by Jack Tunney
ROUND 10
“Are you kidding me? Look at the thing. That’s got to be broken. You got to fight tonight!”
They were standing in the library, the applied psychology section. Pete reached for Ben’s right. Ben yanked it away. “It’s fine. It’s not broken.”
“The hell it’s not.” Pete nodded at Ben’s harsh expression and lowered his voice. “Your fingers are purple.”
“That’s just because the wrap is tight.” Ben held up his elastic-bandaged hand. He glanced out from the psychology texts at the rest of the library. No one in sight. “Look, it’s not broken. See?” He wiggled his fingers as much as the messy wrap would allow.
Pete’s face twisted. “That doesn’t mean it ain’t broke. Just that your fingers ain’t.” He pressed his head back against the stacks, eyes closed. “And all over some broad.”
Ben shook his head, stared at the floor. “How’d you know?”
“Joe saw you leave with her and asked around.” Pete crossed his arms. “The betting line’s changed. Less action now.”
Ben’s chin was a slow pendulum. “He’s favored?”
“Yep.”
Ben looked at Pete through his eyebrows. “More for us when I win then.”
Pete just stared at him. “Who is she?”
“Don’t worry about it.” Ben stared at the books on the shelf behind Pete’s legs. “She’s no one.”
“Great.” Pete rolled his eyes. “So you ruined this whole thing over no one.” He straightened. “Well, I’ll tell you, I hope no one was a good lay.”
Ben’s left curled into Pete’s shirt and lifted before either of them realized it. They stood that way, Pete on his toes, Ben staring into Pete’s slack face with a clenched jaw, then eased back to their original positions and stared at the carpet between their shoes.
“I’ll still win,” Ben finally said.
“You have to.”
They left the library, first Ben, then Pete. Each without a glance at the other.
***
That night, Ahab Northrop’s overhand left caught Ben flush on the cheek and he flopped backward into the corner.
Gonna have to fight now.
He’d spent the first round circling left, looking for opportunities to work the right side of Northrop’s face and body, but Ahab’s footwork and guard were solid and he was able to keep his exposure to Ben’s probing punches to a minimum.
The word was out on Ben’s injured right hand, of course. Ahab angled his punches to come over, or come through, the right side of Ben’s guard from the opening bell. Ahab, whose craggy face and pointed beard made him look like a warrior goat, attacked with some abandoned with his left while using his right to keep Ben’s left at bay.
Ben kept his right guard up enough to keep from getting hurt, while his circling and attacking to the left had the added effect of delivering him from Ahab’s most powerful shots.
The dance produced little real offense, little real damage and little real reaction from the crowd. Round one ended with a smattering of boos.
But things changed in the second round. Ahab made an adjustment. He refused to stray from the center of the ring and, when Ben moved in and circled left, he used footwork to move to his right, cutting Ben off and opening up Ben’s left side to attack. He stood Ben up with a few jabs using this strategy.
However, Ahab tried it one time too many and Ben stung him with a right hook to the body on the fourth try.
Ahab jackknifed to his right. The crowd came alive, shouting from the smoky dark.
Ben stumbled back, too. Pain screamed up his right arm and he couldn’t follow-up on the stiff body shot.
That’s when Ahab stepped in and blasted him in the face with an overhand left.
Ben’s back hit the turnbuckle hard. Terry the beanpole referee drew a little closer.
Ahab charged in, a swell from the crowd behind him, and ripped shots at Ben’s ribs and abs. Ben tucked his elbows, fending most of them off, but one left hook caught his right glove square and he howled.
The crowd yowled a different wail, one with blood in it.
Ahab planted his feet and wound up for a right uppercut from his hip.
Still curled around his right glove, Ben lashed out wild with his left and caught Ahab at the base of his beard before he could get his shot off. The blow glanced, but it upset his balance and Ahab staggered back toward the center of the ring.
Ben used his shoulders to push out of the corner and, with his right tucked against his hip, bounced forward and hammered Ahab’s renewed guard. The noise from the crowd swung round to fill Ben’s sail with wind and he pressed forward, driving Ahab back to the ropes.
Ahab blocked a left cross and looked for one of his own, but Ben ducked it and went right up the middle with a left uppercut that bent Ahab back over the top strand.
Ben stepped inside and got low, using his right shoulder to protect his right side, including his hand. He pivoted, hooked three lefts into Ahab’s ribs and liver.
Ahab grunted, his left hand went to his side.
Ben jumped back, straightened and coiled his left arm.
Then the bell rang and Terry jumped between the fighters, arms waving. “Time! That’s time!”
The air went out of Ben, but he nodded and trotted back to his corner, acknowledging the cheering crowd with a wave of his left glove.
He dropped to his stool as his corner man, same guy from the first fight, climbed through the ropes. “Is it broken?” He pulled Ben’s mouthpiece out.
“No.” Ben tried to shake the pain from his right. “But I gotta pick my spots with it, you know?”
“Yeah, I know.” The corner man did what corner men do while Ben looked past his hip across to the opposite corner, where Ahab Northrop was sucking wind and favoring his right side.
Ben smiled. “I think he’s hurt. Think I can put him away this round.”
“Be careful.” The corner man poured water down Ben’s throat. “He’s a smart fighter. Don’t think he doesn’t know your situation or what to do about it.”
Ben spit. “Yeah, I know. He showed me his smarts a couple times already.”
Terry the ref leaned into the corner. “Third round coming up, Harman. Third. Looking good.”
Ben scanned the crowd. He couldn’t see much of it with the lights down and his rear on the corner stool. There were less empty seats than during his first fight.
None of the faces were familiar though.
The corner man pushed the mouthpiece back in and stepped through the ropes, pulling the spit bucket through after him. “Fight your fight, but remember don’t underestimate him.”
“Gotcha.” Ben stood up and pounded his gloves. The right felt like it was full of broken glass.
Terry stood center ring. “Let’s go.” He waved past Ben’s corner and the bell rang to begin round three.
Ben moved out with bouncing footwork and his right held low.
Ahab met him at the center with two quick, stiff jabs, testing Ben’s abbreviated guard. “How’s that right? Broken?” Ahab murmured.
Ben answered with two jabs – one to Ahab’s guard, the other to his nose – and a left hook, which got more hip than anything else.
Ahab smiled around his mouthpiece. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He threw a jab and a straight right. The first found Ben’s guard, the second blasted his left cheek and snapped his head back.
Ben stepped back and got his full guard up in time to fend off most of a three-punch combo aimed at his head.
He smiled behind his guard.
He thinks it’s broken.
Keeping his right low, Ben circled to his right, jabbing every time Ahab showed signs of exploiting his trajectory. Ahab stayed with his footwork, but issued louder and angrier grunts with each stymied attack and moved back to center ring. He goaded Ben with his gloves. “Come on. Right here.”
Ben gave him a nod and moved forward with only half his guard up. Ahab set himself and wound up for so
mething big. Ben bounced to his right. Ahab’s body loosened to follow. Ben froze, planted his feet and blasted Northrop’s head with a huge left hook.
The crowd roared as Ben moved forward. Ahab staggered to the ropes. Ben battered his guard aside with two jabs and a left cross, then arced his arm to come in with a big overhand left.
But Ahab saw it coming. He caught Ben’s arm in his and tangled them into a clinch against the ropes.
The noise level deflated.
Terry moved in. “C’mon, guys. Let’s go. We don’t want none of that.” He slid his hands between the fighters’ shoulders, a bony spatula trying to pry them apart. “Break it up.”
Ben had his chin on Northrup’s shoulder. He felt Terry’s fingers tugging at him, but had no intention of releasing the clinch until he felt Ahab give it up. He kept his right hand as low and as far away from Ahab as he could in such close quarters.
His gaze wandered the crowd again. This time, since he was so close to the ropes, he could see a little further back.
Joe sat in an aisle seat in the third row, a little boy on his lap.
Ahab released the clinch and Ben allowed Terry to pull them apart. The ref backed him off to the center of the ring with a hand on his chest. Ahab came away from the ropes.
Ben was aware of Northrop, but his gaze drifted past his opponent to the crowd, to that third-row aisle seat. He stared off in that direction, furrowed his brow, which went nice and smooth when Ahab tagged him in the jaw with a right hook.
Ben staggered back. Ahab moved in and pistoned a flurry to Ben’s body. The early shots landed, but Ben covered up in time to keep the assault from taking too much of a toll.
With his back near the ropes, Ben created some space with a few haphazard lefts and then moved to his right. Ahab followed and, this time, found some angles and landed some shots to Ben’s right side. Ben put up his full guard and covered up near the corner.
Ahab had the crowd with him as he moved into the corner and hammered Ben’s guard with looping hooks and hard crosses. Even the shots that didn’t hit his right glove or arm sent pain rattling through Ben’s damaged hand.
Ben thought of the drunken slob’s face and how it looked after he bashed it in. He felt the solar flare of pain from his wrist to his shoulder that came with the impact of the blow. Even in that moment, in the ring, days removed, he felt that pain more vividly than the pain of Ahab bashing his guard and body in the corner. Ben thought of the reason he broke the bum’s face and he looked past his guard, past Ahab Northrop, to that seat on the aisle in the third row.
Joe was still there, but he was standing and had the little boy by the wrist.
Victoria, standing in the aisle, had the boy’s other wrist.
Ben stood straight up and Ahab knocked him silly with an overhand right to the jaw.
“Three. Four.”
Ben’s eyes fluttered open. His left cheek laid flush with the canvas.
“Five.”
He put his gloves under his shoulders and pushed up to all fours. The canvas looked all wavy.
“Six.”
He put the sole of one boot on the mat.
“Seven.”
He pushed up.
“Eight”
Both feet under him. Terry looked a little wavy, too.
“Nine. You with me, Harman? Where are you?”
“In the ring.” Ben shook his head. “In a fight.”
Terry hopped back a step. “Walk to me. Who you fightin’?”
“Ahab.” Ben stepped. His legs kept him standing. “Fightin’ Ahab.”
“Okay, let’s go.” Terry bounced to Ben’s right. “Box.”
Ahab was back in front of him, swinging hard. Ben got his full guard back up, but it wasn’t what it used to be. Northrop battered it aside. A two-punch cross combo to the jaw sent Ben reeling back to the corner from which he’d just dragged himself. He shook the shots off and spared a quick glance to the crowd.
Joe was on his feet. He and Vicky still had the kid by the wrists. The little boy was crying.
Ahab and the crowd’s roar crashed down on Ben in the corner. Northrop pounded through Ben’s guard with two shots and drove three more to his ribs, two rights and a left.
Ben got low, his insides throbbing. Two decapitating punches flew over his head, but Ahab adjusted. He reset himself and cocked an arm to zero-in on Ben’s lower jaw.
From behind his hip, Ben uncoiled with a right-hand uppercut that sailed past Ahab’s lowered left guard and jackhammered the point of his jaw.
Now it’s broken.
Ben cried out and sank back against the corner as Ahab sprawled to the canvas, landing spread-eagle at center ring.
Terry jumped between Ben and the fallen Ahab. “Stay there.”
Ben gave a vague nod as the pain from his right hand made him want to twist out of his skin. He wound his arm around and around, but the agony remained the same.
Terry stood over Ahab. “Five. Six.”
Ben looked at the third row aisle. Joe stared at Ahab. The little boy stared at Vicky. Vicky started at him.
“Seven. Eight.”
Ben glanced back to the canvas. Ahab had managed only to put one foot flat on the mat, but he was still on his back, one forearm over his eyes.
Ben put his left glove on the middle rope and used it to brace his weight as he stepped-tumbled out of the ring. His boots hit the floor as Terry counted ten.
The people in the first row swarmed him as the bell rang on the other side of the ring. Some were happy, most weren’t. Ben pushed through them to the aisle.
Joe, carrying the little boy on his hip, ran for the door. Vicky clawed and pushed at the people in the aisle, trying to follow. Her screams of Joe’s name carried over the din.
Pete pushed his way to Ben’s back and laid a hand on his shoulder. Ben loped forward up the aisle without looking back.
Joe disappeared through one of the warehouse’s side doors. Ben, shielding his right hand from the other moving bodies as best he could, caught up to Vicky at the top of the aisle.
She had her arm between her forehead and a support pillar, her back to him. Her body quaked. Ben put his left glove on her shoulder. “Who was that?”
“Leave me alone.” She didn’t turn around.
He hooked her left arm with his, spun her around and pinned her against the pillar with his left glove on her chest. She wasn’t wearing much makeup, but what she did have on was in vertical stripes down both sides of her face from her tears. She wore a plain blouse, a simple skirt and flats. She didn’t resist Ben, but she didn’t look at him either.
Ben tried to catch her eye. “Is that your boy Joe has?”
She didn’t look up. Her jaw set, but quivering. “Just leave me alone.”
People in the area gave the pillar a wide berth. Ben moved his glove to the tip of her chin. “Victoria, please.” He nudged her face square with his. “Was that your boy?”
She looked at him and tears filled her eyes. “Yes.”
His glove slid from her chin to her shoulder. He shook his head. “Let me help.”
She stared up through her tears at his big, sweating, bruised, misshapen face. She raised her hand to it. Her fingers hovered over his too-big ears, his too-wide jaw, his too-thick brow. Vicky cocked her at head him, then she shook it and her hand gripped his wrist. “Just let me go.”
He lowered his head to within inches of hers.
“Oh, geez, Ben. Please.” She pulled at his wrist with both hands. “Please let me go.”
He allowed her to push his glove from her shoulder and stood there, stoop-shouldered and flat-footed, while she slipped out the door through which Joe had taken her son.
Ben let his shoulder find the pillar as people moved around him and the principals for the next fight headed for the ring.
He stood there…the winner…staring at the door, still in his trunks and gloves, one of which contained a hand he was afraid to look at.
ROUND 11
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br /> Later that night, Vicky opened the door and her face blanched when she saw Ben. “What’re you doing here? How did you know where I live?”
After the fight, Ben’s corner man, whose name Ben still didn’t know, had removed his gloves – cutting the right one off – followed by his wraps. He then re-wrapped Ben’s right, which was purple, swollen and stiff.
Ben had then changed into his street clothes, buttoned his shirt wrong and headed for the door. He ran into scissor face on the way out, who paid him his two hundred and fifty bucks and told him to go back to his room for the night.
He didn’t.
Instead, Ben went to the bar, where, for twenty of the dollars he’d just won, Roy told Ben where Vicky lived and how to get there. Ben flipped the twenty to the bar without a word and took the napkin with the address in Roy’s scrawl.
As Ben had walked out, a dozen people had mentioned the name Lance Jackson either to Ben or around him. One of them had been the cop watching the evening’s main event next to one of the warehouse’s side doors.
Ben’s walk to Vicky’s wasn’t a long one. She lived a few blocks off Mamaroneck Avenue. The chill in the night air didn’t play well with Ben’s purple right hand any more than hot air would have. He carried the address, and had opened all the doors out of the bar, with his left.
Vicky lived in a small house with two floors. It was yellow and had a tree in the front yard. Ben didn’t stop to take in much detail before he got to the door and rapped it with his left.
The front room light still blazed. Vicky looked at him through the little window in the door, opened it. “Why are you here?”
He ignored her question and walked past her into the house. By the time she closed the door and locked it, he was sitting on a love seat in the living room on the other side of the skinny-legged wood coffee table. “Anyone else here?”
“No.” She turned the bolt lock, but left the chain hanging. She put her back against the door, a few fingers over the knob. “What do you want?”
“Please.” Ben motioned the couch, which sat at a right angle to the love seat he occupied. “Please sit. We have to talk.”
