by John Locke
Z laughs. “You’re big, I’ll give you that. And you look tough, and talk tough.”
“And he’s got confidence,” Guy adds.
“He’s got that in spades,” Z agrees. “But Billy ain’t never been beat. And like I say, he’s half your age.”
I nod. “Thanks, guys.”
Guy says, “Wait. He’s got this move.” Then he demonstrates a left hook to the body, followed by a left hook to the chin.
“Thanks,” I say. “I’ll look for it.”
2.
I go through the door, see the boxing ring, and sure enough, there’s a guy in it beating some poor shlub half to death. You can see the other guy wants to quit, but his pride is keeping him in it. Billy King is taunting him.
“I’d love to see it go the other way just once,” a voice says, to my left.
I turn and see a frail young man of about thirty in a wheelchair. He looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t place him.
I nod.
“How you doing?” I say.
He smiles. “I’m all right. You here to fight Billy?”
“If he’s into it.”
He laughs. “Oh, he’ll be into it, all right.”
He reaches his hand up to shake mine. He’s about ten feet away, which means I’d have to walk over to him to take it.
“I don’t shake hands with strangers,” I say. “Nothing personal.”
“Oh,” he says. Then says, “What, you got a germ thing?” He pauses. “Or maybe you don’t like gimps.”
I don’t shake hands with strangers because it’s an easy way to get pulled into a knife they might have in their other hand, or the knee they might try to slam into my face. Or they might be able to pull me off balance, or hold me while their friends attack me from the back. There are a million reasons I don’t shake hands with strangers.
Only one of them is the germ thing.
So he got that one right. But he’s sort of right about the other as well, because I especially don’t shake hands with wheelchair-bound strangers. One of the deadliest men I’ve ever met is a wheelchair-bound midget named Victor. As I’ve learned over the years, a wheelchair can be wired with explosives and conceal any number of weapons. The guy could have a spray bottle filled with cyanide under the blanket that’s covering his legs. The guy could have a grenade launcher built into the arm rest. The guy could…well, you get the picture.
I tell the wheelchair guy, “I said it was nothing personal.”
“So you did,” he says.
Then he does something that completely surprises me. He gets to his feet and takes a few shaky steps toward me.
“Holy Jesus!” he says. “I can walk! It’s a miracle!” Then he makes a whispering sound like “Waaaauuu!” as if there are thousands of people applauding all around us. He stops, straightens up, does a quick little shadow dance that looks all knees and elbows.
“Jimmy Christmas,” he says, extending his hand. “Former Lightweight Champion, South Bronx Golden Gloves.”
I doubt this kid was the boxing champion of anything. I look at him and think he couldn’t beat up my breakfast. But why antagonize him? He seems a decent sort.
“Christmas?” I ignore the hand he’s holding between us, waiting for me to shake.
He flashes a toothy grin. “You love it, right?”
“Why Christmas?”
“Because,” he says, with a gleam in his eye, pausing to create a buildup. “Like Santa…I deliver the goods!”
He does that whispering “Waaaauuu!” sound again, like he’s in an arena and the crowd is cheering wildly.
“Why not call yourself Jimmy Santa?”
A hard look crosses his face. “You makin’ fun of my boxing name?”
“Not at all.”
“Sounds like you were.”
“If I were making fun of your name I’d tell you to call yourself Jimmy U.P.S.”
That throws him a second. Then he says, “Because UPS delivers?”
“That’s right. And because they’re into boxing in a big way.”
He frowns. “But you didn’t say that. About me being U.P.S.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“But you could have.”
Was he serious?
“Right. I could have said that. But didn’t.”
His eyes study my face a few seconds. Then he grins his toothy grin and says, “Tell you the truth, I like Jimmy Santa. You care if I use it?”
“Knock yourself out, Jimmy.”
He gives me another funny look. His hand is still hanging out there between us. I can’t imagine what sort of clue this kid needs before he understands I’m not going to shake his hand.
“What’s with the wheelchair?” I say.
Jimmy Santa shrugs, looks to either side, as if making sure no one’s listening. “I’m sorta runnin’ an insurance scam while I’m between fights.”
I think if he’s lucky he’ll be between fights a long time.
He says, “My brother’s Philip Ward.”
I finally make the connection.
“I saw you working Phil’s corner last year in Vegas,” I say. “Helluva fighter, your brother.”
He nods.
The room we’re in is set up like an auditorium, with four tiers that can accommodate about 200 chairs for a boxing event. Each tier is stepped down about twelve inches, which means we’re standing about five feet higher than the dozen or so guys at ringside, who watch as Billy circles his fallen prey. He’s shouting “Get up!” to a guy who can’t hear him. Most of the guys around the ring look sick to their stomachs. Probably friends of the poor bastard that’s had his ass handed to him.
“Billy’s good,” he says.
“Damn good,” I say.
“Could’ve been Cruiserweight Champion of the world, maybe,” Jimmy Santa says.
“Why isn’t he?”
“His father died and left him a successful company. Brokerage firm, he calls it. You know what that is?”
“I do.”
We watch the corner guys elevate Billy’s opponent. Jimmy says, “Tall one on the left?”
“Yeah?”
“Medical student.”
“He’s going to have his work cut out for him.”
Billy King’s walking back and forth on the far side of the ring like a caged tiger. He’s not just warmed up, he’s juiced. Steroids, probably. Or coke. He shouts, “Who’s next? Anyone else?”
“That your cue?” Jimmy says.
“It is.” I raise my hand and shout “Next!”
Jimmy says, “I s’pect my brother could handle Billy.”
“I s’pect you’re right.”
“Not many others could.”
“I’ll handle him,” I say.
Jimmy smiled. “You look a bit long in the tooth, you don’t mind my sayin’.”
I smile. “Nice to meet you.”
I turn and walk toward the ring a few steps, then stop and turn back to him. Jimmy’s hand is still extended. I walk back to him and take it.
“Donovan Creed,” I say.
Jimmy smiles broadly. “Jimmy Santa,” he says.
“Former Lightweight Champion, South Bronx Golden Gloves,” I say.
“Waaauuu!” he whisper-shouts.
I start heading toward the ring to meet Billy “the Kid” King up close and personal.
“Wait a minute,” Jimmy says.
I turn my head.
“He’s got this move,” Jimmy says, demonstrating a right cross that flies halfway toward an imaginary target, then hesitates, before snapping forward.
“Check hook,” I say.
Jimmy gives me a “thumbs-up.” Then he says, “You want me to work your corner?”
I shake my head.
“Why not?” he says.
“It’s not going to last that long.”
3.
I step down the levels until I’m at ringside. Billy sees me standing there with my gym bag. He trots over, spits on the canvass, and rub
s his crotch.
Apparently Billy King has a lot of moves.
“Who the fuck’re you?” he says, leaning over the ropes, leering down at me.
“Donovan Creed.”
“Donovan? Donovan?” He looks around for approval. “What’re you, gay?”
“Compensatory displacement.”
“What?”
I looked at my watch. “I hate to rush you, but can we move this along? I’ve got someplace to be.”
His nostrils flared, and his eyes were wild. He was definitely on something. Crack, maybe, or PCP. But if PCP, he was simply fortified with it, not completely whacked. I saw a six-foot-five, three hundred pound guy in a bar once in New Orleans who was so high on PCP, when a cop came in to arrest him, he broke a bottle and used it to gouge his own eye out. Then he started laughing and stripped off all his clothes, jumped onto a table top and defecated. It took the cop a full minute to realize what he’d just witnessed. He looked at the bloody eye socket, the steaming pile of shit, then turned and ran out the door, gagging. He practically vomited his spleen out in the parking lot. By the time he finished puking, all the other bar folk, including the bartender, were vomiting alongside him. Which made it just two people inside the bar: me, and the naked, one-eyed, three-hundred-pound table shitter.
I had a helluva time kicking that guy’s ass.
Billy, though highly skilled, would be a walk in the park compared to him.
“If you’ve got gloves in that bag, put ’em on,” Billy King says. “’Cos I’m not just gonna whip your ass, I’m gonna make you my bitch.”
“Compensatory displacement,” I say.
“Stop saying that. What are you, retarded?”
“You can wear gloves if you think you need them,” I say, “to protect your hands. Of course, I don’t plan to hit your hands.”
“You can’t fight in the ring without gloves,” he says.
“Why not?”
“What do you mean, ‘why not?’ They got rules,” he sputtered.
“Then climb out of the ring and fight me here.”
He glanced at the activity in the opposite corner. The med student was checking over the guy on the stool. Billy King turned his attention back to me and stared at me as if he were inspecting a bug he’d crushed under his shoe.
“What’s in the bag?” he says.
I hold it open so he can see the pen and single sheet of paper. I remove them and hold the paper up to him.
“The fuck is that?” he says.
I notice Guy and Z have entered the room and are standing by the doors.
“Don’t mind us,” Guy calls out. “We just want to watch.”
I nod.
“What’s it say on the paper?” Billy repeats.
“It’s a release. And down here on the left is where we’ll get the witnesses to sign.”
“A release for what?”
“In case I kill you by mistake.”
“You? Kill me?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“I could shit you for breakfast!” he says.
I wait.
He says, “Are you fuckin’ serious? Because I will flat fuck you up! I’ll make you my plaything! You’ll be doin’ my laundry, pretty boy, and takin’ it in the ass when I come home after a hard day’s work.”
“So…you gonna sign it or what?” I say.
He yells at the men in the opposite corner. “Get that bitch outta my ring, and get this old motherfucker—”
He looks at me and says, “What are you, forty?”
“I’d rather not say. I’m sensitive about my age.”
“—Get this old motherfucker a pair of gloves.”
4.
There are a number of rules for winning a fist fight. Chief among them is, don’t fight your opponent the way he wants to fight you. I put the release back in my bag, hop onto the lip of the ring, slide under the ropes. Then get to my feet and stand directly in front of Billy “the Kid” King.
“I’m not fighting you without gloves,” he says.
“It’s quicker to take yours off than wrap my hands.”
“You might get in a lucky punch. It’s not fair.”
“You might get in a lucky punch. I’m willing to take the risk.”
“You tryin’ to make me look bad? In my own gym?” he shouts, and launches his lightning-fast left jab.
I may be twice his age, but I’m light years faster. I can see it’s a feint. I can tell it’s going to stop an inch from my right eye. He’s throwing it to make me flinch. But I don’t flinch. I don’t even blink. Instead, I say, “Compensatory displacement is when you substitute something for the thing you don’t have.”
“What?”
“The thing that makes you feel inferior.”
“Oh yeah? And what’s that, smart guy?”
“You lack courage. So you overcompensate by calling me names you think will emasculate me.”
“I’ll show you courage!” he says, and throws a left hook with bad intentions. I lift my right arm and catch his gloved fist in my hand, the same way Jack Johnson used to taunt his opponents. Then, in one quick motion, I release his glove, slap his face, then grab his glove again. He tries to pull it away, but I don’t allow it. Then I release his glove again, and slap his face again. The guys in the corner start snickering.
Billy isn’t snickering. He doesn’t like what’s happening. Doesn’t like it at all. When he shifts his feet I see his plan. He’s going to shove me, get me off balance, then finish me with an overhand right. But I side-step him, grab his arm, and use his momentum to hurl him into the ropes. He bounces off and comes at me, forgetting his jab. Throws a roundhouse right, but can’t find me because...
Because I’m on my back, on the floor, snaking my legs between his ankles so fast he doesn’t have time to regain his balance. I spin my body, and Billy “the Kid” King hits the canvass, face first. I jump to my feet and wait for him to do the same, but he lays there, stone cold. I turn him over and tell the guys who were working the corner earlier to elevate him so he doesn’t choke on the blood from his broken nose.
I slide under the ropes, hop out of the ring. Jimmy, grinning ear to ear, meets me there and says, “…And new Cruiserweight Champion of the World!” Then does that “Waaauuu!” thing again.
I open my bag, pull out the picture I took of Miranda Rodriguez yesterday, when I saw her bandaged face. I skitter the picture across the canvass to where the guys are working on Billy King.
“When he comes to,” I say, “show him the picture and tell him to stay away from her.” I stare at them until one of the guys nods.
I say, “Tell Billy I come to New York City four times a year.”
The guy nods again, says, “Okay.”
I say, “Then tell him every time I come here, for the rest of my life, I’m going to find him and break his nose again.”
“Jesus!” the guy says.
5.
When I enter the room, Miranda Rodriguez looks at her watch.
“You’re late, Mr. Creed. Punctuality says a lot about a person.”
“I’m sorry. I had some business across town.”
I take the chair opposite her and notice she’s studying me. I say, “I hope you don’t mind my dressing casual today. I tried to squeeze in a workout, and hadn’t anticipated the traffic.”
“Manhattan traffic is legendary. As often as you come to the city, I should think you’d know what to expect.”
I put my hands up. “Guilty. Sorry to keep you waiting.” I look at my watch and frown. “Not to be critical,” I say, “but I’m only two minutes late.”
She smiles wistfully and says, “Some people live a lifetime in two minutes.”
“Oh yeah? Name one.”
She says, “Are we contentious today?”
“Possibly. How’s your nose?”
“Broken. But better, thanks for asking.”
“And you still won’t tell me who hit you?”
“No.
”
“Why?”
She sighs. “You have a classic hero complex. I have no doubt but what you’d run off and try to hurt the man, and possibly get yourself hurt in the process. Neither of those events would please me, and neither would change what happened.”
“It might prevent him from doing it to someone else.”
“I’ve filed an assault report. I’m sure the police will track him down and take him in for questioning.”
“And what if he comes after you because you filed the police report?”
“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”
“I could prevent all that,” I say.
“Thank you, Donovan. Truly. I know you mean well, but your tendency toward violence is something I don’t approve of. Speaking of which, have you thought about what I said yesterday about compensatory displacement?”
“I have. I even managed to use it in a sentence this morning.”
“Excellent,” Miranda says. She pauses. “What would you like to talk about today?”
“Tell me about this hero complex disorder.”
She nods. “Well, let me start by saying it’s not a disorder. Not officially.”
“But you think it should be.”
“I do. In extreme cases.”
“Let me guess: you consider me an extreme case.”
“I do. Nothing personal.”
“Can you explain it to me?”
“I can try,” she says. “The person with a hero complex has a compulsion to save people. Or rescue, or protect them.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“In extreme cases, he or she actually believes they’re making the world safe from some type of perceived threat that only they can prevent.”
“I still fail to see the problem. Seems if there were more of us, the world would be a safer place.”
She smiles. “Please note my use of the word ‘compulsion.’ It’s one thing to help others because you want to.”
“I want to.”
“Do you, Donovan? Or do you feel compelled to help them?”
“What’s the difference? If people need to be helped, or rescued, someone’s got to do it.”
“Do they?”
“Well, don’t they?”
“No, they don’t.”
