if I wanted to get pizza at Roberto’s or catch the latest MMA on pay-per-view. McGregor was fighting. The other emails were mostly nothing. A couple reporters asking for interviews, a series of recruiters withdrawing invitations to visit campus “with deepest regret.”

  At 10:30 the kitchen phone rang, surely Mom calling from New Hope. But I didn’t know what to say to her, so I just let it ring.

  My mind kept flipping through scenarios, trying to visualize the future that might unfold. I wondered what this public defender Quinlan could really do, given the evidence against me. I pictured myself standing before a judge in handcuffs, and him eyeing me up. While I knew it was impossible, I kept fixating on this one image — me and my father in the same prison cell, wearing identical orange jumpsuits, like distorted twins.

  I realized with a start that no matter what, whether I went willingly or in handcuffs, come morning I’d be down at the station. They’d have me. My mom would have to go through the trial and take off work and face all the stares of people who knew the truth. Her son had turned out just like her no-good ex-husband. And my great plan of getting a degree in criminal justice and then the police academy? Gone for good. Let’s say I could find another way into college. Would the police academy even accept an application from a convicted felon?

  I was debating whether or not to look this up online, to know for sure or hold out some tiny hope in ignorance, when a knock sounded at the door. I startled, picturing the cops. Then I realized it could only be Shrimp. He was a good guy, knowing I shouldn’t be alone. But when I pulled back the door expecting my friend, I was shocked to see someone else entirely.

  “Greeting and salutations,” the short man said, executing a curt bow with his arms at his sides. “Raymond Blalock, at your service.” His glasses magnified his eyeballs, and I recognized him from Friday’s match and earlier in the day, the SUV with the cracked grille. He extended a hand and I shook it, giving him a medium squeeze and watching his face for the flinch. His short body was compact, thick, and his skin was oily. “Utterly delighted to make your acquaintance, Edward. There’s something I’d very much like to show you,” he said, shaking out his freed hand and rubbing it. “Something directly related to an endeavor with mutually gratifying benefits.”

  With this, he opened his palm toward his gray SUV, waiting like a huge loyal dog at the curb.

  I said, “What about that whole ‘don’t get in cars with a stranger’ thing?”

  “I hardly qualify as a stranger,” Blalock said, shaking his head. “I am an old associate of the family, here to lend my assistance in a time of need. Think of me as a long-lost uncle, a fairy godfather.”

  “You know my mom?” I asked.

  He grinned. “I suspect you know better than that.”

  I understood what he meant but didn’t say anything. Up close, I could see his glasses were dirty and I wondered how he saw through the streaks. Blalock told me, “You bear a striking resemblance to him. Surely I’m not the first to offer that observation.”

  When I come across people from our old life around town, they often remark on how I look like my father. They say it like it’s a compliment. “Whatever,” I said to Blalock. “What is it now you need me to see?”

  “Just your future, Edward,” he answered, chuckling to himself. “Come now. Fortune favors the bold. Unless you harbor some private inhibition against making money.”

  Instead of responding, I looked around the cramped apartment, which was starting to feel like its own prison cell.

  Blalock grinned, rapped his knuckles on the already opened door. “This is the sound of opportunity knocking, young man.”

  “Screw it,” I said. “Let me grab my jacket.”

  Looking at Blalock behind the wheel, I couldn’t be sure he could see over the hood. The car was pretty beat-up but it smelled new, which didn’t make sense till I saw the Magic Tree hanging from the rearview mirror. It was yellow and labeled “Vanillaroma.” While we headed south on 15, out of Camp Hill, he told me he’d been to a half dozen of my matches over the years. He thought I had an impressive headlock but my endurance waned in the third period, both of which were true statements.

  “So Mr. Benedict is intent on pressing charges?” Blalock asked.

  I asked how he knew and he said he had his sources.

  “There’s this detective,” I said. “Her name is Harrow and she wants to help me out. Even has a lawyer set up.”

  “Rule number one pertaining to law enforcement. Their prime motivation is self-interest, the perpetuation of the status quo. Don’t delude yourself. Once you enter into an agreement with the system, you are beholden to their policies and procedures.”

  “What’s that mean now?” I asked.

  He faced me to say, “Talk to the cops and you take your chances.”

  I nodded, wondering why he didn’t just say that in the first place. He sounded like he swallowed a thesaurus, but he didn’t always make sense. I said, “So what would you do?”

  “Abandon the worldview that’s failed you. It’s time to strike out on your own.”

  I had nothing to say, and Blalock let the silence hang. We passed the exit for the mall, then the turnpike a while later. Finally he pulled up a ramp and made a left down a road I’d never been on. He asked me, “Are you familiar with the fighting league commonly known as Brawlers?”

  This turned my face. “As much as anybody,” I said. “Crazy-ass pay-per-view fights online. Rumor is they broadcast a pirate signal out of upstate New York, maybe even Canada.” LeQuan and Shrimp had bragged about catching a bout once, even using his big brother’s credit card to place a bet. Shrimp claimed his brother t
ook a cut but he still won $500, though he couldn’t produce the cash as proof. Still, he did buy everybody a Happy Meal to celebrate.

  “Point of fact is that we are in much closer proximity.” Blalock emphasized the we. “Brawlers is a highly profitable sports organization, operating with an unconventional business plan yes, but one must adapt to market forces. Though I’ve had my eye on you for years, there’s an emerging situation that, intersecting with your own misfortune, produces an opportunity where a young man with your assets could make a significant contribution and reap substantial rewards.”

  I spent a while looking out of the window at the rolling hills, trying to decipher his babbling. We left the highway behind and headed into the country. The houses grew farther apart and we passed furrowed fields and silos. Even through the vanillaroma, I smelled something nasty, but I couldn’t tell if it was cow manure or Blalock’s BS. “By substantial rewards, you’re talking about money?”

  He nodded. “I’m interested in paying you to do what you do best.”

  “And what is that, exactly?”

  “Kick ass.” The blunt language sounded odd coming from him.

  “This doesn’t sound entirely legal.”

  “Oh let’s not equivocate. This is entirely illegal.” Blalock snickered at his own joke. “But illegal endeavors have a tendency to be among the most profitable.”

  I wondered just how profitable, and a memory from one of those Sunday open houses popped up: my mom slipping off her sandals, dipping her toes in the cool water of a backyard pool. “Not in my wildest dreams,” she laughed.

  I was sucked back to reality by a rattling sound in the SUV’s engine. It was probably a loose bolt on the heat shield or a timing belt that needed to be replaced. Before Mom swore off boyfriends (the electrician/plumber, the scoutmaster/truck driver, the recovering alcoholic/mechanic) I’d learned a few things where I could.

  We stayed quiet in the car, and at one point, his headlights caught on the remains of some animal along the shoulder. The roadkill was a few days old. I couldn’t tell from the mess of guts and fur if it was a raccoon or a dog.

  Eventually, we slowed at the entrance to one particular farm. At the front gate stood a huge guy in a trench coat, huge like a bouncer at a big city club. He looked German or Russian, carved from stone. Blalock lowered his window as we rolled up. When the guard leaned his face in, I saw he wore a black tie and had a crew cut and a square jaw. Blalock said, “We’re running behind schedule, Grunt, can we dispense with the formalities?”

  In no rush, this Grunt character eyeballed us both, glaring at me over a crooked nose broken more than once. Up close I saw he was older than I’d thought at first glance, and I decided he was no bouncer but an ex-NFL lineman, kicked off the team because he couldn’t remember the blocking schemes. The guy was truly enormous. He glanced in the back seat and then, true to his name, nodded and made a guttural grunt. He swung open the creaky gate and waved us through by sweeping his other hand, which I noticed now was holding a shotgun. Blalock, clearly annoyed at the delay, said to himself, “Scintillating conversationalist, as always.”

  Gravel crunched under our wheels as we approached an old barn, leaning with age and lit from within. Parked outside it were a few dozen vehicles including a Rolls-Royce, a Benz, even a white stretch limo. Blalock explained, “Most of our profits come from the online proceeds, plus we get a handsome cut from the independent gambling websites, all of which are offshore of course. But a handful of high rollers pay a premium to attend the matches in person. This region offers an ideal location, off the grid but within a couple hours of Philadelphia, Baltimore, DC, even New York. For security reasons, we rotate locations, never fighting in the same place twice.”

  Blalock shut off the engine and got out. I followed. Inside the barn, a crowd of about a hundred people, some standing in the rafters, circled around an open space illuminated with tripod lights. Two college-age guys, shirtless and muscular, were on the fringe. One was tall and lean with a blond head of hair, bouncing on his feet. The other was thick as stump, shorter than me but heavier by 50 pounds, pushing 300 maybe. This bulkier one’s skin was deep tan, and tribal tattoos covered his chest and face. He paced back and forth, staring at his opponent.

  Blalock saw me looking and said, “That’s the reigning champion, Badder. Should you feel compelled to ask him ‘Badder than what?’ he’s got a ready-made response: ‘Badder than you.’ His real name is Bahadur, which is Maori for fighter, or so he’ll tell you.”

  “How about Blondie?” I asked, checking out the tall guy, who had a raging case of acne. Zits cratered his cheeks.

  Blalock said, “Maddox. During the winter he enjoyed a series of victories but has recently fallen from grace. Bit of a tragic case — past his prime at twenty-two.”

  Along the perimeter I saw one stationary camera, as well as one hanging from the rafters. In addition, a guy had one hoisted on his shoulder. This must have been how they beamed out the pirate signal, which according to the rumors was untraceable. The bouts were shown just once, live and only to paying subscribers, and then the video disappeared without a trace. You couldn’t find old video floating around YouTube or anything. Me and Shrimp had tried.

  As we shouldered through the crowd, I saw it was a mix of people. A few guys wore suits and ties and had model-girlfriends at their side. But there was also a fair share of shady-looking characters. Blalock finally wormed his way to the edge of the fighting space, alongside a girl who seemed just younger than me. She looked me up and down, then lifted her chin to Blalock. “This your latest golden boy?”

  He said, “Edward MacIntyre, meet Khajee.”

  She didn’t lift a hand to shake, so I didn’t either. “Call me Mac,” I said.

  “Hey,” she said back. Khajee’s face looked delicate and she was slight — her head barely reached my shoulder — but the way she stood, shoulders back, arms crossed, suggested a certain confidence. She wore a gray T-shirt and jeans the same black as her hair. I imagined relatives somewhere in her family tree were from the far side of the world, China or Japan I guessed.

  “So what’s Khajee mean?” I asked, leaning into her.

  She looked up at me, blank-faced. Her eyes were green, which seemed a little unusual. “What’s Mac mean?”

  I smiled awkwardly but she kept a stony glance, one I couldn’t penetrate.

  The tense moment was broken by a single bell that gonged out, like from a church tower. All around us the crowd went wild. As one, they yelled, “No mercy!” and they turned to a guy standing in the loft above, leaning into a railing. Dressed in a white suit, he was bald and wore a neatly trimmed white beard that came to a V-shaped point just beyond his chin. In one hand he held a golden disc and in the other, a padded drumstick. Next to me, Khajee said, “That’s Mr. Sunday. He’s big into dramatic touches, among other things.”

  I didn’t ask what she meant by that, but saw her glare at Sunday.

  He struck the gong a second time and everyone hollered, “Prepare!” The two brawlers faced each other, and you could feel the air crackling now with charged energy.

  Sunday seemed to relish all the attention on him. Something, maybe his big hands or his thick chest, gave me the impression that back in the day he was in the military. He hesitated before the third gong, then banged it louder than ever, which triggered the room erupting with “Brawl!” and the fighters launched toward each other.

  Just before Badder and Maddox collided, though, they pulled up short with lifted fists, bobbing on their feet like boxers and dancing in a circle. Maddox wore mini boxing gloves, fingers exposed but knuckles padded. Badder’s fists were wrapped in colorful rags. They traded a few jabs, testing each other, then Maddox spun a full 360, extending one lanky arm and driving his fist into Badder’s tattooed face. The audience oohed.

  At my side, Khajee observed the fight with interest but no passion. I’d seen that look before, on wrestlers watching their future opponents, mentally taking notes.
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  The challenger was quick to follow through, swinging a foot into Badder’s gut, doubling him over. But as Maddox stepped in for a swooping uppercut, Badder sidestepped the punch, quicker than I’d expect for a big man. Maddox’s follow-through left him exposed, and Badder delivered a ferocious one-two combination from the side, first a right to his ribs and then a left cross to his jaw. Maddox reeled back into the crowd, slumping, and they pushed him forward, back into the ring. Maddox tried another kick, which Badder blocked, and then they locked up like wrestlers, bent into each other. Each poked at the other with short, choppy punches, more annoyances than anything else at that close range, and the crowd booed even this brief lull in the action. In response, Badder crouched and exploded upward, leading with an elbow that caught Maddox flush on the jaw. His back arched as he staggered backward, and he shook his head and blinked his eyes, which had gone starry and blank. His arms were limp noodles. Badder moved in for the kill.

  No longer caring about style, Badder flat-out tackled Maddox and they crashed to the floor, scattered with straw. The mob pressed in behind me.

  As they tumbled, I was surprised to see Maddox scramble behind Badder. He drove him onto his stomach and slipped his forearms around his neck, then planted a knee on his spine. When he pulled back, he lifted Badder’s face to my own, and I could see the champ struggle to breathe. But also, it was clear he was calm, and that’s when I knew the tall man was doomed.

  Sure enough, Badder took hold of his opponent’s elbow and tugged hard, loosening the chokehold. Then he put some sort of arm lock on the wrist he’d freed, and Maddox cried out before rolling off the champ, who quickly mounted him, squatting on his stomach. From his back, the tall man tried to protect his acned face with his forearms, but Badder’s position gave him too much advantage. He pounded away at his jaw and pimpled cheeks, even driving his elbows down into Maddox’s face a few times. The tall man’s hands slumped to his sides, and I scanned for a referee to stop the bout, then realized there was none. This was a place without rules.