Mackenzie August Boxset 2

by Alan Lee

  “Violence is its own reward?” I said.

  Manny tossed Toby his pair of training gloves.

  “Don’t get Mack’s blood on them, por favor.”

  I nodded at the old guy operating the bell and timer. “Three rounds. Five minutes each.”

  Dexter made a snickering sound. “Bitch, need for round two, my guess.”

  That didn’t bode well for me.

  Maybe Manny should shoot them instead.

  I was barefoot and I began some light hopping, transferring weight one foot to the other.

  Was I a betting man, I wouldn’t know where to place my money. Toby hurt people as a career. However I used to fight in cage matches in Los Angeles. Toby might be in better shape but I had a couple inches and twenty pounds on him. A bad loss was within the realm of probability.

  So why was I fighting? Good question. Maybe someone smarter could tell me.

  It had something to do with pride. Something to do with genitalia comparison. But more than that, it had to do with Ronnie. She’d stood up to these guys. She taken their punches and survived. So I could too.

  If I couldn’t, I didn’t deserve her.

  And if I didn’t fight him now, Toby would know he’d won. And he’d kill me soon. So it was about Ronnie but also about survival.

  Big Will caught my eye. He stood behind Dexter, arms crossed, and he gave me a slow nod. Maybe he didn’t like these big swinging dicks coming to town and threatening everyone either. I was the lesser of two pains in the ass.

  The crowd around the ring was three people deep in places. They knew. Something wicked was afoot.

  The bell rang.

  Toby came out in a closed boxing stance. Fists balled near his face.

  I did a little more hopping, moving around the ring away from him, shaking my hands a little. Sweating.

  “Get off your bicycle, piece of shit,” said Toby. “This won’t hurt long."

  He closed.

  I dropped into a shallow squat, a forward stance.

  Because it was the only kind I’d ever learned.

  He threw a right and I understood immediately that I was gonna win, if I didn’t make a mistake.

  He should have led with some probing jabs using his left hand. See what I could do with them, see if I was any good, discover who was quicker. But instead he gathered behind his right hand. Put all his weight into it, trying to kill me with one shot. Swing for the fences. Powerful but slow. Pure arrogance.

  I took his fist on the meaty part of my left shoulder, and it staggered me to the side. Painful but no damage done.

  It made a good sound and he grinned with satisfaction.

  Toby had never been trained. An experienced fighter never underestimates his opponent. Toby was tough and cruel and unafraid of violence and pain, but there’d been no rigorous practice behind it. He was the kind of guy who hurt people by intimidating and overpowering them. He’d break the hands of lesser men by squeezing. He’d smack them around because people would let him, even tougher guys. Toby was a bull. Bulls didn’t need practice, they assumed.

  But anyone watching who knew their stuff, they knew immediately he wasn’t skilled.

  He got behind another right hook, feeling smug.

  My left hand darted out and smacked him. Kind of a jab, too quick for Toby.

  I danced backwards and came in again, another smack.

  He tried a right hook again—his tried and true bread and butter, never let him down before. But it missed and he stumbled.

  He was off balance so I came with a flurry of slaps. One, two, three, hard hands to the skull that stung.

  The crowd laughed.

  Why slaps? Because I wanted him embarrassed.

  His face began to swell from open-handed impacts.

  Like Ronnie’s had.

  He wasn’t a mixed martial arts fighter, he was a brawler. No, he wasn’t even that—he was a puncher. Powerful but inaccurate.

  Toby lunged suddenly and fought like mad. Short crisp shots I absorbed on my arms and shoulders. He was strong and my body would ache tomorrow.

  I raised up my right knee, got my foot into his chest, and did a front push kick. Like a battering ram. He was thrown backwards hard enough to land on his neck.

  The crowd loved it.

  “Down goes Toby,” I said, like Howard Cosell. “Down goes Toby.”

  He grunted.

  Manny clapped Dexter on the shoulder.

  I panted. Toby was gasping.

  “Fight’s over,” I said. “As soon as you surrender.”

  I could have landed on him. He didn’t know a thing about mat work. But that wasn’t sexy.

  He got to his feet and said, “Fuck you,” dragging out the F sound.

  I took control of the match. Closed the distance and began hammering him. He wanted to counter but I kept circling to his left, away from the one arrow in his quiver, the big right. He didn’t know what to do with my kicks and soon he hurt everywhere. He landed a good kidney punch, powerful enough to fracture ribs, and one shot to my ear that hurt like hell.

  But soon he was bleeding from the mouth, nose, and eyes. He moved heavily, holding his side, and tried to stay away from me. After four minutes he had no oxygen and couldn’t keep his hands up.

  “You’re a thug, Toby,” I told him between wheezes. “Not a fighter.”

  I hit him one final right cross and he dropped to his knees. Dazed. Probably a concussion.

  “Sit, Toby, sit.”

  My hands hurt. I should’ve ended him. That was the point of fighting like this. Knock out or force a submission.

  But I stayed back, feeling good and dancing on the balls of my feet. Besides, I was a pacifist. Sorta. Jesus never punched guys in the head.

  Toby had trouble focusing. Couldn’t get up.

  A couple of the old guys, the patriarchs of the MMA club, came into the ring waving their hands. The bell clanged. Fight was over. A technical knock out.

  “Get back,” said Toby, but it sounded like “Gebbag.” He tried to push them aside but had no muscle power.

  I went to the ropes and Manny gave me water.

  Big Will nodded approval and went back to his jump rope.

  I told Dexter, “Your boy didn’t last one round.”

  Dexter refused to speak, the sore loser.

  “If you tell Darren Robbins about this,” I said between deep breaths. “Can you make it so we’re in a dark alley? And I’m shirtless? And wearing a fedora? That would paint a more dramatic visual in Darren’s mind, I think.”

  Manny grinned and squeezed Dexter’s shoulder in a kind of side hug.

  “And me,” said Manny. “I want to be wearing a cowboy hat and drinking a margarita. With a pretty señorita who got ass. This okay? When you tell your jefe?”

  Dexter glared murder.

  23

  Kix and I were spending the morning together. We ate a lazy breakfast and watched Sesame Street and knocked over towers of blocks. Afterwards I set him on the floor of my bedroom while I examined myself in the mirror, shirtless.

  My ribs ached when I inhaled and they were a dark purple. The contusion was near a scar I earned during a knife fight with a guy named Silva last year. Also my ear was bruised where the pinna connected to the skull—hopefully no cauliflower cartilage would manifest. I had an appearance to maintain.

  Stupid Toby.

  Kix watched me curiously and without judgement. Which was meritorious of him.

  I was applying a dab of Neosporin when Ronnie called. I put her on speaker.

  “Hello Mackenzie. I’m taking you to dinner tonight.”

  “In Virginia Beach?”

  She said, “I’m driving to Roanoke this afternoon, leading a caravan of girls caught in human trafficking. Did you know we have something in Roanoke called Street Ransom that assists at-risk women? Provides them with a place to stay. Who knew. I might give them gobs of money.”

  “I did not know this.”

  “I return to the
beach tomorrow morning, but that provides you ample time to wine and dine me this evening. I promise to be pliable and willing and contributory,” she said.

  “It’s a date.”

  “That gives me tingles. A real date?”

  “I’ll wear cologne and a sports jacket.”

  “Not for long.”

  I got to Frankie Rowlands at 6:30pm

  Ronnie arrived eleven minutes later, preceded by Fat Susie. There was no gasp from the bar when she walked in, but rather the opposite—the noise level diminished. A naturally breath-taking woman in the prime of her life, in peak physical condition, in heels and a form-fitting crimson dress and iridescent diamonds, and her honey hair in an updo…well, that was worth pausing to admire.

  And so I did.

  Along with everyone else.

  “Mackenzie,” she said.

  “Sun goddess,” I replied. Fat Susie and I shook hands and I said, “Thanks for bringing her home safe.”

  “I ain’t do much. Your girl can kick ass.”

  “Thank you, Reginald. Wait at the bar?” she said.

  He complied.

  The hostess took us to our table, one with a white tablecloth and candle. Frankie Rowlands was the kind of place you only went if you had three hundred dollars to blow before dessert and you limited yourself to one libation. The walls were genuine wood, the paintings were original, and the snootiness was authentic.

  She smiled at Ronnie and whispered, “Your dress is heavenly,” and left.

  I got Ronnie’s chair and she said, “Do you like it?”

  “Your celestial dress? I am aggressively fond of it. Is it new?”

  “Purchased not an hour ago, from PS Freedom. I changed in the boutique’s dressing room,” she said.

  “I might call you a thing divine, for nothing natural I ever saw so noble.”

  “Are you quoting a poem?”

  “Yes but botching it,” I said and I sat across from her.

  “As long as you insinuate I’m ravishing.”

  “That and every other superlative I can fathom.”

  I ordered an Old Fashioned and she ordered a pineapple martini, and when the drinks came the couple at the adjacent table raised their glasses in toast. They looked seventy-ish and had the air of money about them.

  The man said, “You two are damned attractive. God bless you.”

  I lifted my drink to him.

  The woman told Ronnie, “You, dear, are as pretty as old women like me pretend we used to be.”

  Ronnie smiled at her (despite being in the periphery, I was nearly melted) and said, “You’re the sweetest, thank you. This is our first official date, although I’ve been after him for over a year. Wish me luck.”

  The woman glowered at me. “If tonight doesn’t go well, you’re a fool.”

  “A damned fool,” her husband agreed.

  “So much pressure. Now I’m nervous.”

  “Don’t be,” said Ronnie. “I’m a foregone conclusion.”

  Human beings can’t glow. But I swore she intensified the purity of color in the room.

  Our salads came and she told me about her time at the beach, finding the mistreated girls and locating safe shelters for them. It involved barging into a senator’s office in Richmond.

  I regaled her with my last few days, and she lowered her fork to her salad plate.

  She asked, “You fought Toby? Toby Moreno.”

  “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Good question. He showed up looking for trouble,” I said.

  “You won?”

  “That’s a tad insulting.”

  She finished her drink and set it down. She leaned backwards and watched me. I, on the other hand, didn’t know where to look, with her bright eyes, sparkling earrings, cami straps and plunging neckline. She said, “You beat Toby Moreno in a fight.”

  “Naturally.”

  “I don’t understand you. Sometimes I think I do, but…who or what are you, Mackenzie? Toby is elite. One of the world’s true scary guys. He kills people.”

  The lady at the adjacent table made a soft gasp.

  I believe she was eavesdropping, the nosey nellie.

  Ronnie didn’t detect the spy or didn’t care. “Television shows about organized crime, like Sopranos or The Wire. They’re based around Toby, or people like him. He’s an enforcer. And you beat him?”

  I shrugged modestly.

  “He took his victory for granted. Made him over-confident.”

  “You have no bruises or marks, at least not on your face,” she said.

  “He mostly hit my arms. Bad aim, the nincompoop. My ear hurts, though.”

  “That means you’re the best of the best. At…what, violence? Sometimes I think you’re this gentle giant who wouldn’t hurt a fly and then…I remember you’re scary.”

  “Strength of character can take the appearance of the capacity for destruction, which from a distance is scary.”

  Ronnie said, “You could make more money working for the underworld, Mackenzie.”

  “Maybe. But yuck.”

  “Because of your admiration for Jesus?”

  “That’s a big part of it. I need help sleeping at night as it is, without actively destroying my soul. I connect on a seismic level with God’s command to Adam and Eve.”

  “Which was?”

  “Go into the world and subdue it. Bring order to the chaos,” I said. “Not the other way round.”

  The lady next to us cleared her throat and dabbed at her mouth with a napkin.

  “Like your house on Windsor,” said Ronnie. “Inside I always feel sheltered from chaos.”

  “By intention.”

  “What about law enforcement?”

  “Tried it. Too many rules. Too many cell phones,” I said. “Too many traffic tickets. And less money.”

  The server brought our food and asked if Ronnie would like another pineapple martini.

  “Please,” she said and her eyes twinkled at me. “I’m not much of a drinker. But some nights are worth celebrating.”

  “As are some dresses.”

  “And the girl in the dress?”

  “Worth an entire festival of jubilee.”

  We tucked in, though she did it with class and aplomb.

  My filet was worth celebrating too.

  She asked, “When is your big convening with Marcus and Darren?”

  “Saturday evening.”

  “Are you scared?”

  “A little,” I said. “More like impatient. After the hootenanny I’ll be dead or you’ll be free.”

  “I’m already free. Freer than I’ve ever felt. I’ve been calling certain former clients. Though I was forced into relationship with them, a handful were kind and they assumed certain truths which are false. They’re being hurt and it’s not their fault—it’s Darren’s. I’m cutting them loose personally. Ergo, my freedom."

  “Ergo,” I said. “I love good vocab on a woman.”

  She raised her second martini glass, now half empty, and said, “It’s the pineapple. Whooooo, it’s strong. And I’m a lightweight.”

  “What will you do about your personal clients?” I asked. “Those not foist upon you by Darren and your father.”

  She was no longer eating and her eyes were shinning a little stronger. Due to vodka and pineapple. “I don’t know. I’m still novice at being a fully functional adult. Why would I cut off personal clients? I’m treated well. They’re lonely and I make their life better. In function, I’m basically Mother Teresa.”

  “There’s a fundamental difference in providing care for the infirm and providing your body for the, ah, horny.”

  She said, “Tell me the difference. I’m so lost in it all I truly can’t pinpoint the issue.”

  “I have no authority or right to pontificate on the matter. I’m a newbie too.”

  “Please?”

  “In my opinion, the body and spirit are not separate. By allowing other men your body, you’re giving
them access to your core. On some level, you two belong to each other.”

  “That makes sense. I think,” she said. Her words weren’t slurred but I could tell she had to work harder than usual. “I trust you on this entirely.”

  “How would you feel if I dated other women?”

  “I would die.”

  “Do you see?”

  “I’m not dating these men. It’s a business transaction,” she said and she finished the martini.

  I said, “Not to them. You told me you act as their girlfriend. For a price.”

  “An extremely high price, Mackenzie. There are only two regulars. And one of the guys, he owns an NBA team.”

  “If you don’t want to stop, then don’t. I’m not asking you to,” I said.

  “Why aren’t you asking me to? I feel like you should. But it might be the martini talking. Dammit, I should not have had so much. These are strong.”

  At the moment, as if choreographed, our server brought her another drink, which was I thought presumptuous.

  “Oh I shouldn’t,” said Ronnie.

  Our server said, “On the house. The manager tonight wishes you to know she believes you to be the most beautiful woman and the pair of you the most beautiful couple she’s ever seen.”

  I stood corrected. Not presumptuous but rather perspicacious to a high degree.

  “Okay,” said Ronnie. “But only a little. To be polite.”

  The server nodded with severe appreciation and left.

  “Tell me,” she said. “Why haven’t you asked me to stop? Shouldn’t you?”

  “Have you read Dostoevsky’s Letters from the Underground?” I asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Is that so?”

  “No, Mackenzie,” she said with kind of a half snort. “God, no one reads these things but you. But I’ll listen and watch your lips as you explain it.”

  “In the story, there’s a wretched man who wants to feel noble and so he promises to save a prostitute from her life of sin. She takes him at his word and shows up at his house. But he cannot save her. He was merely being self-righteous and selfish. It ruins them both even further.”