Brawler

by Neil Connelly

  “Are you kidding?” I asked. “You sound way better.”

  Khajee halted, nearly choking Rosie. “I sound better?”

  I searched for the right words. “You know. In the house.” I really didn’t want to say shower. “When you’re getting cleaned up.”

  Khajee’s cheeks flushed and she started walking fast. I rushed after her. “You’re kidding me with this, right? The mighty warrior chick is embarrassed? That’s so sweet.”

  She swatted my chest with a backhand, smiling. “Lay off. I didn’t think you could hear me. But of course you could. I won’t do it again.”

  I set a hand on her arm, stopping her. “That’d be a shame. You have a wonderful voice.”

  We held eyes for a second, then she looked away. “That’s not what everybody thinks.”

  “Everybody like who?”

  “Like Mr. Wertzman.” She tugged her arm free and said, “Drop it. I’m not interested in rehashing the past.”

  A garbage truck rumbled by, and Rosie barked at it. I could tell Khajee was riled up by this Wertzman guy, whoever he was, but for the moment, I knew best to respect her wishes. To break the silent tension, I said, “So what’s so terrible about my elbow strikes?”

  Khajee had a bit of a spasm, suppressing a laugh. She looked up at me and wiped her eyes. “Everything. The only nice thing I have to say is that you elbow strike better than you kick.”

  I thrust a foot into the air, barely waist high, and she shook her head. “It hurts to see you try that. Please stop.”

  I laughed and together we walked on. At the mouth of an alleyway, Rosie took a sincere interest in some scent and she dragged us inside. She sniffed at a leaky dumpster. There was nobody else around. I said, “Seriously. We’ve got Santana at the end of this week. How about some pointers?”

  “Fine,” she said, and handed me the end of Rosie’s leash. She settled into a fighting stance with her knees bent slightly and her fists raised, close together up by her chin. “This is how you should be,” she explained. For emphasis, she snapped her elbows in a series of rapid uppercuts, then threw a few looping hooks. Lastly, she turned sideways and thrust her right elbow out, like you would to break a window. “All these begin with your hands close together. This defends your face and keeps the strikes tight.” She showed me again, resuming her initial stance. “But you,” she said. “You look like this.” Slowly, she moved her hands apart six inches. “This leaves a gap a mile wide, especially for a strike artist like Santana. It also kills the torque for your elbows, weakens their impact.”

  She took the leash from me and secured the dog to a pipe running down the brick wall, then stared my way. I realized this was my cue. So I crouched down, shrugged my shoulders in, and brought my fists up the way she had. “Better,” she said. “Now throw some elbows.”

  Even though we were right there in an alley and anybody walking by could see us, Khajee didn’t seem self-conscious about any of this. Me, I felt a little weird but decided to play along. As I swung at the air, she frowned. “Twist at your waist. You don’t just throw a punch with your arm — it’s your whole body throwing it … keep your hands closer together, it’ll give you more power.”

  Figuring we were going to be a while, Rosie curled into a heap, still leashed to that pipe. Khajee began to bob and weave in front of me, and I understood she wanted me to echo her motions, so I became a living mirror image. When she jabbed with her left and followed with a right elbow, I did likewise. In slow motion, she floated a right hook across my face, and I pulled back on instinct. With her arm still extended, she said, “Even when you miss, sometimes it creates an opportunity.” She popped her elbow gently into my chin, and I knew if she really drove it home, it would have felt like a hammer shot.

  “Set up your shots. A knee to the side will lower a man’s guard. Think in combinations.” She leaned in and lifted her knee into my left rib cage. I hunched into it, dropping my arm a bit, and her right elbow tapped my skull, just above the ear. “Flow from one action to the next. Don’t think of them as individual moves. Picture the whole constellation, not the stars.”

  I straightened up and we began sparring again. She said, “Once you’ve hurt your opponent, a feint is as good as a strike, yeah? But you have to commit to it with your eyes, make him believe the attack is real.” She stepped into me and drove a fist straight toward my face. I leaned back and she dropped down, wrapping both arms onto one of my knees. She was quick as Santana. “A guy like you, with your strength and skill set, you can do a lot with a leg.”

  “Ground and pound,” I said.

  She released my leg. “Exactly. I’m telling you right now, you can’t stand toe-to-toe with most of these guys. In a straight boxing match, you wouldn’t stand a chance. Never mind the fact that they can kick too. But once you get them down, the advantage should be yours.”

  I nodded because she was making sense. Like the best coaches, Khajee was finding words to express what my body already knew. But she was also helping me form a battle plan for my next match. Even though Sunday’s debt was forcing her to do this, she was damn good at it. “C’mon,” she said, lifting her hands. “Practice faking a strike and then sliding into a single or double leg.”

  We began to circle each other again, falling into a natural rhythm, and our stiff movements melted into something fluid. Though she was half my size, Khajee was an awesome sparring partner, overreacting and staying open, letting me see my mistakes, but she was playful too, now and then tagging me on the chin with a slap or sticking a foot into my gut. “Your guard, your guard,” she’d say. “Stick and move. Stay on your toes. Don’t get caught flat-footed.”

  We got lost in the action, like you always do when it’s good, and time passed without us noticing. Now and then when I did something right, she’d flash me a smile of approval, and I got distracted by how lovely Khajee’s face was. She always struck me as sort of cute, but somehow when she was fighting, her real beauty came out. This recognition mixed with what she said about liking me spawned a stray thought, the notion that me and her might be more than friends. This stole my attention long enough for her to slip in a swift jab to my chin, which she followed with a ferocious fist to my sternum. I stepped back, catching my breath, and she said, “Lose concentration like that in a match and it’s all over.”

  I charged forward, driving her back into the side wall of the alley, grinning playfully as I posted my hands on either side of her, trapping her inside my arms. Our faces were close now. She tilted her head and looked at me sort of curiously, like she wasn’t sure just what I was thinking. Of course, neither was I really. But whatever was about to happen or not happen, we never got the chance.

  Below us, Rosie snarled and got to her feet, tugging on her leash. Then I heard a deep voice ask, “What exactly are we looking at here?”

  Through the darkness, I saw three figures silhouetted, just black shadows with traffic passing behind them. In the center, the tallest of the three spoke again. “Looks to me like a lover’s quarrel.”

  I pulled my arms away from Khajee, and Rosie showed her teeth, hackles rising. Khajee bent to rub her head while I squared off, assuming the gunslinger’s pose. If my boyhood taught me one thing, it was the sound of a man’s voice when he’s itching for a fight. And judging by this guy’s tone, he was drunk and mean and on the prowl. Though I was sure I’d never met him before, his voice sounded familiar, and I decided right then that if he and his buddies were searching for trouble, they’d come to the right place.

  Next to the tall man, a shorter dude in boots lifted a bottle to his lips, tipped it, then said, “Don’t let us stop you. Y’all look downright adorable.”

  The trio advanced a few steps, side by side. I scanned the walls surrounding us. A fire escape zigzagged down the one brick building, but the ladder was twelve feet off the ground. The only way out was through them. Rosie growled and Khajee said, “Easy girl,” and her voice showed no sign of concern. She unstrapped her leash from that pip
e, looped the handle around her wrist.

  As they came closer, I saw they were all middle-aged. “Keep that mutt under control,” the tall guy said. “Or we’ll do it for you.”

  Rosie barked now, bearing her teeth. The third guy, with a ball cap tucked down low on his forehead, slurred out, “Same thing goes for her.” He aimed a shaky finger at Khajee. “She’s a cute little ninja, isn’t she? Feisty. I like me a feisty gal.”

  I stepped toward them, shielding Khajee with my body. No way did I actually expect to talk my way out of it, but still I raised my hands and said, “We were having a little impromptu lesson. Just heading out.”

  The three of them stood shoulder to shoulder, making a wall, and the short one in boots said, “Lessons? Where do we sign up?”

  My eyes flashed across their faces to see if any were close to making the first move. I said, “Look. You’re all drunk, and there’s no need for this to turn nasty. You’re about to get hurt if you don’t drag your sorry butts back to the bar you crawled out of. Or even better, home to your ugly wives.”

  “Funny man,” the tall one said. He drained the last of his beer and gripped the empty bottle by the neck. His buddy with the ball cap pulled something from his back pocket. It was too dark to be sure, but I saw a glint of something metal and figured it for a knife. We all could feel it, the tension about to pop. Rosie was snapping like wild now, straining against her leash, and I turned my head sideways, keeping one eye on the crew. I told Khajee, “I’ll keep these jokers busy. You two make a break for it.”

  But Khajee bent down, patted Rosie on the head, and said loudly, “The answer is about seven inches.”

  “Come again now?” the tallest drunk said, head cocked. I had no idea what Khajee was talking about. The whole charged atmosphere had shifted.

  She stood and stepped around my protective arms. At my side with Rosie ahead of us, she said, “The needles they use. To treat rabies.”

  The three guys traded confused expressions.

  Khajee set a hand on her belly. “It’s actually a series of injections. Deep into the abdomen. Usually four to six over a period of weeks. Very painful from what I’ve been told.”

  Rosie tugged on her leash, her front legs pawing at the air. The guy with the ball cap backed up but the tall leader set a hand on his shoulder. “She’s full of it. That mutt ain’t got rabies.”

  “Probably not,” Khajee said. “But this dog was raised in a fighting pit, where her owners used to beat her. From the look of her, I’m guessing they smelled a lot like you.” Rosie’s jaw snapped madly at the air, and even in the alley’s half-light her teeth glistened. Khajee went down on one knee, let her hand trail the leash to where it attached to Rosie’s collar. She fingered the clasp. “She just needs to break the skin.”

  “Forget this,” the shortest one said as he backed away, still facing us.

  The leader said, “Come on Pete, don’t let this little —”

  Khajee lifted her hand and Rosie launched forward, bounding toward the men, barking ferociously. They practically fell over each other as they turned and ran. Rosie was right at their heels when they reached the street, and Khajee shouted, “Yùt!” Rosie came to a sudden stop. She trotted back to Khajee, licked her outstretched hand, and allowed Khajee to reattach her leash.

  It all happened so quickly, I didn’t have time to react. I said, “We should get out of here before they come back.”

  Khajee gave me a look. “Those cowards? They’re not coming back. But yeah, I need to check on Uncle.”

  We passed by a small huddle of patrons outside the bar and followed the cracked sidewalks through the neighborhood. Khajee was oddly quiet, given what just happened, and I said, “That was crazy back there. Where’d you come up with such a story?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, walking just in front of me. “Guess I’m a good liar.”

  “I’ll say,” I told her. “You practically had me convinced. But, you know, I had things under control.”

  She stopped and faced me. “No,” she said. “No you didn’t. There were three of them and they were drunk. There’s no way to have that situation under control. Anything could have happened.”

  Her expression was flat, her tone objective.

  “Come on,” I said. “I would’ve mopped the alley with those jerks. I could’ve taken them without breaking a sweat and that’s not even —”

  Khajee spun on one heel and marched away from me, pulling a reluctant Rosie. When I caught up to her, she didn’t look my way. “I can take care of myself,” she said. “This isn’t a fairy tale and I’m no damsel in distress.”

  “I didn’t say that you were,” I said, trying to defend myself. “What did you want me to do? Let them beat us?”

  She shook her head and increased her pace to put distance between us. I didn’t want to jog to keep up and make a scene, so I trailed her for a block. Traffic was heavy at a red light and she had to wait, and when I came alongside her she finally gave me an answer. “You saw absolutely no other alternative? Either they beat us or you beat them? You were practically egging them on, and you know it. Not every problem needs to be fixed with your fists, Mac.”

  The light turned green and the little walking man appeared on the street sign, but Khajee didn’t move. “I don’t know what it is with you guys,” she said. “Maybe violence is just in your blood or something.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “Come on,” she snapped. “What you said before, about fighting your father? You can’t even tell the difference between justice and revenge.”

  She looked at me then, waiting for some response. I couldn’t tell Khajee then that for years on the mat, when I was bludgeoning some wrestler, I imagined it was my father I was hurting. It was his arm I was cranking, his cheek I was forcing into the mat. So I stayed silent. And when she turned and crossed the street, I just stood where I was. Others passed me by, and soon the flow of people tugged me along.

  Fists in my pockets, I roamed by an all-night convenience store with a shoeless guy begging for change out front, and I walked past a couple leaving a fancy restaurant arguing about who forgot to make the reservation. There were young skateboarders practicing tricks in the cones of parking lot lights, a pack of evening joggers wearing neon-yellow safety vests. An ambulance screamed along the street, sirens wailing. All these things I took in, but mostly I was wrestling with Khajee’s words.

  Deep down in my blood, I knew I’d find my father’s DNA. Khajee hadn’t meant it quite so literally, but it made me wonder if I had any choice in who I was. If some genetic code had decided that my hair would be black, my eyes crystal blue, then how was this any different than other parts of me — my instincts, my temper? Maybe that’s why it’s so easy for me to steal a glimpse of the future sometimes, because all of it is already predetermined.

  My path back to the apartment was hardly a straight one. I took my time, wandering in that general direction as I tried to think things through. I had no answers for Khajee, but I’d decided that at least, as a start, I should apologize.

  But when I turned onto the street of her building, there was an ambulance out front, lights silently strobing red/white/red, backed up to Khajee’s place with the rear doors open. I charged into her apartment to find two paramedics kneeling over Than, lying on a stretcher on the living room floor. His eyes were closed. Khajee stood above them, crying, and the TV was on, playing the World Series of Poker.

  The paramedics positioned themselves front and back and lifted Than. I heard him groan low, but at least this was a sign of life. From the bedroom, Rosie barked wildly. “What happened?” I asked in the confusion.

  No one answered me and the paramedics carried Than through the door. Khajee grabbed her backpack and followed them, but paused long enough to get out, “When I got home, he was just on the floor.” Her green eyes were shiny with tears. She looked at the rug. “They said something about respiratory failure but can’t be sure. They’re
taking him to the ER.”

  At the open doorway, she paused and looked back at me. Beyond her, I could see inside the bright ambulance, where the paramedics were leaning over Than. Khajee rubbed her hands together and glanced side to side, like she was trying to find something she’d lost. Then she took a half step into me and asked, “Mac, could you come?”

  Hours later, we were sitting next to each other in the emergency room waiting area at Harrisburg Hospital. I’ve long had a phobia when it comes to hospitals, and I felt like I was holding my breath, diving deep underwater. But Khajee needed me, and I sucked it up. She sat next to me in the waiting room. In front of her was the full cup of coffee, cold and untouched, that I’d gotten earlier from the cafeteria.

  The wounded and sick wandered around us. A young dad paced with a wailing baby, a tubby businessman yelled into his cell phone right beneath a sign that forbid all cell phone use. A Latina woman sat calmly reading the newspaper with her swollen leg propped up on a table. The TV hanging in the corner was playing one of those shows where a panel of second-rate celebrities judge everyday people trying to break into showbiz. There was a guy juggling flaming rings while riding a unicycle, a team of three female magicians who changed themselves into men, and a Nebraska farm boy complete with overalls who broke into a rap about country life. He was a big hit.

  I caught Khajee smiling at him and said, “Think he could be a winner?”

  She shrugged. “He already won, if you ask me.” Restless, she pulled out her cell phone and glanced at the screen. Earlier, a nurse had explained that Than was out of immediate danger for now but was being admitted. They’d get us when we could see him. Right away Khajee texted somebody. I didn’t ask who, but I could tell she hadn’t heard back. She shoved her phone back in her pocket and stood. “What the hell’s taking so long? I’m going to go ask.”

  I set a hand gently on her arm. “There’s no point. Harassing them won’t get us an answer. All we can do now is wait.”