Monster Man (Fight Card)

by Jack Tunney

  Everything hurt.

  “That’s okay.” She coiled into a ball on her side. “I thought you were trying something.”

  “Heh, No.” He pulled the other sock on. His hands throbbed. He smiled at her. “If I was trying something, I’d have…” He shook his head. “I wasn’t trying anything.”

  She laughed. “Okay.”

  “But...” He went round to her side of the tiny, worn-out bed, buttoning a shirt he’d taken from the floor. “Maybe we can meet back here tonight?”

  “Maybe…” One of her legs wandered from under the sheet. She pointed her toe and turned a hip to him. “We’ll see.”

  “I hope so.” He leaned down, laid a hand against her scar, and gave her a soft, slow kiss.

  She fell back against the bed. “You should go.”

  “Heh.” He shoved his shirttails into his waistband. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Wait.” She pointed at the door. “How will I lock up?”

  He waved the question away. “Don’t worry about it.” He patted the pants pocket where the key spent the night. “I haven’t got anything worth stealing, anyway.”

  ***

  Ben walked, then sort of jogged up and down Mamaroneck Avenue between the harbor and the train station before he spotted the rooming house above the street.

  On the second pass by the storefront gym, he saw Johnny O’Hara sparring with some old sailor type. Poor kid.

  Everything in Pete’s rooming house was clean, bright and the color of oak. There were doilies and lamps everywhere. Ben bypassed the front desk, which, thankfully, stood empty, and took a look at the hall of doors beyond it.

  Every door looked exactly the same from the outside, all equally quaint and inviting with their rich, woody color and fall wreath hanging around the knocker.

  Ben sighed, his shoulders drooped and he started knocking.

  The first guy thought he was a porter and tried to hand him a sack of trash.

  A little girl behind the second door clutched daisies in her fist while the sounds of a shower and a radio competed in the background.

  The third room housed a little old lady, who gasped and slammed the door in his face without a word.

  Pete was behind the fourth door. He opened it a crack and his eye went wide, then he yanked the door open and pulled Ben inside by his shirt front. “What’s the idea, man? Where were you? I waited an hour.”

  “Sorry.” Ben dropped into a curvy-armed, thick-cushioned chair next to a short table with a reading lamp against one wall. “Overslept, I guess.” He showed Pete his palms. “I’m sorry.”

  Pete locked the door and crossed to the window, where he pulled the lacy white drape aside and peered out in both directions. “Anyone see you come up here?”

  “I don’t think so.” Ben massaged his throbbing hands. “I didn’t see anyone I know.”

  “All right.” Pete turned from the window. Ben let his hands drop into his lap. Pete came around the bed, a queen with a quilted spread, and sat on the corner closest to Ben. “So? Nice fight last night.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” Ben let his hands dangle from the arms of the chair. “For what it was. How’d we do?”

  “Eh.” Pete shrugged. “Odds weren’t great, as you might expect. You were five-to-one to win, seven-to-one to knock him out in the first.”

  Ben nodded. “It’s a start.”

  “Speaking of which...” Pete wiggled some fingers at Ben. “Joe definitely wants you in there again.”

  “I know, he told me.”

  “Oh yeah?” Pete smiled. “Good.” He leaned forward, forearms on his thighs. “Think you can get back in there for next Friday?”

  “Should be able to.” Ben folded his hands over his abs. The pain crept up his forearms from his wrists, and from his ankles to his shins. “This first guy was basically a workout.”

  Pete grinned. “Okay, good.” He reached out and slapped Ben on the knee, then got up and crossed to a bureau on the opposite wall and the bottle sitting there. He held it up. “Shot?”

  Ben pushed it away from across the room. “I’m all right.”

  “Just as well.” Pete poured a shot. “I’ve only got my glass.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time we shared a glass.” Ben risked crossing his legs. It hurt, but he got there without a visible struggle. “Or a lot of other stuff.”

  “Yeah.” Pete downed the shot and poured another. “St. Vincent’s was famous for its shared accommodations, right?”

  Ben put his head back against the wall. “Remember the time I got back Jimmy Wyler’s laundry?” He chuckled. “Took me three days to figure out why everything was so small.”

  Pete snorted into his shot. His voice was artificially deep. “What’s happened to me, Pete? I can’t button my pants.”

  They laughed. Ben stopped first. “Yeah. Who knew then I’d get even bigger.”

  Pete’s smile faded and his gaze scanned Ben’s head and hands. “How’re you feeling?”

  “Eh, you know…” Ben opened and closed his hands a few times in a display of their basic functionality. “Not too bad.”

  Pete leaned back against the bureau. “Maybe we’ll take a break soon, huh?”

  Ben gripped the chair’s arms. “If you want.”

  Pete put the glass down next to the bottle. “You should get outta here. I know it’s a longshot, but I don’t want to risk anyone even hearing us talk in here.”

  “All right.” Ben pushed up from the chair.

  Pete spoke as he crossed to the door. “We’ll meet at the spot Friday noon, this way we can get things together if you’re on the card, or see what’s what if you’re not.” He opened the door and peered outside, then looked back to Ben. “Okay?”

  “Yep.” Ben stretched a bit and the back of his head pulsed and pounded.

  “One second.” Pete leaned his head out the door and looked in both directions. “All clear.” He pulled the door open and stood aside. “Now get out of here.”

  ***

  Ben went back to the flophouse to find Vicky gone and the bed made. There was a scrap of paper in the middle of the bed with tonight scrawled across it in lipstick. Ben folded it over as if it were the Shroud of Turin, slipped it into his pocket and left the room, locking it this time.

  He spent of the rest of his Saturday roaming the avenue. He had a burger in a little luncheonette. He explored the side streets. He stopped at a market and bought peanut butter, bread and a salami. Once the food was back in his room, he changed into sweats and got some roadwork in, both up and down Mamaroneck Avenue and along the Boston Post Road, which ran perpendicular to it near the harbor.

  Bar that night. No Vicky. Early to bed.

  Late to rise on Sunday. Ben ate some of his salami and peanut butter, then let his roadwork lead him to the library, where he settled in, away from other less sweaty people, with a few selections from section 573.

  He didn’t learn anything new, but what he did know was renewed in his mind should he want to tell someone else.

  He bought a newspaper on the way back to the room and read it until it was time to go to the bar, at which point he fell asleep.

  Joe came calling the next morning as Ben pulled crates of oranges off a pallet and tossed them gently into a truck. The two other longshoremen on the job, one older than Ben and one smaller, carried their crates. Joe leaned into Ben’s line of sight. “You got a second?”

  “Sure.” Ben placed the orange crate on the ground between them. It was the first time he’d seen Joe in anything but his decent suit. He was in brown coveralls and a dark blue tee, a regular slicked back farmer.

  “How’re you feeling?” Joe stuffed his hands in his pockets, which, in the coveralls, brought out his gut in a way the suit hadn’t.

  “Not too bad.” Ben folded his arms, shoved his aching hands into his armpits. “Not too bad.”

  “Good.” Joe’s grin was not infectious. “So, you want to go again this Friday?” He looked at Ben sidelon
g. “I’ll tell you who you’re fighting and everything.”

  “Why not?” Ben rocked back on his heels. “Who’d you have in mind?”

  “His name’s Jake Northrop, but we call him Ahab in the ring.” Joe wagged a finger between the old and small longshoremen. “These guys will tell you why.”

  “Okay.” Ben glanced at the two men, who hadn’t stopped working since Joe arrived. He leaned in a little closer to Joe. “Where do you see the money being this time?”

  Joe’s grin cracked, but just a little. “Well, this guy’s not some dough-bellied kid. Former champ round here, actually. So, I figure…” His gaze wandered the overcast sky. “One hundred to fight, two-fifty you win?”

  “Sounds good.” They shook on it and Ben picked up the orange crate. “Let me get back to work, or this guy will dock me.”

  He smiled. Joe didn’t get it.

  ***

  “Ahab?” Vicky nodded, her chin puckered. “Makes sense.”

  Occupied tables dotted the perimeter of the bar. Ben and Vicky sat at the one in the darkest corner, exploring each other’s hands.

  “Seem like a good match?” Ben said to the tangle of hands on the table.

  “Yeah. He’s definitely tough, but he peaked a few years back.” She squeezed. “Don’t take him lightly, though.”

  He glanced up at her. “I won’t.”

  “I’m serious.” She squeezed again. “He was champ here once.”

  “I know. I won’t.”

  She stroked the back of his hand with her thumb and that spot didn’t hurt anymore. “Did Joe tell you why they call him Ahab?”

  “No, but a couple guys I work with did.”

  Now she rubbed with her palm. Slowly. “Yeah, that big albino hayseed was laying guys low here for a while until Jake took him out.”

  “Jake?” Ben cocked an eyebrow. “You know him?”

  “Well, yeah, you know…” She wagged her head a bit, glanced at the bar. “Guys are around…”

  Ben sat back, but kept his hands entwined with hers on the table. “How’d you come to be around?”

  She smiled, looked at him through her eyebrows. “Shouldn’t we be talking strategy? You know I’ve seen Ahab fight before.”

  “We’ll get to that.” Ben gave her hands a little squeeze. “But I want to know.” He shook his head. “How’d you come to be here? How’d you get into the fights?”

  She pulled her hands from under his and sat up, curling them instead around her rum and Coke on the table. “The second part is easy. I always liked the fights, from when I was a little girl. My father boxed in the navy and, when he got back from Germany, he’d take me to see guys bang it out at the local places around us.” She smiled at her glass, then looked up at Ben. “Even got to see Braddock beat Baer at the garden.”

  Ben’s eyes and smile were wide. “Is that right?”

  She giggled. “Yep. I had such a crush on Braddock and guys like him after that.” She gave him a look that made something blossom in his chest.

  Vicky sipped her drink. When she put it down, her eyes wandered a bit. Ben opened his mouth to speak, but she spoke first. “We saw Primo Carnera fight a couple years before that, too.”

  His gaze dropped to the dirty, worn tabletop. “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah.” She laid a hand on his. “You familiar with him?”

  “Yeah, I know about Primo, of course. What about him?” His eyes remained on the table.

  “Nothing.” She brought her hand back to her glass. “I just wondered if you’d followed his career at all.”

  “No more than any other guy.” Ben finally looked at her again. “So, what about the first question?” He put his elbows on the table. “I mean, it sounds like you’re from New York.”

  She shook her head. “New Jersey. Fort Lee, just over the bridge.”

  He nodded.

  “That’s where I’m from and also the beginning of how I ended up here.” She smiled at his furrowed brow. “I don’t know if you know, but they used to make pictures in Fort Lee.” Her hand cranked an invisible camera while the other held it. “Moving pictures.”

  Ben sort of nodded. “I might have known something about that, yeah.”

  She leaned in a bit, smiling. “It’s okay if you don’t. People tend to forget the old studios now everything’s in Hollywood. D.W. Griffith had a studio right here in Mamaroneck for a time.” She finished her drink. “Anyway, I don’t remember a time when I didn’t love pictures, so when I was old enough to leave home, I decided that’s what I wanted to do.”

  “Wow. So, you were, I mean, you’re in pictures?” Ben tried not to look down or shake his head.

  Vicky’s smile was warm, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s okay to say was. Yeah, I was in pictures for a little while. Little pictures, I should say. First in Jersey, then out west.”

  Ben leaned in. “Hollywood pictures?”

  “Yes.” She leaned in and put a peck on his nose. “Hollywood pictures.” She sat back. “But it’s nothing to get very excited about.” Her gaze wandered the bar and she slumped a little, her shoulders rounded. “I wasn’t much more than a bit player.” She smiled her sad smile at him again. “They just put me wherever they needed an extra girl.”

  “Aw, come on.” He waved a hand her way and reached out and took one of hers in the other. “I bet you shined up there on the screen.” He squeezed.

  She squeezed back. “Yet you never saw me in anything.”

  “Well, you can’t go by me. I never got to the theater much.”

  She smiled. “Thanks, but I was a washout.” She tilted her head at him, traced her fingertips along the meat of his hand. “I was the monster’s first victim, the girl who got thrown over for the second leading lady.” She made sure she had his eye so he’d see her little smirk. “Just another tomato can from Jersey.”

  He pulled her hand up from the table in both of his and kissed it. “No way.”

  She gave him a little mock bow with just her head. “You’re too kind.”

  He held onto her hand. “I’m sure you would have made it big out there if it wasn’t...” His gaze flicked the curtain of auburn hair. “If you…”

  She shook her head, waving the curtain. “That didn’t happen out there.” She looked at the table. “That happened here.” She grinned up at him before he could speak. “I just wasn’t a very good actress, let’s face it.”

  Ben glanced around the bar, scrutinizing every male face. His arms and shoulders corded. “That happened here?”

  “Hey.” She added her other hand to the holding. “You want to continue this little chat in your room?”

  He felt her peep-toe pump along his calf and his gaze returned to their little table in the darkest corner of the bar, where a bright, green eye looked up at him a certain way. “Yeah.” His shoulders and arms softened.

  She hopped from her stool and led him by a hand to his feet. When he got there, Vicky kept hold of Ben’s hand, but turned her back to him and draped his wrist over her shoulder.

  Ben smiled and allowed her to lead him away from their little table.

  Just in time for a bulky, bearded longshoreman in a plaid shirt to stumble from the dirty bathroom behind the bar into Ben’s back.

  Ben stumbled into Vicky’s back.

  Vicky stumbled to the floor.

  Ben regained his balance in a straddle over Vicky, who sat on the floor on her knees. Every face in the area, male and female alike, turned to watch them.

  Ben extended a big hand to Vicky. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded and reached up to him. She even had a little smile on her face.

  “Haw!” The longshoreman had regained his balance too. He staggered in place, looked at the tableau in front of him. “Gettin’ started on this one right here in the bar, eh, Vick?”

  Some women in the area gasped, the men laughed. Some of the women laughed, too.

  Ben looked at Vicky’s face. She’d turned a bright red, her mouth agape a
s she glanced at the laughing faces around her, one knee still on the grimy floorboards. He glared at the slimy, bearded longshoreman, who elbowed the nearest laughing roughneck. “Hey, how about it? You’d think even this slut would want it to keep it under wraps while she’s doing the creeper.”

  Ben’s overhand right broke the longshoreman’s nose and cheekbone. Vicky dragged Ben out of the bar by his left hand.

  They passed Joe, scissor face and the ruby-lipped redhead on Joe’s arm at the door.

  ***

  Vicky shoved Ben at the bed with an Irish Whip worthy of Mildred Burke and slammed the door. “What was that?”

  Ben let himself drop to the bed, which made no attempt to support him. “What did that guy mean?”

  Vicky’s eyes went wide at the sight of Ben’s right hand. “Is it broken?”

  Ben looked down to find he was holding his wrist limp, fingers splayed. “No.” He shook his right. Pain lanced from it to his brain. “I don’t think so.” He stared up at her. “What did that guy mean?”

  She shook her head, crossing to him. “You’ve got a fight in four days.”

  She reached out for his right hand with both of hers, but he yanked it away. “Tell me what that guy meant. He called you a slut.”

  Her eyes remained on his hand. “Let me at least see it.” Her gaze darted to random spots in the room. “Do you have any ice? Bandages?”

  “What did that guy mean?”

  “Or maybe just an old shirt we could…”

  Ben seized her forearm with his left. “What’d he mean?”

  “He meant I’m a slut!” She wrenched her arm from his grip. “What the hell did you think he meant? He told you.”

  Ben slumped forward, forearms on his thighs. He looked up at her with big, round eyes. “You been with other fighters?”

  “Of course.” She stepped back to the wall, crossed her arms over her belly, tightly wrapped in her purple dress. “What did you think?”

  His right throbbed, the fingers stiff and red, but the weight and pounding in his chest was all he felt. Ben’s head dropped to his chest, his shoulders slumped, as he stared at the floor. “I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what I thought.”