“Try this.” Ben throws me a dirty towel. “You’re not supposed to hit referees,” he says.
“Didn’t hit a referee. I hit I hit a witch.” I point my glove to the woman walking toward the dressing room with the help of the old man. “I can’t remember how I ended up on the canvas.”
“That’s easy, Jefferson got you with her left. Was her right, you’d still be there.”
Round two is about to start but before I step inside the ropes, I scan the crowd around the betting window behind the roped in soft seats. I don’t see what I’m looking for. The men in the soft seats all have tuxedoes. The women have formal dresses. I see Henry. He looks like a pregnant penguin. “Who are they,” I ask Ben.
“They run the mobs. Own the place. Mama works for them.”
“Sweet. I feel much better now.”
The bell rings. Time to see if I can survive round two. Mama Jefferson doesn’t play any more games. She meets me in the middle with a normal boxing stance. She follows convention and feels me out with a probing left jab. Her probe feels like a sledgehammer and I bounce away on the toes of my crummy running shoes. My only hope is to play the angles, avoid facing her, and move in and out before she can catch me.
She’s smarter than she looks. She judges my rhythm and catches me on the ear when I’m moving in. It isn’t quite the atomic bomb but the blast puts me on the canvas and I see blinking lights when I shut my eyes.
The new ref is one of Jefferson’s bodyguards. The pit rules are consistent—always unfair. He’s counting too fast and I get up on five. Mama doesn’t wait for the ref to wipe my gloves and start us up. She hits me before I can clear my head. I’m moving away so it’s a glancing blow but I go down again. This time the ref saves Jefferson the trouble of kicking me. He does it for her, slowing down the count and planting his toe on my ribs with each number.
Without warning, that unpredictable switch goes on and I feel a surge. I’m no longer a boxer—I’m a brawler—an angry, outraged brawler. They want to play dirty I’m happy to play their game.
At the count of six, I whip my legs behind the kicking referee’s knees. He drops, I stand and rock back on my left foot and give him one of my own kicks—mine is to his head. Another ref bites the dust.
Jefferson’s distracted, watching the action. I charge at her and kick her in the belly. Her belly’s firm but I’ve got leverage and she feels it. When she drops her hands, I hit her in the throat with my elbow and when she picks them up I kick her in the belly again, harder.
We now have a bullfight and I’m the matador. Mama’s enraged. She abandons all boxing skills and charges across the ring wildly swinging both arms. I use her momentum, elbow her snout nose, and duck to the side. The snout spurts blood and she grows even more reckless and charges again. This time I elbow her throat, hit her in the gut again and duck away. When she turns, I elbow what’s left of the snout. On her final charge, I time it just right, pivot on my left foot and hit her square on the jaw as hard as I can with my right. She slides to the floor and I kick her in the temple with the heel of my running shoe. She’s lying on her back and I spread her legs and kick her in the groin. Just to make sure, I kick her twice in the head, and step on the remains of her snout. She’s not getting up soon.
The ref’s back on his feet. I use my mouth to take off one my flimsy six ounce glove and use my free hand to tear off the other. I throw them at Jethro. Now I can use my hands. I pull the ref to where Mama is stretched out and tell him to count. He hesitates and I break his middle finger. “Count to ten or I’ll break another one, then your arm. We’ve got plenty of time. Pretty girl down there isn’t going anywhere.” When he finishes the count, I march him to the official scorer who takes one look at me and declares it an official fight. With a little more persuasion, the referee picks up the microphone and makes the announcement. He raises my right arm and announces I’ve won.
* * *
I look behind the betting booth and see what I’ve been seeking. The switch goes off and I’m back to being a girl from Desperation Hollow, stranded in Lagos, hoping to get out alive. I put on the sweat shirt, and turn to Ben. “Sorry to disappoint you, I couldn’t make it go over two rounds.”
My march down the crowded aisle back to the dressing room is far from victorious. I’m surrounded by escorts—guards would be a better word—who want to get me out of public view fast. Bernard’s behind me, pushing, and there are two bulked-up older guys, no doubt Henry’s men, on each side. Jethro and Ben lead the way.
Almost everyone bet on Mama Jefferson and they take it out on me. They press in, scream, and shower me and my escorts with beer bottles and the wadded up remnants of fast-food. Someone throws a cupful of beer in Ben’s face. A folding chair bounces off Bernard’s back.
Half way down the aisle, I take a sharp breath, stop, teeter from side-to-side and fall, face down to the floor. Bernard almost steps on me and the parade comes to a halt. My body thrashes around my arms and legs shake. Spit runs down my chin. “Hiccoriee . . . dickkorrie . . . dockkk . . .” I shout. No one knows what I’m saying or what to do. Nothing happens. I say it again. This time I bellow.
Three loud, rapid gunshots temporally quiet the crowd. With all the people, it’s hard to tell where they come from, but they’re close. A man shouts, “Run, they’re trying to kill us.” Another shot rings out, this time much closer.
That’s all it takes. People charge into the aisle from all directions. It’s the only way out and my prone body is blocking. My guards are knocked out of the way and I’m in danger of being trampled. I roll out of the aisle under the seats. Bernard sees me, gets up, pulls his own gun, and comes after me. I’m still dazed from the trampling and can’t stop him from getting on top of me. We wrestle for the gun. He’s got leverage and no matter how hard I push back his wrist the gun barrel slowly moves toward my head.
“I’ll save Henry the expense,” he grunts.
His good ear is close to my mouth. I know an opportunity when I see one and I chomp on it, not with my front teeth but the ones in the back, on the right side where I can lock them and grind.
He screams but keeps the gun. I grind harder and he screams louder. Finally, he drops the gun and I pick it up. While still chomping on his ear, I fire four shots into the floor where they won’t hit anybody. The noise further scatters the crowd. With a final grind and a jerk of my head, I tear off a hunk and spit it in his face, “Now you’ve got a matching pair,” I tell him, wiping the blood from my lips.
Tim emerges from the crowd. He hands me a white robe with the logo of the International Hotel on it. “Put this on. It’s all I could get. You’re too easy to spot with that sweat shirt. Besides, red’s not your color.”
I put on the robe, keep my knees bent so I don’t stand out, and we blend into the crowd stampeding out the door.
Chapter 24
We’re on Ben’s motorcycle and Tim’s driving fast. We weave through a maze of traffic clogged streets and people stare. Probably never seen a girl hanging on the back of a motorcycle with a white International Hotel robe flapping in the wind. Tim looks like an assassin. He’s wearing a black jump suit with goggles covering his eyes. The wind blows through my hair and I feel free for the first time since I landed in this crazy place. I start to laugh, “Freedom . . . Freedom . . .,” I shout to the pedestrians and passing traffic.
Tim turns. “Wow,” he yells back.
We make a stop at a corner store. It looks like a combination convenience store, bar, and video game arcade. “Wait here,” he says. “They might recognize you.”
Ten minutes later he comes back with a spring in his step and a grin on his face. “Got it, no problem. Next stop is our first class lodgings. Hold on.”
* * *
The front of the International Hotel is set back from the road. I see fountains, spotlights, and uniformed attendants as we zip by the front. We take a side road, and pull up to a back door. He chains the bike to a pole and leads me to an employee entrance
. We come in through the kitchen and stop by stacks of dirty dishes and two huge dishwashing machines.
“I started working here when I was fifteen, told them I was eighteen but they didn’t care, didn’t check.” He talks to a tired looking guy in a wrinkled suit, gives him some money, and he hands over a room key. “My ex-boss, hates his job, easy to bribe.”
We take the guest elevator to the fourteenth floor. The room is big, clean, with a great view. I look at the king sized bed and smile at him. He smiles back, gives me a quick kiss, and dumps his small pack on the bed. “Your backpack and my roll bag are in the closet. I dropped them off before I got to the fight.”
I survey the items on the bed and see a large, disorganized pile of bills, a colt .45 automatic pistol, my Rolex, my phone, my Christian Dior shades, and a North Carolina driver’s license with my picture on it.
“Couldn’t get anything for the watch. The guy thought it was fake.”
“Not fake.” I laugh and throw two handfuls of bills in the air. They fall on the floor like October leaves in Minnesota.
“I bet in U.S. dollars, safer that way.” He tries to pick up the bills but I stop him with a hug.
“Freedom,” I shout.
“Wow,” he yells back. “How are you feeling?”
My ear hurts where Jefferson hit me and my back stings from the referee’s nails. My ribs are sore where I was kicked, my hands hurt from pounding Mama Jefferson with lightweight gloves, and my neck is stiff because someone stepped on it during the aisle stampede.
“Great, tip-top,” I answer.
He shakes his head, hands me three aspirin, and leads me to the shower. “Leave your grungy clothes outside the door. I’ll get rid of them while you soak.”
I take the pills, strip, turn the water on as hot and hard as I can stand it and try to blast away my pain. I lose track of time and am brought back by a knock on the shower door. “You going to be in there all night?”
He opens the door and I turn off the water and I step out. He’s holding a towel but doesn’t give it to me, just stands there looking me over. I’m wet and naked, still sore, but I’m feeling very much alive.
He throws me the towel. “Before we get carried away, I want to grab some food and get in the hot tub.”
* * *
When I dry off he leads me to the bed. I think he’s forgotten the hot tub and the food, but he turns me over and rubs some kind of ointment on the gouges on my back. They sting, but his fingers feel good.
“What were you babbling when you faked that seizure?”
“The beginning of a nursery rhyme, Hickory, dickory, dock. The mouse ran up the clock. I couldn’t think of anything else. I had to say it twice. You were supposed to shoot right away when you heard me talking gibberish.”
“It took me a while to get the gun out.”
I turn over and look at him. “The .45 sure made a loud noise, almost scared me.”
“It did scare me. It didn’t take much acting to shout. What made you so sure you’d win?”
“I had no choice. If I lost I’d be at the bottom of the harbor. Besides, Mama Jefferson’s not alone. I’ve never lost either. It also helped that I was damn lucky tonight.”
“Me, too. I’m lucky you walked in my door. I bet my college money and took a chance on you—glad I did.”
I look at the pile of money on the other side of the bed. “How much?”
“I couldn’t get much for your stuff so I just bet the five hundred dollars you had hidden behind the lining of your backpack and two hundred of the three I’d saved for college—it cost the other hundred for the driver’s license. The odds were higher but I needed to use a bookie outside The Pit and wanted dollars so I had to settle for ten to one.”
“That comes out to seven thousand dollars.”
“Less the fifty dollar tip I gave the bookie to keep his mouth shut and the fifty I gave my ex-boss to get us in this room. He’ll give some of that to the housekeeper because this room’s technically not occupied.”
“I’ll have to thank my brother when I get back. Most of his advice gets me in trouble but keeping a supply of hidden cash to use for bribes and emergencies paid off tonight.”
We order a salad and a burger from room service. Before it arrives, I take an envelope from the desk, put some money in it, and stash it in my backpack. When the food comes, I pick at the salad and Tim inhales the burger. I put the robe back on, he takes the other, and we head for the hot tub.
* * *
The hot tub’s by the pool on the first floor. It’s late so we have the place to ourselves. I don’t why I did it but I packed my black bikini—glad I did it now, especially the way Tim’s looking at me. He looks like a chocolate Greek God, must spend a lot of time with those weights he keeps in his room. We sit with our bodies touching and only our heads above the bubbling, soothing hot water. I finally feel like a woman—not a fighter, not a girl from Desperation Hollow trying to fit in a white world, not a target someone is trying to kill, not a student—just a woman—a woman with a magnificent man. I’m not sure about tomorrow, but tonight life is good.
I feel Tim stiffen. Before I can find out why, my head is underwater and someone is holding it down. I push my feet against the side and twist. My head pops to the surface and I see Bernard. He has a bloody bandage over his ear and a crazed expression on his face. He’s holding a machete and it looks sharp.
He takes a wild a swing and misses my nose by an inch. Tim grabs me and we scramble to the other side. Bernard’s fast. It only takes him four long strides to follow us. Before we can cross again he grabs me by the hair and yanks me out. He’s got my hair in his left hand and right holds the machete, pressing against my throat. I could try to escape but, I was right—the machete is very sharp—and I can’t risk it.
“Take it easy Bernard, if Henry’s looking for her, he doesn’t want her in two pieces,” says Tim, slowly getting out of the water.
“I don’t care about Henry or your big brother. First I’m going to slice off her ears. Then let her watch while I separate you from your head. Next it’s her turn. Those heads will float like fishing bobbers in that hot tub.”
“Bernard, you idiot. Never mind her ears or his head. I’ll cut off more than that from you if you don’t let go of her and drop that damn machete comes a voice behind us.” Ben’s out of breath from running but his voice is clear.
“You’re not in charge of the gang anymore. I am. You fucked up. Henry will pick me.” He keeps the machete at my throat but doesn’t see Jethro slowly sneaking behind him.
“You never could stand me being the boss could you? You may be older but you’re just too damn dumb to be leader.” I know what he’s up to. Ben wants to keep Bernard talking.
I join him. “Henry’s probably celebrating. I wouldn’t be surprised if he gives Ben a bonus. The fight attracted a huge betting pool. Almost everyone bet on Mama Jefferson. Henry made a ton of money. You’re probably too stupid to see that?”
Bernard hesitates, loses his concentration for a second and it gives Jethro his chance. He hurls his body behind Bernard’s legs and knocks him off balance. Both Ben and Tim leap at him. Jethro punches his bloody ear. He screams, moves his hand to his wound, drops the machete and lets go of me. Ben picks up the machete, swings hard, smacks the side of Bernard’s head with the flat side of the blade, and Jethro pushes him in the tub.
“Nice work Jethro,” says Ben. “Keep him in there while the three of us have a little talk.” Jethro has another pistol pointed at Bernard.
I don’t know where this family gets all these pistols, but Jethro could guard him with a squirt gun. Bernard is whipped. He just sits in the hot tub, expressionless, soaking his Air Jordan’s and looking at the bubbles.
“How’d you find us?” asks Tim.
“Your ex-boss pays protection money to Henry. Apparently your bribe wasn’t enough. He thought if he told him where the American girl boxer was hiding, it might reduce his bill.”
“Why’d you come?”
“Henry told us to hold Layla. He’s rounding up some of his guys. Getting his boat ready to give her a one way trip out in the harbor. The money doesn’t make a difference —he lost face—needs to make a show of it. It’ll blow over in a couple of days but right now he’s very dangerous.”
“What about him?” Tim points to Bernard still studying bubbles in the hot tub.
“He found out at the same time we did. We got distracted looking for my bike— seems someone stole it. We had to take a cab and he got here first.”
“Sorry about the bike. Part of the deal was my old boss was going to call you in the morning and tell you where it was.”
Ben looks at me. “I don’t know if I should help you or turn you over to Henry. What are you planning to do with my young brother?”
“I’m not so young and I make my own plans,” says Tim.
“I’ve been your surrogate father for a long time. I honored Mom’s request and kept you out of the gang. I may not show it but I love you. You think you can just disappear on me?”
“I love you, too, but I’ve got to get out of here. Get on with my plans.”
They end up in a hug. “I don’t mean to intrude on all this family emotion, but we’re wasting time while people are on their way to drop me in the harbor like a rusty anchor without a chain.”
* * *
The four of us take the elevator to our bootlegged room. We leave Bernard to his bubbles. It’s hard to predict how long he’ll stay there.
“Since you asked, my plans for your brother are to help him get in a U.S. college.”
“This is my chance to get on with my life. I can’t be your live-in cook and butler forever and you know how I feel about the gang.”
Ben nods his head. I take that for approval so I reach in my pack and take the envelope. “I was going to have his ex-boss give this to you tomorrow but I’d better do it now.”
Squaw Girl: A Boxer's Battle for Love Page 11
