Beneath me, Kaminski had gone still except for his breathing. I could hear him wheezing, and when I stopped my attack he turned his face a bit to look up at me. I lifted a fist and said, “We all done?” But he didn’t try to escape or tap the ground. Instead he just curled up again in a guard position.
Blalock said, “There’s no bell here Edward. You’re compelled to make him submit.”
Khajee shouted, “Make him tap!”
No problem, I thought, and without much trouble I slid in a half nelson, sneaking my right hand under his armpit and latching it behind his head. Usually this is a move we use to turn a wrestler to his back, show him the lights, but I realized here that without a ref to call him pinned, that was no good. I also realized something else: No ref was going to call me for a full nelson.
Seconds later, I had my left arm in the same position, with both hands on the back of his head, his arms splayed, and his face fully exposed to the concrete floor. Without my mouth guard in, I could clearly say, “Dude, you know where this is going, right?”
He didn’t make any sign that he’d heard me, so I decided to get his attention. Lying flat on his back, my chest on his shoulder blades, I curved his spine up and then drove us both forward, smashing his forehead into the concrete. He turned his face to the side so his cheek took the brunt of the impact, but it still made a sickening thunk. Blalock said, “Brutal!” and I heard the old man in the wheelchair chuckle. I realized that since I had Kaminski’s arms locked out like that, he had no way to tap out. So I asked him good and loud, “You had enough?”
His only response was a weak thrashing, but he couldn’t shake me. His breath was heavy, and I knew he’d take some more convincing. So I banged his head again, then a third time. I was totally jacked on the adrenaline now, certain of my victory, totally in control, and I wonder how many times I’d have smashed his face if not for Khajee. She muttered something in Thai and I looked over at her. Her green eyes blinked as she tried to process just what she was seeing. But I could tell she wasn’t entirely pleased. Beneath me, Kaminski was limp, a 220-pound rag doll, and when I released the full nelson he slumped onto the ground. I got to one knee and glanced Sunday’s way. “Guess I’m tuned up now.”
Sunday clearly wasn’t a fan of my tone. He stepped forward and commanded, “Turn him over.”
When I did, we all saw Kaminski’s face, which resembled raw hamburger. His eyes rolled in their sockets but he managed to give us both a nasty look. Blalock appeared next to me and patted a hand on my shoulder. “Imposing display, Edward.” The old man had the woman push him over and he leaned forward to stare down at the defeated man. Then he craned his face to Sunday. “I was promised blood.”
“So you were,” Sunday said. “Kid, please oblige our good patron.”
“What now?” I asked.
“Hit him again,” Sunday explained. Behind him, Khajee sucked in her breath.
“This guy’s had enough,” I said. “Fight’s over.”
Sunday’s eyes tightened in anger. “Your opponent hasn’t submitted and is still conscious. The fight is over when I say it’s over. And I say, hit him.”
I looked down at Kaminski. “It’s not your night,” I told him. “You’re done. Tap out.”
Instead though, he turned his face to the side, spit onto the concrete, and said, “Kiss my ass.”
That was all the motivation I needed. Genuflecting over his chest, I dropped a right straight down on his nose, and the crunch sounded like the break on a pool table. Kaminski smiled, so I popped a left into his mouth. Since he couldn’t seem to stop grinning, I capped things off by lifting my right elbow above my shoulder and pumped it like a piston, jackhammering his face. I heard myself saying something. Maybe it was “You still smiling now?”
The dream got popped when someone’s hand settled on the back of my neck, and I turned to see Khajee, horrified. Sunday didn’t seem annoyed, as his lips smirked in satisfaction. Also, as I came back to the world, I heard the old man clapping in his wheelchair. When I looked down at Kaminski, his lower lip had ballooned. Worms of blood slithered from each nostril, and the bruise under his eye had split open, oozing.
I got to my feet, unsteady until Khajee draped my one arm across her shoulder. She lifted a bottle of water to my lips, and I drank and spit as we started for the elevator. Blalock got ahead of us and pushed the button. Behind us, the old man applauded and crowed. “Worth every penny,” he told Sunday as the doors opened and we got in. “That boy’s a natural.”
On the ride home, Khajee didn’t say much. There were no congratulations from the back seat, no commentary on how I fought or what I could improve. Even when we were alone in the apartment, with Than sleeping in the back, she was quiet and only spoke to excuse herself to the bathroom. The medicine cabinet creaked. The water shushed in the sink. When she came out, she looked at the carpet and told me, “You should wash up.” Our eyes never met. That’s when I realized just how much blood was on my hands, staining my knuckles red. Under the shower’s hot blast, I scrubbed away the evidence.
Even though I was exhausted from the fight, my adrenaline rush kept me wide awake on the couch, thinking. It’s not like I haven’t made guys bleed before. Our school’s 185-pounder, LeQuan Thompson, used to have a bloody nose every practice. Got so bad he took to wearing a foam face mask attached to his headgear. But what happened with Kaminski felt different. That blood wasn’t incidental. That blood was the point. I knew Coach Gallaher wouldn’t be proud of my sportsmanship. And it wasn’t hard to imagine the way my mom would have looked at me if she’d been there to witness. But none of these people were there in the darkness, just their shadows.
Those spirits haunted me enough so that I couldn’t really sleep, which was getting to be a nightly routine. I thought about Than’s blue sky meditation thing but it just felt too far out. For a while I turned on the TV and watched a basketball game with no volume, but I never could generate a lot of interest in that sport. Too many rules and not enough contact. Finally, I surrendered to my MP3 and listened to Van Halen’s 1984. Midway through “I’ll Wait” (probably my favorite song and way better than “Jump”), Rosie came trotting past me from the bedroom. She sniffed my hand, then padded silently to the door. She growled low, then barked twice.
The knocking came loud and hard, insistent. According to the microwave’s green display, it was 4:15 a.m.
I sprang up and pulled on some gym shorts quick, but somehow Khajee beat me to the door. She took hold of Rosie’s collar and told me, “Open it.”
Grunt filled the doorframe, a perfect rectangle shape himself. When he took a half step back, I could see Sunday’s white limo, both passenger doors open. Grunt aimed a finger at me, then Khajee, then stiffly headed down the stairs. Rosie was snarling, angrier than I’d ever seen her, straining to break free. But Khajee calmed her enough to quickly drag her into the bedroom. A moment later she came out, dressed in street clothes, and I asked her, “What’s this about?”
As she brushed past me, she said, “Just come on. Lock the door.”
I ended up in the back seat with Sunday, who seemed wide awake and alert despite the hour. He didn’t talk until we’d reached the highway, which was nearly empty except for a few tractor trailers hauling freight. Then he reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope, which he tossed on my lap. “Typically I pay Ray and he pays you. But this first time, I wanted to do it this way, just so you’re clear on the source of the money. He’s already got his cut.”
I split the envelope’s top and peered in. The highway lights flashed down into a thick stack of crisp twenties.
Sunday leaned across the big back seat, bringing his face close to mine. “Eddie,” he said, “some men have a propensity for violence. It’s a talent, a gift even. Certainly your father had it, and from what I’ve seen and heard, I think it’s a good bet you inherited it.”
“My father?” I said.
Casually he leaned back. “This talent makes you
valuable to a man like me. You’re an asset. But I have to trust you and your loyalty. Can I count on you, Eddie?”
“What do you think you know about my father?”
“Quite a bit actually. I know that he could be counted on. I know that he, like you, was an inflictor of pain.”
“So my father used to work for you?”
“Not so much for me as with me. We were partners of a sort. When we started most of our loans went to the less fortunate. I supplied the bankroll and handled the numbers. Your father —”
I held up a hand. “I can guess what he was in charge of.” My eyes fell on the back of Grunt’s boxy head.
We passed over the Susquehanna on 81 South and took the first exit, down into Enola. I could tell Khajee was listening closely in the front seat, though she remained silent. We drove along the houses lining the west shore. All their lights were out. Grunt turned into the rail yard.
Sunday said, “Your father was passionate but impulsive. He let emotions cloud his judgment and got sloppy, careless. I’ve made a career by being a cautious man. That means I exercise a lot of control over my interests, especially my employees. Can you understand this?”
Grunt bumped us over some tracks. I nodded to Sunday. He pinched at the end of his white beard, curling it down into a peak. “So you’ll understand my concern when, earlier tonight, you questioned my instructions?”
“The guy was practically out cold,” I said. “Anybody could see he was through.”
Sunday bristled. We approached a handful of cars parked right along the rail line, in the shadows of a boxcar. Grunt pulled in and turned off the ignition, but didn’t open the door.
Sunday patted my leg. “Here’s the thing, Kid. I have an expanding organization and it’s easy to see a place for you in it. I see potential. But you’ve got to understand that this is my world, so we go by my rules.”
I nodded.
“Say it,” he ordered, squeezing my leg till it hurt.
“Your world,” I said with a shrug. “Your rules.”
This brought a smile to his face. “Wonderful. I’m glad we could come to an agreement. Let’s seal our new deal.”
At this, Grunt got out and opened Sunday’s door. I guessed that meant I should go too, so I got out and followed him to the boxcar, where the door was slid back and a short ladder was propped up. I felt Khajee right behind me.
Inside the boxcar a half dozen figures stood waiting. A few were holding flashlights, and in the bubbling light, I could see Santana, Maddox, Dominic, and a couple others I didn’t recognize. One of them held up a phone with a tiny white light shining, and I realized he was recording.
Bahadur stepped to the edge of the shadows but not into the light enough that I could see his face. I only knew it was him by his bulky shape. I heard him make an exaggerated sniff of the air and he said, “Hey Baby Blue. I told you guys I smelled fresh meat.”
So this was the deal, I thought, an initiation where I take a beating. I was okay with some hazing, knowing they wouldn’t go too hard with me having a fight on the schedule, but I was worried about Khajee. Surely they wouldn’t hurt her?
Then I heard a groan from the far corner, which was pitch-black. The others aimed their flashlights, and I was surprised to find some guy huddled on the floor. He was middle-aged and balding, just a crown of hair around his head. In boxers and a white tank top, he cowered. His face was streaked with sweat and tears and boxcar dirt. “Mr. Sunday,” he said, sniffling. “Let me explain.”
Sunday folded his hands calmly. “The time for explanations has passed, Leonard. Best now if you just shut the hell up.”
“Who is he?” I asked.
“A man who thought he could live by his rules in my world. He’s about to learn an important life lesson. Bahadur, the bat please.”
Badder extended an arm to offer me a wooden bat with the handle wrapped in gray duct tape. He didn’t let go of it right away, forcing me to tug it from his thick hands. The wood felt heavy, and the head rested on the floor. Leonard shoved with his heels, pressing into his corner. He tightened into a fetal tuck.
“Not his face,” Sunday told me. “He’s in sales, and we wouldn’t want him to miss work. At least, not too much.” Behind me, the others laughed. I glanced back and saw Khajee, in the tip of a triangle of moonlight angling through the open door. At her side, Grunt gripped her bicep.
I looked at Leonard and asked, “What did he do?”
Sunday said, “It’s a mistake to burden yourself with too much information. All you need to know is that I desire for this to happen. I need you to do it. And if you don’t, Grunt here will shoot him in the left kneecap. So don’t think you’d be doing the guy any favors.”
I tightened my grip and raised the bat, resting it on my shoulder as I entered the darkened corner. I was thinking that maybe I could pound the floor, or try to hit the wall and Leonard’s body at the same time, to take some of the edge off the blows. But then as I neared him, I inhaled and caught a pungent odor. Badder said, “Oh damn. That’s just disgraceful. Miserable puke’s gone and pissed himself.”
I remembered Harrow’s first words to me. You poor baby. Let’s get you cleaned up.
“Quit crying,” I growled at Leonard. “Take it like a man.”
Even as I said that line, I recognized where I’d first heard it, and my mind flashed red and the bat didn’t feel heavy at all. It went weightless in my fists as I brought it down on Leonard, again and again and again.
The morning after the boxcar, I slept late. I never even heard Khajee get up for school, but she was gone when I woke, so I jogged alone, troubled and slow, just me and my heavy thoughts. Later, at the gym, the other brawlers gave me a little more space. In the afternoon, I took Rosie for a long walk and watched fighting tapes while Than stayed in bed, too sick to rise. I warmed up some soup for him but he brushed it away, hacking up something green and nasty into a handkerchief. His face looked pale and his eyes had no brightness when he looked at me, though this could’ve just been from his illness. I wasn’t sure what Khajee had told him, but I had the feeling that he knew what I’d done.
As soon as Khajee got home, I said, “He’s having a bad day,” and she dropped her backpack and went to him. When she came out, she told me he was resting.
“What’s wrong with him?” I asked.
She turned to hide her face. “It’s a long list. Short version: He’s old and he’s sick. According to him, he should’ve died ten years ago.”
“I tried to give him soup,” I told her.
Khajee was clearly uncomfortable. She kept shifting her feet and not looking at me. Or maybe she was upset by what she’d seen the night before. I wondered for a second where Leonard was, if he could even stand today on those battered legs.
“Let’s run,” Khajee said.
“I ran this morning.”
She got on her knees and dug her arm under the couch. “Then this will be your second time. Get your sneakers on.”
When she pulled her hand out, she was holding a ratty tennis ball. Rosie perked up and trotted over, but Khajee said, “No girl. We’re not playing now.” She turned to me. “Your grip strength needs work. That guy last night in the casino nearly cleaned your clock because you couldn’t control him. You don’t have the experience to box with these guys, so you’ve got to make them fight your match. If you’ve got hold of somebody’s wrist, they can’t punch you.”
All this made good sense, but still I said, “My grip strength needs work?”
She cocked an eyebrow and tossed the ball into the kitchen. Rosie gleefully bounded after it, and Khajee squared up on me. She held up her arms. “Try to hold me.”
I grabbed her tiny wrists, encircling the thin bones in my hands. Swiftly, she took a step back, extending my elbows, and rotated her wrists inward, instantly twisting free. “Always turn toward the thumb,” she said, “away from the fingers. Even with that trick though, you should be strong enough to hold me. If you can’t do that
, how can you expect to hold some brawler?”
Satisfied and a little shamed, I nodded. Rosie trotted to our side and Khajee looked down at the ball, now covered in slobber. “That’s for you. While we run, squeeze it as hard as you can. Right hand on our way out, left on the way back. Wax on, wax off. Got it?”
“Sure thing, Boss,” I said. All day long, I’d been expecting we would talk about what happened last night, review the fight more, maybe get into it about the boxcar. I had the strange urge to confess to what she’d already witnessed. But from what I could tell, Khajee didn’t seem interested.
Brawler Page 8
