Enough Rope

by Lawrence Block

  “That’s not funny.”

  “Just jivin’ you some,” he said. “Keisha, I gonna be fine. All I’s gonna do is win one fight and get a title shot, then win one more and get my third belt.”

  “And take how many punches in the process?”

  “Molina can’t punch worth a damn,” he said. “Walk through his punches, all’s I gotta do.”

  “You think Ali didn’t say the same thing?”

  “It may not have been the punches he took,” Marty put in. “They can’t prove that’s what did it.”

  “And can you prove it isn’t?” She turned to her husband. “And Floyd Patterson,” she said. “You don’t think he got the way he is from taking too many punches? And that Puerto Rican boy, collapsed in his third professional bout and never regained consciousness.”

  “That there was a freak thing,” Darnell said. “Ring ropes was too loose, and he got knocked through ’em and hit his head when he fell. Like gettin’ struck by lightin’, you know what I’m sayin’? For all it had to do with bein’ in a boxin’ ring.”

  If the boy hadn’t been in the ring, she thought, then he couldn’t have got knocked out of it.

  “You worry too much,” Darnell said, and gathered her in his arms. “Part of bein’ a woman, I guess. Part of bein’ a man’s gettin’ the job done.”

  “I just don’t want you hurt, Darnell.”

  “You just don’t want to miss the lovin’,” he said, “the whole last month of training. That’s what it is, girl, innit?”

  “Darnell—”

  “All that doin’ without,” he said, “just make it sweeter afterward. You think about that, help you get through the waitin’ time.”

  “Tell her,” Darnell said. “Tell Keisha how it went.”

  “He had a brain scan and an MRI,” Marty told her. “This was to make you happy, because he had a scan after his last fight and there was no medical reason for another one.”

  “He’s been slurring his words,” she said. “Don’t you call that a reason?”

  “He sounds the same as ever to me,” Marty said.

  “Maybe you don’t listen.”

  “And maybe you listen too hard.”

  “Hey,” Darnell said. “Maybe I gets a little mushmouth some of the time. Sometimes my lips be a little puffy.” He tapped his head. “Don’t mean anything’s messed up inside.”

  “All the punches you’ve taken—”

  “Let me tell you something about the punches,” he said. “Gettin’ hit upside the head? Nine times, you don’t even feel it. It don’t hurt. Body shots, a man keeps beating on your ribs, man, that’s a different story. Hurts when he does it and hurts the next day and the day after. Head shots? Don’t mean nothin’ at all. Why you lookin’ at me like that?”

  “Nine times.”

  “Huh?”

  “ ‘Nine times, you don’t even feel it.’ That’s what you just said.”

  “So?”

  “Nine times out of ten, you meant.”

  “What I said.”

  “No, you just said ‘nine times.’ “

  “Well, shit,” he said. “You tellin’ me you didn’t know what I meant?”

  “I’m telling you what you said. You left out some words there.”

  “Man, there’s a sign,” he said heavily. “I must have brain damage, leavin’ out ‘out of ten’ like that.”

  “It’s cumulative, Darnell.”

  “What you talkin’ now?”

  “Punches to the head, the effect is cumulative. Even if you barely feel them—”

  “Which I just said I don’t.”

  “—they add up, and you reach a point where every punch you take does real damage. It’s irreversible, you can’t turn it back, and once you see signs—”

  “Which there ain’t yet.”

  “If you’re slurring words,” she said, “then we’re seeing signs.”

  “What happens,” he said, grinning, “my tongue gets in the way of my teeth an’ I can’t see what I’m sayin’. Why you lookin’ at me like that?”

  “Your tongue gets in the way of your eyeteeth,” she said, “and you can’t see what you’re saying.”

  “What I just said.”

  “Except you left out ‘eye,’ “ she said. “You said your tongue got in the way of your teeth, and that doesn’t mean anything.”

  “But you know what I meant.”

  “And I also know what you said.”

  “Damn,” he said. “We just had the tests. Didn’t have to, had ’em strictly to keep you happy, and look at you. You ain’t happy!”

  Marty said, “What’s that, a Coke? You want something stronger?”

  “This is fine.”

  “Because you’re not in training. You can have a real drink, if you want.”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “Well, I want a drink,” he said, and ordered vodka on the rocks. “I’ll tell you,” he said, “I won’t pretend I wanted to be having this conversation, but we ought to have it. Because you really got to cut the guy some slack, Keisha.”

  “I’ve got to cut him some slack?”

  “Molina’s style is tailor-made for Darnell,” Marty said, “just like he says it is. You look at tapes of his fights, that jumps right out at you. But that doesn’t mean this is gonna be a walk in the park. Molina’s ten years younger.”

  “Eleven. He’s twenty-six and Darnell turned thirty-seven last month.”

  “Can we compromise? Call it ten and a half?” His smile was disarming. “Keisha, what I’m getting at, he should have training on his mind and nothing else, and what he’s got is you hammering away at him, telling him he’s slurring his words. He’s training hard, he’s tired by the end of the day, and is it any wonder his speech might be the least bit blurry? Time the day’s done, I’m slurring my own words, come to that.”

  “Just let him see a doctor,” she said.

  “Keisha, he saw one. He had a scan and an MRI, remember?”

  “A doctor to test his speech,” she said. “There’s a specialist, I wrote the name down. All Darnell has to do is sit down and talk with him, and he can tell whether there’s been any damage.”

  Marty was shaking his head. “We looked at the brain waves,” he said, “and he got a clean bill of health. No evidence of damage.”

  “Or proof there hasn’t been any.”

  “You can’t prove a negative. There’s no evidence of any organic brain damage, Keisha, and he’s been pronounced okay to fight by experts. You sit him down, have some quack listen to his speech and measure how his tongue moves, and it’s a judgment call on his part, got nothing to do with anything you can put your finger on. And if he gets it into his head that there’s something wrong, the fight’s off. Doesn’t matter that your expert turns out to be full of crap. The fight’s off and Darnell’s chance at a third belt’s down the toilet.”

  “He doesn’t need a third belt.”

  “He wants it, Keisha.”

  “And you? What do you want, Marty?”

  “I want him to have a shot.”

  She looked at him. “The money doesn’t mean a thing to you,” she said.

  “Not as much as it means to Darnell,” he said. “His fight with Molina’s on the pay-per-view undercard. He’s getting eighty thousand dollars for it, Keisha. He’s had title bouts where he didn’t get that.”

  “We don’t need the money.”

  “That’s not how he sees it. What he sees is he can stand in there for ten rounds and put eighty grand in his pocket.”

  “Minus your cut, and training camp expenses, and everything else that takes a bite out of his check.”

  “Including taxes, which gets a lot more of his money than I do, and a lot more of mine, too. But ten rounds is what, thirty-nine minutes, start to finish? You do the numbers, Keisha, you’re the one’s good at numbers, but it’s better than anybody ever made bagging groceries at the Safeway.”

  She looked at him. He met her gaze, then
picked up his drink and drained it.

  “And if he gets past Molina,” he said, “which he will, and it probably won’t take all ten rounds, either, I can get him a title shot, prolly WBO but it could be WBC, and for that he’ll make close to a million. And if he wins it, which there’s no reason why he can’t, then he’s a man won three different belts in three different weight categories, and he’s that much more desirable when it comes to endorsements and public appearances, because that’s the only way you can make any money after you hang the gloves up. You show up at a dinner, you make a little speech—”

  “How’s he going to make a speech,” she demanded, “if he can’t talk straight?”

  “He sounds fine to me,” Marty said. “Maybe you got ears like a dog, hear things I don’t, but he sounds perfectly fine to me. And nobody is gonna expect him to perform Shakespeare. All they want is for him to show up, three-time champion of the world, sign some autographs, and pose for some snapshots. Keisha, all this is beside the point. It’s what he wants, this fight and the fight after. Then he’ll quit winners and hang ’em up.”

  “Will he?”

  “He’ll have no choice,” he said. “I’ll insist on it. I’ll tell him I’m quitting him, and he’ll have to quit.”

  “You could do that now.”

  “There’s no reason.”

  “I already told you the reason, Marty. His head’s the reason. All those punches he’s taken, aren’t they enough of a reason?”

  “The man’s never been knocked down.”

  “That Cuban fighter, had all those tattoos—”

  “You didn’t let me finish. The man’s never been down from a blow to the head. The Cuban kid, what the hell was his name, they coulda called him the Human Sketchpad—”

  “Was it Vizcacho?”

  “Vizcacho, yes, and he had a funny first name. Filomeno, something like that. That was a shot to the liver put Darnell down, and that’s a punch’ll floor anybody, it lands right, and what did he do, Darnell? Got up, took an eight count, and hit Vargas hard enough to erase half his tattoos. Knocked him out, remember?”

  “I remember.”

  “He’s lost four fights, Darnell, his entire career. One early decision, it was the other kid’s hometown, no way on earth we were gonna get a decision there. You didn’t see that fight, Keisha, it was before you were in the picture, but believe me, we got robbed.” He shrugged. “It happens. It still pisses me off, but that’s the kind of shit that happens. He lost that fight, and he lost a decision to Armando Chaco that could have gone either way, and he was stopped twice. Once was a head butt, the other fighter couldn’t continue, and they went to the scorecards and two judges had the other kid ahead.” He closed his eyes, shook his head. “The other was when he lost the 160-pound title, and you couldn’t argue with it. Darnell was taking way too much punishment, and the ref was right to step in.”

  “That’s not how you felt at the time.”

  “Darnell wanted to go on, and he’s my fighter. I got to want what he wants. But we looked at the films afterward, and we both agreed it was the right thing, stopping it. Look, Keisha, do you have to make it harder for him? He’s gonna have this fight, and one more for the title. He’s got his hands full training for it. Why give him a hard time?”

  “Gee, I don’t know, Marty. Maybe because I love him.”

  “You think I don’t? Keisha, don’t be like that. Sit down, have another Coke, a real drink, whatever. Listen, Darnell’s gonna be fine.”

  She started to say something, but what was there to say? She kept on walking.

  She was seated at ringside when he fought Rubén Molina.

  At first she hadn’t intended to be there. “I can’t watch,” she told him. “I can’t.”

  “But you always there,” he said. “You my good luck, don’t you know that? How’m I gonna get in the ring, my good luck charm ain’t there?”

  She didn’t believe she brought him luck, wasn’t sure she believed in luck at all. But if he believed it . . .

  She kept opening and closing her eyes. She couldn’t watch, couldn’t not watch. Every time Molina landed to Darnell’s head, she felt the impact in the pit of her stomach. Molina didn’t have much of a jab, he just stuck it out and groped with it, but he had an overhand right that he sometimes led with, and he was able to land it effectively.

  In the third round, one of those right-hand leads snapped Darnell’s head back, and he grinned to show it hadn’t hurt. Fighters did that all the time, she knew, and it always indicated the opposite of what they intended.

  Darnell stayed with his fight plan, working the body, punishing Molina relentlessly with hooks to the rib cage. In time, she knew, the body blows would get to Molina, taking the spring out of his legs and the power out of his punches, but meanwhile he kept landing that right, and Keisha winced every time he threw it, whether it landed or not.

  Couldn’t watch, couldn’t not watch . . .

  Midway through the sixth round, Darnell double-jabbed, then missed with a big left hook. Molina hit him with a right hand and put him on the canvas. She gasped—the whole crowd gasped, it seemed like—and he was up almost before the referee started counting, insisting it was a slip. He was off balance, that much was true, but it was a punch that put him down, and he had to take a count of eight, had to meet the ref’s eyes, had to assure the man that yes, he was fine, yes, he wanted to keep fighting. Hell, yes.

  He kept his jab in Molina’s face for the rest of the round, and hurt him with body shots, but Molina landed an uppercut during a rare clinch and it snapped Darnell’s head back. And there was another right hand at the bell, caught Darnell flush, and she saw his eyes right before the ref sprang between the two fighters.

  The doctor came over to the corner between rounds, said something to Darnell and to Marty, shined a flashlight in Darnell’s eyes. The ref came over to listen in. Oh, stop it, she wanted to shout, but she knew they weren’t going to stop it, and the doctor returned to his seat and the bell rang for the seventh round.

  And the seventh round was all Darnell’s. He was determined to make up for the knockdown, and he pressed his attack, throwing three- and four- and five-punch combinations. The bodywork brought Molina’s hands down, and a right cross with thirty seconds left in the round sent the boy to the canvas.

  Stay down, she prayed. But no, he was up at eight, and the bell ended the round before Darnell could get to him.

  The round took a lot out of both fighters, and they both coasted through the eighth. Molina kept his jab in Darnell’s face through most of the round and landed the right once or twice, with no apparent effect.

  At the bell, Darnell stood still for a moment, and she caught a look at his eyes. Then he recovered and loped over to his corner, and she got to her feet and pushed her way through, reaching a hand through the ropes and tugging at the cuff of Marty’s pants. He was busy, talking to Darnell, using the End-Swell to bring down a mouse under his right eye, holding the water bottle for him, holding the spit bucket for him. If he was aware of Keisha he gave no sign, but when the warning buzzer sounded and he came down out of the ring he didn’t look surprised to see her there.

  “You got to stop it,” she told him. “He didn’t know where he was, he couldn’t find his corner.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he told her.

  “Marty, his eyes aren’t right.”

  “They looked fine to the doc. Keisha, he’s winning the fucking fight. The other guy’s got nothing left and Darnell’s prolly gonna take him out this round, and if he doesn’t that’s fine because we’re way ahead on points.”

  “He was knocked down.”

  “He swung and missed, and it was his momentum knocked him down more than anything else. Next round he came back and knocked the other guy down, and came this close to knocking him out. Another thirty seconds in the round and the fight’d be over and we could go home.”

  “Marty, he’s hurt.”

  “
I don’t agree with you,” he said. “And if I did, which I don’t, and I tried to stop it? He’d kill me. He’s winning the fight, he’s winning impressively enough to get a title shot, and—Keisha, sit down, will you? I got work to do here, I got to concentrate.”

  Toward the end of the ninth round, Darnell caught Molina with a big left hook and dropped him. Molina got through the round, but in the tenth Darnell got to him early, putting him down with a body shot, then flooring him a second time with a hard right to the temple. The referee didn’t even count but stopped it right there, and the place went wild.

  On his way out of the ring, Darnell told the TV guy Molina was a tough kid, and no, he himself was never hurt, the knockdown was more of a slip than anything else. “He hit me a few shots,” he allowed, “but he never hurt me. Man punches like that, hit me in the head all day long. You don’t even feel it, you know what I’m sayin’?”

  Later, when they replayed the interview, they pointed out that Darnell had slurred his words, that his speech was hard to make out.

  In his dressing room, Darnell was grinning and laughing and hollering, along with everybody else. Until his eyes went glassy and he mumbled that he didn’t feel so good. He collapsed, and was rushed to the hospital, where he died three hours later without having regained consciousness.

  He was wearing khakis, she noted, and a shirt and tie, but he’d added a navy blazer with brass buttons, and brown loafers instead of his usual sneakers. He said, “Keisha, I don’t know what to say. I tried to see you, I don’t know how many times, but I was told you weren’t seeing anybody.”

  “I had to be by myself.”

  “Believe me,” he said, “I can understand that. I didn’t know whether it was everybody you weren’t seeing or if it was just me, and either way I could understand it. I left messages, I don’t even know if you got them, but I don’t blame you for not calling back.” He looked away. “I was going to write a letter, but what can you say in a letter? Far as that goes, what can you say in person? I’m glad you called me, and here I am, and I still don’t know what to say.”

  “Come in, Marty.”

  “Thank you. Keisha, I just feel so awful about the whole thing. I loved Darnell. It’s no exaggeration to say he was like a son to me.”