Brawler

by Neil Connelly

  Maddox said, “I got this Santana. You just —”

  “Shut up,” Santana said. Up close, I saw thin scars slicing across his forehead, one bisected an eyebrow. Looked like sloppy stitch work. “If Sunday hears about this, all your asses will be in a sling. You want to fight, spar on the mat.” He tossed each of us a rubbery headgear. I looked down at what I was holding, and he brought his face closer to mine. “You boys can work out your differences all civilized, and I can offer you some pointers.”

  “Pointers?” I said.

  “Advice don’t come cheaper than free,” Santana said. I noticed his fingernails were long and trimmed into points, almost like tiny claws.

  “I’m game if Blondie is,” I said.

  Maddox worked his lower lip into his mouth and shifted his glance left and right. With his bruised face, he had no appetite for a fight, but he couldn’t back down now. Mustering all the gusto he could, he said, “Let’s get it on.”

  My chest swelled with what was to come.

  At the sparring mat, Santana fit my headgear and slid on a version of boxing gloves that covered my knuckles but left my fingers free. I noticed an imperfection in his beard, a river of hairless skin along his jawline that could only mean another scar. My guess was those wounds weren’t from a fight, not unless a blade was involved. When Dominic finished securing Maddox’s chin strap, Santana said, “All set.”

  “Awesome,” I said, pounding my fists together and crossing the space between us.

  As we neared, Maddox rocked back on his feet, expecting me to box. But instead I dropped low and shot quick, scooping both his knees and dumping him hard enough to bounce his head off the mat. I briefly considered trying one of Khajee’s chokeholds but instead just knelt across his belly and punched at his face. He covered with his forearms, and I tried some of those elbow strikes, even driving one straight down through his guard. Damn, I thought, if high school wrestling rules allowed this. I could’ve killed some kids.

  I was just getting into it when I heard a door slam and Khajee’s voice crying out, “Enough!”

  I ignored her and whaled on Maddox’s gut, which was totally exposed since he was busy protecting his face. An instant later, something painful broke my attention. Khajee had marched onto the mat and was twisting my ear. She pinched harder and pulled me off Maddox, then led me out of the sparring area. The gathered fighters had a good laugh.

  Khajee let go of my ear and planted her hands on her hips. “What did I tell you about sparring? What were my exact words?”

  “He started it,” I said. “I was only —”

  She cuffed me on the side of my head. “What are you, a kindergartner? ‘He started it’? Come on, we’re leaving.”

  “I’m not done working out.”

  “Hold up,” Santana said, smiling strangely. “Your new boy was just getting started.”

  Khajee glared his way. “Forget it. No sneak peeks.”

  In the alleyway, after I’d shed my fighting gear and gathered my stuff, Khajee walked fast and ahead of me, just to show me how displeased she was. I asked her, “What are you so mad about? That Santana guy wanted to help me.”

  She stopped to face me. “He wanted to scout your moves.”

  I winced, realizing she was probably right. That double-leg opening was something I should’ve saved for a match. Khajee stepped in nearer to my chest. “This is Brawlers. You don’t have any friends, got it?”

  “What about you?” I asked.

  She stepped back. “I’m not your friend. And I’m not teaching you cause I want to. I’m paid to be your trainer and that makes me the boss, and that means you do the damn things I say. So what exactly happened back there?”

  As we continued walking, I gave her the short version and she shook her head. “At least you didn’t try kicking. They don’t know you can’t kick.”

  “I can kick,” I insisted.

  Nearing her apartment, Khajee said, “I guess Blalock’s right about you.”

  “Right how?”

  She paused at the stoop of their apartment. “He called my cell just before I got to the gym. By the way, he wants to meet you for lunch tomorrow. He asked what I thought of you.”

  “What’d you say?”

  “I told him you were a fast learner but raw around the edges and undisciplined, too green to fight so soon. But he said not to worry, that you have a secret weapon.”

  Tired of asking questions, I held my silence. Khajee obliged by leaning in and whispering, “Blalock says you’re the perfect combination — stupid and crazy.”

  After getting a shower, I helped set the cramped table for dinner while Than cooked, leaning onto the countertops and hopping from fridge to stove. We had Mexican — tacos and refried beans. Later I did the dishes and then Than and I watched some more videos for a couple hours. Khajee bent over some textbooks she’d spread out at the table. After one of the tapes ended, I went in to get more water, thinking about calling it a night. Passing Khajee, I glanced down. She was studying a series of multiple choice questions — definitions to be matched with terms. “English?” I asked.

  “SAT prep.”

  I winced. “That damn test gave me a monster headache. You got college plans?”

  “No,” she said. “For real. My dream is to train teenage boys intoxicated on their own testosterone.”

  “Ouch,” I said, rearing back as if to avoid a blow.

  “College for sure,” she said with a smile. “Then I hope graduate school.”

  “For what?”

  “Physical therapist?” She shrugged. “Physician’s assistant? Something with the body where I can help people.”

  In the living room, Than hacked and spit something into a rag. I nodded at Khajee. “You’d be good at that. You’re a natural. Sounds like a ton of school though.”

  “It all feels like a fantasy now,” she told me. “A long way off. How about you?”

  “Don’t laugh,” I asked. “But I’d like to be a cop. Maybe a state trooper.”

  Khajee considered my answer. “Guess I can see that.”

  The plans I’d had for a life — the criminal justice degree, making decent money, really being there for my mom — all that felt distant, impossible. And more so with each passing day.

  Khajee leaned over her books. “I can’t get over some of these words,” she said. “Peripatetic? Obsequious? Mollify?”

  “Sounds like Blalock.”

  She laughed, and I looked in to see where her pen was aimed. I read out loud, “Which word best describes a change in essential nature or form: a, immolate; b, objectify; c, eviscerate; d, transmute. Hell if I know.”

  “D!” came from the living room. I turned to see Than smiling, up on his feet and leaning into his walker. He continued, “Usually it refers to changing metals, sort of like what ancient alchemists were trying to do.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “What now?” I asked in amazement.

  “Medieval scientists picked it up from the Arabs. In poetic terms, it can mean any dramatic change.” Than hobbled toward us, grinning.

  Eyebrows scrunching and eager for an explanation, I looked back at Khajee. She said, “You’ll have to forgive my uncle. He loves his little jokes.”

  In the kitchen now, Than shook his head. “You punks from the suburbs. You eat that Mr. Miyagi shit up.”

  “What the hell’s going on?” I asked the room.

  “It’s a schtick he does,” Khajee explained with a sigh. “Even with new doctors sometimes. He calls them all quacks. Than thinks his little voice thing is hysterical but it drives me nuts.”

  Beaming, Than waved at me from across the table, like we were meeting for the first time. “I was born in Thailand but moved to Atlantic City when I was four, Daniel-son. Later on, my parents brought us all back home when my kid brother was in his teens, in part so he could get serious about his boxing. I helped where I could, but he injured his shoulder and that ended his career, so we returned to America.
But not without a wife for my brother. They started a family, had a fine daughter.” He shucked a chin in Khajee’s direction.

  “This is crazy,” I said, forcing a laugh so it seemed like I was part of this joke. “You people are sick.”

  Than cackled. “I’m a dying cripple. I won’t apologize for my sense of humor.”

  “Don’t blame me, Mac,” Khajee said. “To be fair, you are pretty gullible.”

  I looked at the mischief shining in Than’s eyes. “Hang on. Is that even you in those videos?”

  He shook his head. “You catch on quick. That’s my baby brother. He got the fighting talent in the family, along with the brains. That’s where Khajee gets all that from. Me, I know enough about Muay Thai to be an expert in America, but in Bangkok, I’d be a hack at best.”

  “Unbelievable,” I said. “My coach is a fraud.” They both laughed.

  Than said good night and made his way to the bedroom, and Khajee looked at the microwave clock. “It’s late,” she said, packing up her books. “We’ll have another early morning.”

  “Sure thing,” I said. “Sleep tight.” I wanted to thank her for everything, but it felt wrong in the moment, like I’d be making a big deal out of it. So Khajee went to bed without hearing my gratitude. While I was feeling like a fool for being tricked so easily by Than, I also couldn’t help but feel a little closer now that he’d come clean. I wondered if they’d kept the other fighters they trained in the dark. I also wondered just how these two got mixed up with Sunday in the first place.

  Again I had a hard time falling asleep, tossing and turning. Once more, I snuck up and left the bathroom light on. I kept thinking of my mom, picturing her upset and Harrow consoling her. I was still pretty sure I’d done what was best but couldn’t convince myself in the dark. And when I was finally able to push her out of my mind, my father came to me, images of when I was a kid. I thought of the beating I gave Maddox at the gym, and this made me feel less anxious. It was pretty screwed up, I knew. To drive all this from my brain, I tried listening to my MP3 — just a little Ozzy Osbourne — but the battery ran out, and I realized I forgot to pack my charger, so I just lay there awake and still.

  At one point after midnight the bedroom door opened and Khajee crept past me in the shadows, followed by Rosie. I heard her open a cabinet in the kitchen and the faucet came on. From the back, Than coughed and groaned loudly. I wondered if he was in physical pain, or if he was tormented by nightmares. I would’ve asked Khajee as she snuck by me on her return, but it seemed too personal, so I just pretended to be asleep.

  When she closed the door, I saw that Rosie was still with me. My hand was hanging out of the covers along the side of the couch, and the pit bull sniffed at it, then licked my knuckles. I patted her on the head and said, “Good girl,” and she curled into a ball next to me. I could hear her breathing and it was good to not be alone.

  Wednesday around noon, I met up with Blalock at a diner not far from the capital, where state representatives rubbed elbows with the workingman, a greasy spoon called Pancakes and Porkchops. Mrs. DJ, my former English teacher, would like the alliteration but personally I didn’t think the image was worth it. When I showed up, Blalock was already in a high-seated booth in the back, talking on his phone. He saw me by the counter and waved me his way, flashing that phony smile. “My boy,” he said, tucking his phone away. “I’m glad to see you appreciate punctuality.”

  He shoved me an open menu and recommended the cheesesteak, then signaled a waitress. “Unless you object, I propose we order posthaste, yes? I’m meeting some associates in York.” Up close like this, his thick glasses magnified his eyes in a really freakish way. Combined with the tufts of wiry hair springing from his ears, it felt like I was having lunch with a human owl.

  I wanted to ask him what business he had in York, how else he made his money besides being a promoter, if when he and my dad worked together this Sunday character was involved. But there’s a long list of things you’re better off not knowing.

  I scanned the menu, then handed it to the waitress. “Grilled chicken salad and water.”

  Blalock lifted a single finger to hold the waitress. “Actually we’ll just have two cheesesteaks, miss. All the way.”

  I didn’t want to be heavy for my afternoon workout, but clearly Blalock liked the role of being the guy who calls the shots. After the waitress was gone, he said, “I heard there was an incident yesterday at the gym.”

  “Just making new friends,” I said.

  “Play nice,” he told me. “I insist.”

  “Sure,” I answered.

  “You represent an investment of capital and time, Edward. Plus, at this point replacing you would present an insurmountable challenge.”

  “Point taken,” I said.

  Satisfied, Blalock grinned and asked what I thought of Khajee.

  That morning, I’d had another early run and workout with her, focusing on striking combinations and a technique she called “hammer fisting,” basically pounding the crap out of a guy once he’s down.

  “She’s great,” I told Blalock. “Knows her stuff.” Again this morning, she sang in the shower.

  “She has a nasty streak of irreverence and a tendency toward intransigence,” Blalock said, “a lot like her uncle was before he got sick.” His tone sounded hostile, but there was another emotion too, something between respect and fear. During my morning tape session with Than, he got racked by a couple coughing fits that doubled him over. He seemed sort of out of it, weak, and I tried to get him to eat some heated leftovers. But he said, “It’s okay. I’m just tired,” so I carried him to the back room, laid his body in his bed.

  The cheesesteaks arrived and, sure enough, were damn tasty — juicy and filling. When he was nearly finished, Blalock dabbed a napkin to his lips and leaned over his plate. “A new development in your situation,” he said in a quiet voice. “You are officially a wanted man.”

  I swallowed what I’d been chewing and looked around, like somebody might hear.

  Blalock plucked a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his glasses clean. Without them, his face looked naked, babyish. A red mark arched across the bridge of his nose. He said, “An acquaintance inside the department tells me the warrant for your arrest was filed this morning.” He replaced his glasses and lifted his water as if toasting me. “Congratulations. You are now a bona fide fugitive from the law.”

  I put my sandwich down and leaned back. Somewhere, my mom was dealing with this news. I pictured her running her hand through her hair like she does when she’s getting anxious, tightly curling a strand around her finger. Meanwhile, Blalock looked gleeful. “Growing out your beard’s not an entirely original disguise, but it seems prudent.”

  I rubbed my chin, felt three days of stubble. This wasn’t something I’d done deliberately, just a combination of new routine and oversight.

  Blalock went on. “Don’t be overly concerned though. It’s unlikely you’re a top priority.”

  I started to slide from the booth and he said, “You haven’t finished.”

  “Lost my appetite.”

  “Sit down,” he said sternly.

  I went back to where I’d been and he continued. “Ahead of your debut, Mr. Sunday has made some special arrangements. Tomorrow night. Consider it a tune-up. He’s interested in an exhibition of your skills before the first broadcast fight. He wants to preserve the quality of his brand, totally understandable. I’ll give Khajee the details.”

  I shrugged. The idea of a fight felt good to me. Better to know what you’re dealing with on a mat or in a ring than have to figure out shifty schemes like the ones Blalock and Sunday were running. “So can I go now?” I asked.

  He pulled out a wad of bills from his pocket, peeled off a couple, and dropped them on the table. His tip was almost as much as the meal itself. I thought back to the time I mowed lawns for a month to take Mom to Friendly’s for her birthday. Blalock must’ve seen me eyeing up the money and said, “You requ
ire some petty cash? For incidentals?”

  Before I could think better of it, I remembered a pharmacy I’d passed on the walk over and said, “I need a new charger for my MP3 player.”

  He set down five twenties.

  “I don’t need that much,” I said.

  “Consider it an advance,” he offered.

  Feeling just a little dirty, I slid the bills into my pocket, then asked, “I’ll get paid for this tune-up thing?”

  “Of course,” Blalock told me. “This is a professional operation.”

  After lunch, I stopped by that CVS and spent fifteen minutes scouring a rack of chargers that all looked the same before deciding I had the right one. In the checkout line, I grabbed a handful of Peppermint Patties.

  When I opened the apartment door twenty minutes later, I was greeted by a sweet burning smell, and I thought of those special masses when the priest burned incense at St. Sebastian’s. In the living room, wisps of white smoke slipped from a pair of skinny sticks spiked into a bowl of sand on that corner table, the one with the bronze figure. Than was on the couch, and his position matched that of the statue’s as best he could — his half leg bent into the other, hands resting upturned on his thighs. Than’s eyes were closed, and it looked like he might be asleep.

  Clearly, I was disturbing something, and I turned back to the door, but then I heard Than say, “How was lunch?”

  He was smiling pleasantly and looking at me. I said, “I ate too much.” He nodded and I went on. “I’m sorry I interrupted you. Were you like praying or something?”

  “It’s not praying like you’d think of praying, but sort of.”

  “How can you sort of pray?”

  “We call it samatha,” he explained. “A meditation to clear your mind.”

  “Cool,” I said. “That way you can break bricks with your glowing fist and stuff like that?”

  He looked at me to see if I was serious and I said, “Just messing with you.” I dropped the CVS bag at my side and sat in the armchair. “So like, how do you do it?”