by Jack Tunney
“Where’d this come from?”
“The negro with the white in his hair handed it to me.”
Pops turned the paper toward me.
The message was to the point – On The Canvas This Round.
There was only one source that cared enough to get me to throw a fight. There wasn’t any threat attached. There didn’t have to be. I looked over and the Negro man with the white comma of hair was back sitting behind Cohen and King. Messenger boy.
“What you going to do, Pat?” Tina asked.
“I don’t go in the tank for nobody,” I said, standing up.
I couldn’t believe Cohen cared much about a small time amateur fight, but I cared. With the Navy, I’d been assigned to the battleship Missouri in the Eastern Med when Truman was rattling his Cold War saber. I’d boxed on the deck for the Navy and on shore leave for the honor of the ship, and I wasn’t going down for some two-bit gangster no matter who he was.
The bell rang and I came out of the corner on fire. In the Navy, I fought whoever they put in front of me. The sanctioned fights had kept to official weight standards when they could, but on shore in the bars and behind fuel dumps, I’d never walked away from bigger, heavier men. I’d taken my lumps, but I’d developed a reputation for being a giant killer – a David taking on Goliaths with just my fists, no sling needed.
There had been some split decisions along the way, even a couple of bad beatings, but I’d never gone down for the count. Not once.
I boxed these days simply because I’d always boxed. Between the nuns and Father Tim at St. Vincent’s Asylum for Boys in Chicago, where me and Mickey grew up, I’d been made tougher than an old elephant’s hide.
We’d called the asylum Our Lady of the Glass Jaw, simply because the nuns hated the nickname. They made us pay for it regularly. Their pious anger and Father Tim’s fast hands in the ring challenging us were what made us tough and proud.
I kept in shape now and fought regularly, but without a goal. I wasn’t hungry, but I still hadn’t gone down for the count, and I wasn’t going to start now.
Carter saw me coming. He knew instantly something was different. I was Patrick Felony Flynn. I was a giant killer and I saw the fear in his eyes. I hated that fear because it was the fear of weak bullies.
I feinted with my left and sent a right straight from my shoulder, blowing between Carter’s raised fists. His head snapped back, but this time there was more behind the punch than the last time I’d tagged him.
Then I went for Carter’s exposed body. I was seeing red. On some level, I was aware of the small crowd starting to pay attention. I didn’t just want to stop Carter, I wanted to destroy him – as if by destroying him, I could destroy Cohen. Stupid thinking.
Carter had a good core, but not a great one. There were a lot of miles not run, a lot of sit-ups not done, and I made him pay for his laxity. My gloves pounded at his gut as I ignored the off balance punches he threw.
When Carter’s hands dropped, I drove through them with an uppercut hitting him on the button. He was going down, but I propped him against the ropes and let loose. I was gone – the unreasoning anger I’d always known since I was a child was hot and raging. I hit him again and again until the ref and Pops pulled me back.
Carter dropped. Done. Finished. If he ever got in the ring again, he’d end up the same way. I saw the fear in him and knew I’d broken him for boxing.
I pulled away from Pops, spitting out my mouthpiece. I walked over to the ropes and looked down at Cohen. I spat a gob of blood on the canvas in contempt.
If anything, Cohen looked amused. He clapped his hands slowly, puffing on the cigar stuck in the middle of his mouth. The redhead next to him looked uncomfortable. Somehow, she didn’t seem a match with the blonde on Cohen’s right. She was dressed with the same floozy glamour, a too tight dress and gaudy jewelry, but there was intelligence in her eyes saying she didn’t belong there.
The Negro guy with the white comma of hair was gone, but King was there – sitting still as a statue, giving me his hard, flat stare.
I wasn’t worried about him. He was a pro and I was an amateur. He was a light-heavyweight; I’d always fought as a middleweight. The only way I’d ever come face to face with him was in a back alley, and then I’d have the good sense to run.
Pops and Tina threw my robe over me and guided me to the center of the ring where the ref raised my hand for half a second and let it drop. This was nothing to him. A small fight in a big venue. Not even on the card.
FIGHT CARD: FELONY FISTS
JACK TUNNEY
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