Get Hit, Hit Back (Fight Card)

by Jack Tunney

  "Get him, Griff!" Harry yelled over the crowd. "But keep an eye open!"

  My arms were getting tired, and I slowed for a second. My opponent took the opening to push me away and skipped two steps to the left into open territory in the middle of the ring. I knew I had stunned him, and needed to keep the pressure on so he didn't have the chance to recover. I circled around and faced him, standing toe to toe. I feinted a right to his head, and he raised his gloves to cover. I slammed a left into his ribs and heard the oof from his mouth as it connected. But he was tough, and rattled off two quick right jabs to my left eye, backing me off. We danced around then, each throwing a couple of light punches that had no hope of connecting, before the bell ended the round. The room seemed to exhale as everyone sat down and began talking amongst themselves.

  "What the hell was that?" Harry asked as I hit the stool in my corner. He stuck a water bottle in my mouth before I could answer, and wrapped a wet towel around my neck. "I've never seen you fight like that, kid. You were in his head from the start. But he'll be wary now. You'll have to earn it this round."

  I spit out a mouthful of water and nodded. I wasn't sure myself where it had come from. I just felt in control in a way I never had before in the ring.

  I was up from the stool before the bell rang. When it did, I raced across the ring before my opponent could take a step, and began jabbing him in the face, pinning him in the corner. He brought his gloves up and leaned down trying to cover.

  I crouched and slipped a right-left combo into his gut. He leaned back against the ropes, trying to cover himself. I knew this was it, so I gave everything I had to the next three punches. I went to the gut once more with my right, and he reflexively dropped his left to block. That left his head open, and I took advantage.

  I snapped a left to position his head, then landed a savage right to his temple. I could see his eyes roll back as his head snapped, sweat spraying the swells in the front row. He teetered for a moment, then just seemed to wilt, collapsing to the floor.

  His cornerman slipped through the ropes before the referee even started to count him out, knelt next to the fighter and lifted his head from the canvas. The referee reached ten and then grabbed my hand and raised it over my head. I walked back to my corner and dropped onto the stool. Harry handed me the water bottle, then leaned down and reached behind my head to clasp my neck in one of his calloused hands.

  "Kid, that was one of the most complete fights I've ever seen, no lie," he said. "I always knew you had it in ya. Before now, you were a fighter. Today's the day you became a boxer. You keep fighting like this and I'll take ya pro, Griff."

  I took a drink, listening without comment. I knew people were cheering, that the place was loud, but I couldn't really hear anything. It was like I was inside my own head, and it was quiet there. Normally there was no time to linger in the ring, but this fight had finished so quickly I knew I had a moment to take it in.

  ROUND 7

  The fight had taken little out of me, so the next morning I went out for a run. It felt good, a way to clear my mind. The day of the fight, I hadn't thought about the robbery or the money. Now, I could think of little else. Running kept it at bay as I concentrated on each footfall. When I got home, it came right back. I knew I would need to make a decision about it soon.

  I went in to the bank at noon to take over for Andy. When I got in, everyone started asking about the fight. Tess, who had watched, but left the Coliseum before I got out of the locker room, came over and gave me a little kiss on the cheek.

  "You were wonderful, Griffin," she said. "Really. That other boy just had no chance, did he?"

  I hadn't thought about it that way, but I knew she was right.

  "No," I said. "I suppose he didn't."

  Mr. Turner waved me into his office.

  "So, I hear you put on quite the show last night," he said. He pointed at the Courier open to the sports page on his desk. The headline said, "Hero McCann wins big bout."

  "I suppose so," I said. "It was a solid win. Felt good."

  "Nice to hear, nice to hear," he said. He reached down and pulled open a drawer in his desk. He brought out a half-full bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He poured one, then pointed the mouth of bottle at me. I shook my head. He shrugged, downed his glass and then put all of it back in the drawer.

  "A celebratory tipple," he said. "Though I suppose you're always in training, huh?"

  "Yes, Mr. Turner." I wondered what he wanted. He had never talked with me about boxing before.

  "Griffin, I wanted to ask, now you have the fight out of the way and maybe have a little less on your mind, if you've thought any more about what happened the other day."

  "Sir?"

  "You know, the robbery."

  "Oh, sure. What did you have in mind?" I said.

  "Well, I know you told the police everything you remembered, but I wonder if there isn't more you remember now. Do you remember seeing the robber who got away, notice if he had the bag of money with him?"

  I didn't want to lie to Mr. Turner, and I was glad I didn't have to.

  "No sir, I didn't see him with the bag. He just got in quick and they sped away."

  He clasped his hands together with the index fingers raised, and brought them to his lips, nodding..

  "Of course," he said. "As I suspected. We'd really like to our money back, Griffin."

  "We do have insurance though, right?" I asked.

  "Yes, yes, we do," he said. "But, ah, for the confidence of our depositors, it always looks better if we're able to recover what was taken. They feel as if it's theirs in a way an insurance settlement never does. We can't afford to lose customers, Griffin. Then again, maybe having the hero pugilist in our lobby will actually draw them."

  I nodded, then looked around, wondering if I could get up and leave.

  " Speaking of money, are you going to fight this Drexler fellow?"

  "Who?" I asked. "Never heard of him."

  "Really?" Turner said. He flipped through the newspaper pages until he found what he sought, folded the page over and laid it on the desk in front of me.

  "This guy," he said, pointing at an advertisement. It was the same bruiser from the posters Connie Nelson had brought to the gym. I scanned the ad, and saw Monte Drexler was supposedly a heavyweight Golden Gloves winner from out east. He was on a barnstorming tour, fighting all comers at every stop.

  "Survive three rounds and you win twenty-five thousand," Turner read. "Heck, maybe I ought to give it a try. It would almost cover what those heisters stole."

  "Don't think you'd stand much of a chance, Mr. Turner," I said, looking at the picture of Drexler. "Don't know if I would. He looks pretty big."

  "Oh, don't be modest, Griffin," Turner said. "A strapping lad like yourself. Why, if you fought the way they say you did last night, who could beat you?"

  There was a knock on the door before I could answer. It was Sandy. Turner waved her in.

  "What is it, dear?"

  "The police are here, Mr. Turner. They said they have some news."

  "Well, don't keep them waiting! Maybe they found the money," he said, getting up from his desk.

  I stood and headed for the door, but Turner stopped me.

  "They'll probably want to talk with you, Griffin," he said. "Might as well stay here."

  That's what I was afraid of. If they had found the money at the gym, they knew I was involved.

  Two officers, one in uniform, the other in a suit, came into Mr. Turner's office. The one in the suit leaned over the desk to shake hands with Turner, then turned and sized me up.

  "You the security guard?"

  "Yes," I said, trying not to sound nervous.

  He stuck out his hand.

  "Mighty fine work the other day, son," he said. He was slightly overweight with a full head of wavy black hair. "Only wish you'd plugged 'em both. You ever want to trade that tin badge for a real one, you stop by the station and tell 'em Detective Gleason sent you, got it?"
>
  I nodded quickly and then looked at the uniformed officer who didn’t look any older than me. I couldn't tell if his look was one of admiration or scorn.

  "The girl said you had some news?" Mr. Turner got to the point.

  Gleason turned to the uniformed officer. "Spill it, Marks."

  The officer took a step forward and removed his hat.

  "We found the robbers' car," he said. "Outside of town to the northwest. It was parked behind an old barn and covered with tree branches. That's why it took some time to locate it."

  "Did you recover the money?" Turner said, his voice rising in anticipation.

  "Nope," the officer said. "We found the bag in a garbage can in the park toward the edge of town. But, we did find blood in the car, smeared across the backseat."

  "I did get him!" I said.

  "We think so," said Detective Gleason. "Enough to make him bleed a lot, anyway. Looks like they holed up for a day at that barn, but there's no sign of them now. Either they traded cars somehow, or they're still close by. My guess is they headed to Des Moines. Wouldn't stick out so much up there."

  "What now?" Turner asked.

  "We keep looking," the detective said. "But I've gotta tell you, it gets harder from here. We need a break. If they did skate, we won't get 'em without hearing something from a snitch. Someone local knows something. Either they're damn lucky, or they knew it was payday at the plant. That means there's somebody on the inside, either here or at the plant."

  "Here?" Turner said, his voice rising in pitch. "You think someone here had something to do with this?"

  "It's a possibility," Gleason said. "You gotta admit, if Griffin here hadn't rushed out and given chase, they'd have been long gone and we'd have no clues at all. He slowed them down and eye-balled their car. Without his actions, it was the perfect set up."

  "Sir?" I said to Gleason. "Wasn't it payday for most folks? Why would they need inside information to know that?"

  "Good question, kid," Gleason said. "See, I knew you had the makings of a fine cop. Thing is, most of the guys at the big plants in town have their accounts here. Deere, Coca-Cola, Morrell. The other banks in town have money on hand on the first, but not like Fidelity. This place is loaded for bear, and these robbers knew it."

  "I suppose you're right," Turner said. He seemed nervous now, a line of sweat breaking out at his brow. He turned to me. "I just wish you would have shot the one with the money. Then I wouldn't care about whether we caught them."

  I didn't have to answer because Gleason stepped toward Turner.

  "I would," he said, getting in the bank president's face. "And you should. If they got their information from someone here, then you have more trouble than you know."

  "Well, yes, of course," Turner said. "It's just, well, I'd really like to have the money back."

  ROUND 8

  I decided to take Mr. Turner up on his offer of doing anything I needed by asking if I could make a long-distance call. I didn't have a phone at my place, or the money to cover the call. He seemed to pause for a moment before smiling thinly and telling me that of course I could use the telephone. After the bank closed, he welcomed me into his office.

  "Sit right here, Griffin," he said, pulling out his chair. "Do you mind me asking who you're calling?"

  "Not at all, sir. I'm calling back to the orphanage where I grew up. I thought Father Tim out there ought to know about all of this crazy stuff going on, and I just want to talk to him about, well, you know."

  What Mr. Turner thought – which was exactly what I wanted him to think – was I was conflicted about killing the robber, and needed to talk to a priest. I suppose that was part of my motivation, but I really wanted to talk about all of it, to see if Father Tim could help me to figure out what to do.

  "Of course, son," Mr. Turner said. "I'll just be out on the floor counting out the drawers. Take all the time you need."

  Mr. Turner exited. I grabbed my billfold and pulled out a folded slip of paper. I picked up the handset from the phone and connected with the operator. I told her the number and she said she would connect me. There was a click, and then I heard a ring that sounded so distant I wondered if it was coming all the way down the line from Chicago. After four rings, someone picked up on the other end. I asked the kid on the line for Father Tim, and then heard the clunking sound as the handset was dropped on the desk. I knew right where it was. They didn't have a desk phone when I lived at the St. Vincent's Asylum For Boys, but I had taken my turn at the front desk where it surely must sit.

  St. Vincent’s front desk was the happiest and saddest place to in the orphanage. You saw everyone who came in the door, sure they were there to take you away and give you a home. And you saw everyone walk right on by, drawn to the home for some purpose other than to rescue you from your fate.

  The last time I had been in the chair at the front desk was the most important moment of my life. I was twelve, and a couple came to see about adopting a child. Carl and Mary Ann McCann were older, in their forties. They had lost a son to meningitis, and thought adopting a boy about the same age would somehow ease their suffering, perhaps fill the hole left in their lives by his absence. Father Tim didn't even let them meet another boy, but instead led them back out to the entryway where I sat.

  "Mr. and Mrs. McCann, this is Griffin. Why don't you take him out for a milkshake and get to know one another?" he said.

  The rest, as they say, is history. I didn't fill the hole – nothing could – but I found my place nonetheless. They allowed me to keep boxing, even drove me around the state for various tournaments when needed, but more important, they gave me a home and a family.

  And then one day, I was alone again.

  I heard a rustling sound on the other end of the phone, then Father Tim said, "Hello?"

  "Father?" I said. "It's Griffin."

  There was a pause, and I could hear the hum of the line, loud against the silence.

  "Griffin McCann?" Father said.

  "One and the same, Father," I said.

  "Griffin, my boy! How have you been? Wait, what's wrong?"

  "Wrong, Father? What do you mean?"

  "Are you still in Iowa?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "Still living on your own?"

  "Yes, Father."

  "Son, I'm still so sorry about your loss. The McCanns were good people," Father Tim said. "And if there ever was something to test my faith in our Holy Father, it would surely be cancer."

  "Yes, Father."

  "Griffin, son? Call me Tim. You're what now, nineteen?"

  "Yes, Father, I mean, Tim."

  "Then you're an adult. We are peers," he said. "But a long distance call to a priest is a sure sign of trouble. And I assume it's nothing as simple as looking for advice about how to duck a left cross. Go ahead, tell me."

  "You're right, as always," I said.

  "So?" Father said, drawing out the word.

  "So, there's been some trouble here. I'm fine, sort of. It's just, well, Father, it's a mess."

  "Griffin, son, all you've done is worry me without providing any details. Be specific. What's going on?"

  I told him about the robbery, about shooting the robber, and about taking the money. I said out loud what I had suspected silently for some time, that Mr. Turner was somehow involved. That I didn't know who to trust or what to do.

  There was no sound on the line, and I wondered if we had been disconnected. Then I heard Father Tim take a deep breath, and he spoke.

  "First, you had better hope no nosy telephone operator is still on the line, listening in on this privileged conversation between a priest and his parishioner," he said. He waited a moment before continuing. "Good. If there had been, we'd have surely heard a click when she disengaged.

  "So, you've got quite a little situation there, Griffin," he continued.

  "Yes, Father. And I don't know what to do."

  "I think you do know, Griffin," he said. "You just haven't been willing to admit it ye
t."

  "I need to give the money back, don't I?" I said.

  "Yes," he said. "And you need to admit everything. You need to tell this Mr. Turner, and the police."

  "But what if Mr. Turner is behind this?" I said. "If I give the money back, there's a good chance he'll get away with it."

  "If there is some sort of foul play at work, it is not your job to figure it out. That's for this Detective Gleason."

  "But I don't want to get in trouble," I said. "People around here think I'm a hero. It's kind of nice. People chanted my name last night at my fight, father. I felt like Kid Gavilan up there."

  "Griffin, we should not worry about how we are judged by others, but rather—"

  "How we are judged by God," I finished. "I know, Father."

  "Good. I know you will do the right thing," he said. "So, are you feeling all right about the other thing?"

  "About killing a man?" I said. "I haven't thought about it much, to be honest. With everything going on, I haven't really had time."

  "Well, from what little you've told me, it sounds like you did the right thing. The police certainly seem to think so, right?" he said. "And given that, they'll probably be willing to work with you about the money. Chalk it up as an honest mistake corrected by someone with a pure heart."

  "I suppose, Father," I said.

  "If you need to talk about it, you know where to find me," he said. "And you can always come visit for a few days. The boys here would like that, seeing someone like you who has made a success of himself out in the world."