A Fistful of Collars

by Spencer Quinn

  “How do two three-minute rounds sound?” Thad said. Or something like that. The mouth guard made him hard to understand.

  Bernie shrugged.

  “Count it down, Jiggs,” Thad said.

  “Sure thing,” said Jiggs. He was looking at Bernie in a careful sort of way. Was it because of the scar on Bernie’s shoulder from his baseball days? Or the one from when he got slashed by Spiny Price, who was now sporting an orange jumpsuit up at Northern State Correctional? Or was it something else? No time to figure it out, because the next moment Jiggs said, “All set?”

  “Whee-ooo,” said Thad, his chest swelling way up. “Raging fucking bull.”

  Bernie turned to me. “Sit, boy,” he said. “Sit and stay.” Like Thad, he was hard to understand with the mouth guard, so I just stayed how I was, standing by the ring. “Ch—et?” Bernie said, in this special way of saying my name. I sat. I sat and promised myself to stay until further notice.

  “On three,” said Jiggs. “One, two—”

  Was three coming next? Not for me to say: I stop at two, which is a real good number, in my opinion. But if three was coming next, Jiggs never got to say it, because right at two, Thad lunged forward and launched a heavy roundhouse punch right at the middle of Bernie’s face, the part not protected by the head guard.

  Bernie and I never watched boxing anymore, but we’d gone through a stage of running old fight videos on TV, back around when he and Leda were going through the divorce. “Our own little rumble in the jungle,” Bernie said to me at the time. Not sure what he meant by that, but the rumble in the jungle, Ali and Foreman? Forget it! And the Thrilla in Manila, Ali and Frazier? Shut up!

  But that’s not the point. The point is I’ve watched a lot of fights and I know the lingo. Slipping the punch, for example, is the way Bernie handled that first blow Thad threw at him. He shifted his head to one side, just enough so that Thad’s punch hit nothing but air. Funny thing about the look in Bernie’s eyes: he’d been expecting that punch. Hard to explain how I knew, I just did. I was on my feet now; very hard to stay sitting at a fight.

  Boxing has its own time, Bernie says, speeding up and slowing down in a way that proved Einstein was right. He’d lost me there—the only Einstein I knew being Wilbur Einstein, a forger from down Arroyo Rojo way who’d been totally wrong when he’d said no jury would ever convict him, and was now breaking rocks in the hot sun—but I got the idea about speeding up and slowing down. Now, for example, after the speed of Thad’s roundhouse and Bernie’s head shift, things were slowing down. Bernie hadn’t even raised his arms. Bernie! And Thad was just sort of gaping at him, like this fish Charlie used to keep, before the unfortunate accident.

  Then came another slow thing. This reddish color appeared on Thad’s face, spread all the way down his neck. And just like that: boom! We were back to full speed. Thad stepped in, threw a whole flurry of punches at Bernie’s midsection. Somehow Bernie’s arms were up in time. Thad’s blows landed, thud-thud thud-thud, the sound echoing off the bare walls of the gym and coming back, thud-thud thud-thud, real hard, but Bernie said in boxing you had to watch where the punches land, and Thad’s punches were landing on Bernie’s arms and shoulders. Lots and lots of hard punches and they had to hurt—red welts were already showing on Bernie’s skin—but I knew that was better than getting hit in the head or the guts or the kidneys, wherever the kidneys happened to be.

  And then Bernie kind of got Thad in a clinch and they danced around together, their heads very close, both of them already sweating.

  “You want to waltz or fight?” Thad said.

  Bernie pushed him away, and then got up on the balls of his feet and started moving sideways, circling Thad. Bernie on the balls of his feet! Wow! Have I mentioned the way one of Bernie’s legs gets tired sometimes, on account of his war wound? It didn’t look tired now.

  Thad lowered his head, moved into the circle Bernie was making, tried a jab to Bernie’s chin, caught by Bernie with his gloves, and then a hook that landed on the side of Bernie’s head, and landed good. Bernie’s eyes went a bit blurry, then came back to normal, just as Thad moved in with another one of those roundhouse swings. Bernie slipped that one, too. Uh-oh. Maybe not completely.

  And now he was against the ropes, ropes, by the way, that I could jump through, no problem, and take Thad down before you could say Jackie Robinson, Bernie’s favorite baseball player of all time, Teddy Ballgame being second. Not all of that: only the Jackie Robinson part.

  Thad started in on another one of those punch bombardments, some landing, some not. Bernie sagged against the ropes, leaned one way, then another, couldn’t get free of Thad. Thad had a hot glow in his eyes, wild and mean. He lined Bernie up, let loose with another big hook. Hey! Bernie ducked it! No time to go into the whole duck thing now. Bernie ducked that big hook and came up with a hook of his own that whapped Thad on the side of the face. A snapping hook, yes! You could hear it snap! And then Bernie jabbed off the hook, so quick it almost happened at the same time. That jab was a stinger, popping Thad right on the button, the button meaning the nose in boxing lingo. Snap, pop, and then crack: loved the sounds of boxing!

  Crack? Turned out that was Thad’s nose, now lined up kind of sideways and dripping blood. Why did I glance over at Jiggs at that moment? Not sure. He’d slid his hand inside a suit jacket pocket and was pulling out a gun.

  Thad was staring at Bernie in an out-of-his-mind-with-rage sort of way. “You fucking cheeseball son of a bitch, I’m gonna kill you.”

  Then we were back up to full speed again. Thad charged at Bernie, hurling punches, wild and ferocious, giving me no time at all to go back over the cheeseball thing, get my mind around the concept. Bernie stepped inside and threw a short uppercut to the chin, landing it square, bang on. Thad’s eyes rolled up. His face went all white. Then he toppled over on the canvas and lay flat on his back, sort of like Sonny Liston at the end of the second Ali fight, except that Sonny Liston was one scary dude and I now knew for sure that Thad Perry was not.

  Jiggs? Maybe a different matter. I looked at him again. He was moving toward the ring now, mouth hanging open a bit, no sign of the gun. I trotted over behind him, following close. He climbed through the ropes and hurried to Thad. Bernie was already there, leaning over him.

  “Why the hell did you have to go and do that?” Jiggs said. “Is he dead?”

  Uh-oh. Hadn’t thought of that. But no worries. Thad’s chest was rising and falling, rising and falling, and they’re never dead when that’s happening.

  Bernie spat out his mouthpiece. “He was beating the crap out of me,” he said. “It was just a fluky punch.”

  Jiggs glared down at him. Jiggs was really a big, big dude. “The fuck it was. You played him like a goddamn fish.”

  Bernie glanced down at Jiggs’s suit jacket pocket, the one he’d taken the gun from, then looked back up at Jiggs, meeting his gaze and saying nothing.

  “Not saying I don’t blame you,” Jiggs said. “But I know what I saw.”

  “It was still pretty fluky,” Bernie said. “And I didn’t know he had a glass jaw.”

  “Of course he has a glass jaw,” Jiggs said. “And look at his goddamn nose. They roll film day after tomorrow.” He shook his head. “Christ. Starting with the bar scene.”

  “What happens in that?” Bernie said.

  “He beats the shit out of a whole mess of renegades,” said Jiggs.

  They gazed down at Thad.

  “I’m gonna lose my goddamn job,” Jiggs said. “And what happens when the media gets hold of this?” He gave Bernie an angry look.

  “They won’t get it from me,” Bernie said. “And why does the news have to travel beyond these four walls?”

  “What’s the matter with you?” Jiggs said. “You’re not seeing that hooter of his?”

  “I know a good doc,” Bernie said. “Completely trustworthy.”

  “Yeah?” said Jiggs. “You really think—”

  Thad groaned. His eyes,
such an amazing shade of blue, like the early morning sky out in the desert, fluttered open.

  Jiggs got down on his knees. “You okay, Thad?”

  “Do I look okay?”

  “Uh,” said Jiggs, “yeah, pretty good.”

  Thad’s eyes shifted toward Bernie, then away, real quick. “Must have passed out,” he said.

  “Hardly at all,” said Jiggs. “Not worth mentioning.”

  “Fuckin’ dehydrated,” Thad said. “This goddamn altitude.”

  Jiggs blinked. “You fainted on account of the altitude?”

  “Not fainted,” Thad said, strength returning to his voice, and with it some of that harshness. “Passed out.”

  “Passed out,” Jiggs said.

  “Scratch that,” Thad said. “Blacked out.”

  “Blacked out,” said Jiggs.

  “Happens when people first get here,” Bernie said.

  “Yeah?” said Thad, looking at Bernie and then quickly away one more time.

  “More often than not,” Bernie said. “Practically the rule. Drink some water, get a full night’s sleep, you’ll be good as new.”

  “Feel like sitting up?” Jiggs said.

  “Huh? Don’t talk to me like I’m some kinda candyass,” Thad said. “If I want to sit up, I’ll sit up.”

  Back up. Candyass? A new one on me, and very, very interesting. Not that I’m a big candy lover, but the whole thing together—candy, ass—for some reason reminded me of a night when we were working a case down in Mexico, and a brief interlude with a member of the nation within named Lola. Funny how the mind works.

  Meanwhile, Bernie and Jiggs were pulling Thad up into a sitting position. For a moment, Thad’s eyes went all glazy. Then he shook his head and went, “Whew. Thought I was gonna puke there for a second.”

  Jiggs and Bernie let go of him, stepped back.

  “I hate puking,” Thad said.

  Me, too, although it’s nice how you feel right after, so nice—and this is kind of crazy—that sometimes the next thing you knew you were licking up all the stuff that just got puked, putting it back inside you. What a life!

  “Think about something else,” Bernie said.

  “Like what?” said Thad.

  “A cool breeze,” Bernie said.

  Thad went very still. His face began to change in a way that was hard to explain. He became a different sort of Thad, one that wasn’t pukey. Then, mostly on his own, he rose to his feet.

  “Jiggs?” Thad held out his hands. Jiggs unlaced the gloves and pulled them off. Thad stood there for a moment, then reached up and touched his nose, or rather, where his nose used to be.

  SEVEN

  What would you call it this time?” Jiggs said. “Fainting? Blacking out? Passing out?”

  Bernie took a look at Thad Perry. He was lying on the canvas again, but this time he’d gone down gently, sagging into Bernie’s and Jiggs’s arms a moment after he’d located his poor nose, angled over to one side of his face.

  “Tough call,” Bernie said. Thad made a little moaning sound. His big chest rose and fell. “Looks like he’s in great physical shape.”

  “He can bench three oh five,” Jiggs said.

  “I’m impressed,” Bernie said. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, started fiddling with the buttons. “I know I’ve got Doctor Booker’s private number here somewhere.”

  “Booker?” said Jiggs. “He black, by any chance?”

  Bernie nodded. “Is that a problem?”

  “Nope. Any relation to the DA?”

  “Cedric? Yeah—the doc’s his brother.” Bernie gave Jiggs a quick glance. “I assumed you were from LA.”

  “I am,” Jiggs said.

  “But you know our DA out here in the Valley?”

  “Know of him,” Jiggs said. “I do my homework.”

  “So—no objection?”

  “As long as he stays away from the goddamn media.”

  Bernie nodded. “Here we go,” he said, hitting one more button. At that moment, there was a knock at the door. Jiggs whipped out some tiny device and clicked it. I heard bolts sliding in the walls.

  “Thad?” Nan called. “The manicurist is here, if you’re ready.”

  Bernie and Jiggs looked at each other.

  “Thad?” Nan called through the door.

  “Uh,” said Jiggs, “he’s, um . . .”

  “In the whirlpool,” Bernie said. “His shoulder’s a little sore.” Jiggs nodded vigorously.

  “Oh my God!” Nan said.

  “Nothing to worry about,” Bernie said. “Jiggs is just checking to see if he’s ready.”

  Jiggs did some more vigorous nodding. Then he bent down, picked up Thad like nothing, threw him over his shoulder. He stepped through the ropes, took Thad into a room on the other side of the gym. Before the door closed, I glimpsed a whirlpool bath and a pile of fluffy white towels. I made—what’s that expression of Bernie’s? A mental note? Yes. I made a mental note about those towels. A fluffy white towel can be fun to drag around, maybe something you already know.

  “Jiggs?” Nan called. “Mr. Little?”

  “Call me Bernie,” Bernie said.

  “What’s going on?” Nan said. “The door seems to be locked.”

  “It is?” Bernie said. “I’ll just step into the whirlpool room and . . .”

  Bernie didn’t go anywhere, just stood in the ring. He gave me a smile. So nice. Now I knew that everything was going smoothly. I liked to be in the picture. And hadn’t Bernie said something about that very recently? I tried to remember. But not my hardest, on account of what was the point, with everything going smoothly and all?

  “Nan?” Bernie said after a while. “Thad says for the manicurist to come back tomorrow. He wants to sit in the whirlpool and, quote, that’s that, end quote.”

  “Oh,” said Nan. “Sure. Of course.”

  “And the door’s locked because Thad didn’t want any distraction during his workout,” Bernie said. “He seems to take it very seriously, maybe with filming coming up so soon.”

  “Yes, he does,” Nan said. “For sure. Okay, then—I’ll take care of it.”

  “Thanks,” said Bernie.

  He cocked his head, as though listening for Nan’s departing footsteps. Did he hear them? No idea, but I did. There was a pause of a few moments before she actually started walking away.

  I’d never met Doc Booker before, but his brother Cedric, the DA, was a pal of ours. Cedric had been a basketball star down at the college and could have gone pro, Bernie says, but he couldn’t play with his back to the basket. A puzzler, but basketball was full of puzzlers, starting with the ball, pretty much impossible for me, despite my best efforts.

  Doc Booker, not as tall as his brother, was still the tallest human in the whirlpool room. Then came Jiggs, after him Thad, now on his feet and wearing a robe, and Bernie last, the very shortest! Had that ever happened before?

  “Love your movies,” said Doc Booker.

  “Thanks,” said Thad, only it came out more like “Danks,” what with his nose the way it was.

  “My wife would be thrilled to have your autograph,” Doc Booker said. “How about signing my prescription pad?”

  “Always the wife,” Thad said, taking the pad and pen Doc Booker handed him and writing on it. “Maybe I’ll prescribe myself a whole mess of Oxycontin.”

  Doc Booker laughed. “That’s a good one.” Bernie didn’t laugh, although the corners of his mouth turned up a bit. As for Jiggs, the corners of his mouth—not a very nicely shaped mouth, especially compared to Bernie’s—were way down.

  Doc Booker tucked the prescription pad away. “Thanks a bunch,” he said. “Let’s take a look at this situation.” He peered at Thad’s nose, extended his finger as though to touch it, but didn’t, Thad wincing anyway, said, “Totally fixable. You can either come to the hospital where I’ll get you into the OR and reset you under anesthetic—”

  “Hospital?” said Thad. “What about the goddamn media?�
��

  “Or,” Doc Booker continued, “if you’re up for it, I can do it right here, quick and dirty.”

  “Quick and dirty?” Thad said.

  “Sting a little,” said Doc Booker. “But it’ll be over in two seconds.”

  “And I’ll be back to normal?”

  Doc Booker nodded. “Or even more rugged than before.”

  “What the hell?” said Thad. “I don’t want to be more rugged than before. I need to be the exact same amount of rugged, for Christ sake.”

  “Got it,” said Doc Booker.

  “And no one ever hears about it,” Thad said.

  “Bernie has already filled me in,” Doc Booker said. He shook his head. “You’re a brave man, mixing it up with ol’ Bernie.”

  Bernie shot Doc Booker a quick look.

  “Or not,” said Doc Booker. “Bernie’s bark is worse than his bite.”

  Whoa. What a stunner. Bernie’s bark? Bernie’s bite? Neither one had ever happened, not in all the time we’d been together. Maybe Doc Booker was getting the two of us confused. Did that mean that my own bark was worse than . . . ? I lost the thread, and none too soon.

  Thad took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said. “Do what you gotta do. Should I sit down?”

  “Nah,” said Doc Booker, and he reached out and in one smooth motion took hold of Thad’s nose and gave it a hard twist.

  “In hindsight,” Doc Booker said, “sitting down would have been preferable.”

  “Not your fault,” said Bernie.

  “I didn’t take him for a fainter,” Doc Booker said.

  “I was trying to figure out how to put it,” Bernie said.

  “Good luck with that,” said Jiggs.

  They gazed at Thad, now lying on a training table, eyes closed and a peaceful look on his face.

  “You did a great job, Doc,” Jiggs said.

  “Thanks.”

  “Just send in a bill.”

  “No bill,” said Doc Booker. “Bernie and I go way back. How’s the leg, by the way?”