Anaconda Choke: Round 3 in the Woodshed Wallace Series

by Jeremy Brown

  One was Malhar.

  The other was Carrasco.

  Carrasco lifted a hand and nodded when he noticed me staring. He wore a brand-new baseball hat—Brazilian green with the flag on the front—a white linen suit and had his walking stick between his feet. His black sunglasses were in deep shadow under the brim of the hat, hiding whatever was behind them.

  Malhar was squeezed into a gray suit, a sheen of grease on his face and bald head. He glared at me and leaned to his right so his massive left shoulder wouldn’t invade Carrasco’s space.

  The poor kid who’d paid for the seat next to Malhar stood and leaned against the railing. He wasn’t cheering or chanting. Both hands gripped the rail with white knuckles. He glanced back and shuffled to his right, pressing into the guy next to him to get away from Malhar, who looked like a grumpy, sweaty shark.

  I checked on Jairo. From his smile and relaxed shoulders, he hadn’t seen them yet.

  Eddie said, “Okay, let’s get it started. We brought some amazing fights to Brazil for you guys, the best fight fans in the world.”

  The crowd rose to a boil. Eddie worked from the ends of the tables toward the center, introducing the matchups of preliminary fighters, the undercard, then the main event.

  When he got to Jairo, Eddie said, “Now this is how lucky you guys are. For the first time in history, we have three fights that could be on top of the card. The first one—you might know this gentleman—features Jairo Arcoverde in his Warrior debut against the very formidable Tim Preston.”

  He was shouting by the end of it. The fans drowned him out with chants of “Ar-co-ver-de! Ar-co-ver-de!” until Jairo stood and bowed, waved them down.

  Eddie said, “You all know what Jairo can do in jiu jitsu. We all can’t wait to see what happens when he gets in the cage, and we don’t think there’s anybody better suited to giving him a tough-as-hell fight than big ol’ Timmy Preston. Preston won two wrestling titles at Iowa—”

  Eddie’s amplified voice was lost under the crowd’s singing. He quit talking and looked at Preston, who shrugged and held up his right fist, about the size of a four-door compact.

  The interpreter spoke through my earpiece: “They are singing ‘Eu Sou Brasileiro,’ which means ‘I am Brazilian.’ It’s a popular song at fútbol matches.”

  After all the horror stories about the Brazilian fans screaming for our blood, this wasn’t so bad—just a bunch of people passionate about their country and their fighters.

  Eddie shouted, “Moving along. He’s on billboards and inside every fashion magazine and every woman’s fantasies, but we love him for what he does inside the cage. Rio de Janeiro, it’s your very own Rafa de Jaguaribe, but we all call him Aviso!”

  The cheers and stomping shook our table and knocked some of the water bottles over. I kept my eyes forward, not looking at Aviso or Malhar and Carrasco. The biggest compliment I could give any of them was an indication I cared, so I acted like I didn’t.

  Aviso wasn’t going to allow that.

  He stood up and vaulted over the table, stood with his fists raised over his head and bellowed at the crowd. Cameras flashed from the pit and the stadium seats. It got to the point where if I kept looking away, it would be obvious I was looking away, which was worse than looking. So I got my first good view of the man I was going to fight in about twenty-four hours.

  Aviso was tall and lean with the bone and muscle structure of an Olympic swimmer. His wide shoulders made an inverted triangle down to a narrow waist. His arms and legs were long, ending in large hands and feet.

  He did a cartwheel into a back flip, landed on his feet in front of my chair and faced me with his hands on his hips. He tilted his head back and aimed his squared jaw and sharp cheekbones at me, pointed a finger.

  “This is new,” Eddie said, “here’s Aviso helping me introduce his opponent.”

  The crowd started chanting something else. It sounded like “buy more air.”

  Eddie said, “He’s from the back alleys of Las Vegas and has more scars on his face than a dog has fleas—everybody give him a warm welcome—Aaron ‘Woodshed’ Wallace!”

  The interpreter said, “The fans are chanting ‘Vai morrer,’ which means ‘You are going to die.’”

  I nodded. Slightly more harsh than “I am Brazilian.”

  Aviso whirled to the crowd and started dancing, some blend of salsa and capoeira that had the reporters locked in and the fans foaming at the mouth. Malhar and Carrasco were motionless in the sea of madness, Malhar’s pig eyes and Carrasco’s dark lenses on me.

  Aviso took a deep bow, rose into a handstand, walked on his hands around the end of the table and sat down.

  “Amazing athleticism,” Eddie said. “Just spectacular. Ladies and gentlemen, this is going to be one helluva fight!”

  He introduced the main event. Okari earned a chant that sounded like “Oh-lay, oh-lay oh-lay oh-lay, oh-lay, oh-lay.”

  The interpreter said, “They are chanting ‘Olé, olé-olé-olé, olé, olé.’ It means nothing.”

  Okari patted my shoulder.

  Eddie said, “Those are your fighters, Brazil. Man, I wish it was going down tonight! I hope you’re all coming to the weigh-ins after this, because who knows, the way some of these guys look right now, the first round might start a day early. Look at Woodshed down there—he’s ready to chew through the table.”

  The crowd answered. “Vai morrer! Vai morrer!”

  Eddie said, “Let’s do some questions now. We’ll start with reporters’ row down here, then you fans can have a chance to ask your favorite fighters anything you want.”

  Malhar finally moved, standing and waving at the Warrior usher who carried the wireless microphone.

  The first reporter was a blonde woman from Sports Illustrated. She asked Jairo, “How much pressure is on you to represent and uphold the Arcoverde name in this fight?”

  Jairo didn’t hesitate. “I feel no pressure. Our name is strong no matter what happens.”

  “Does that mean you’re prepared to lose?”

  “No, I will not lose. But the Arcoverde name is bigger than this fight.”

  The reporter glanced at Eddie. “Bigger than Warrior Inc.?”

  “To me, yes,” Jairo said.

  She said, “Eddie, what is your response to that?”

  Eddie leaned into his microphone. “My response is: stop causing trouble. And Jairo has obviously been hit in the head a lot getting ready for this fight. Next question.”

  In the crowd, the body language and expression of the usher with the wireless mic showed he was carefully trying to explain to Malhar it wasn’t time for audience questions yet. Malhar snatched the microphone out of his hand and squeezed it in a gnarled fist, turned and handed it to Carrasco. He sat down and glared at the usher, who crouched on one of the aisle steps, defeated.

  Carrasco held the mic in his lap and crossed his spindly legs, a tight smile tugging his mouth to the right.

  Gil and Antonio stood shoulder to shoulder backstage. I couldn’t tell if they were listening with severe concentration or royally pissed. Maybe both. Rubin was gone.

  A reporter from Fox Sports asked Jairo, “Do you feel there are any issues of loyalty when it comes to your country and your friendship with Aaron Wallace?”

  “No,” Jairo said.

  “But aren’t you helping him get ready to fight a fellow Brazilian?”

  “He is my brother. There is no problem.”

  Some of the crowd booed.

  The reporter said, “A source told me that you and Tim Preston had switched prep rooms, so you were with Aviso and Preston was with Woody. But I checked the names on the rooms, and you’re with Woody. Any comment on that?”

  “No,” Jairo said.

  “So there’s no trouble between you two?”

  “None.”

  The reporter said, “Woody, anything to add?”

  “No.”

  “Man, it’s like a mob trial up there. Preston, what do you think?”<
br />
  “It don’t matter which room I’m in, or who’s brothers with who. I’ll beat anyone Eddie puts in front of me.”

  The reporter waited for the crowd’s hatred to subside. “Aviso?”

  Aviso gave a lazy shrug. “Maybe they having trouble now, but they really gonna have it after the fight. Because I’m gonna carry Brazil with me into that cage, and I’m gonna carry his broken arm out when I leave.”

  The fans started singing again.

  Aviso shouted, “So Jairo, I’m sorry man, but your brother over there is gonna ask you, ‘Why was Aviso so mean to me, why he break my arm, what I do now with my arm so useless?’ When he ask you these things, you just tell him, ‘Hey, Aviso warned you.’”

  The singing and chanting lasted longer than my patience. Aviso basked in it. Malhar and Carrasco were statues. I didn’t see Rubin or any of his men lurking near the exits or aisles.

  A reporter was asking me something.

  “—think you will be intimidated by Aviso’s handsomeness and godlike movement?”

  “Huh?”

  The reporter, a Brazilian man, grinned. “I guess I am asking if you will be too worried about hitting Aviso’s face. It is very important to him, and to all of us. The world, really.”

  “I’ll be worried if I don’t hit it. But that won’t happen, so no, I’m not worried.”

  Aviso chimed in. “Not so fast, dog face.”

  Dog face?

  He said, “You not gonna hit my face, you not gonna hit my body. You not gonna hit anything man, because I’m so fast. I make you look stupid, and slow, and ridiculous.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Yeah, we will. Look at my face, man. Look at it.” Aviso stood and leaned over the table, turned his jaw left and right so everyone could see. His grin spread wide. “No scars, man. Not even a broken nose, ever. Why is this? Because I don’t get hit.”

  “Yeah, I heard that about you.”

  “Now you gonna see it.”

  “What I heard is, you can’t take it. You get smacked once and give up.”

  “No, that’s wrong.”

  I frowned, tried to look confused. It came a little too easily. “But isn’t it true you fire sparring partners who manage to hit you in the face?”

  Aviso shook his head. The grin slipped a bit. “You dreaming, man. Your brain is mushy. Who tole you that?”

  “Hey, maybe I’m wrong. I guess we’ll find out tomorrow when I smash your nose flat, bust your eyebrows open and knock that jaw crooked. Remember, though, you can’t fire me.”

  Eddie couldn’t resist sticking his needle in the balloon. “I can. But hell, the way you two are pumping this fight, why would I?”

  Aviso said, “I didn’t want to say it out of respect for the Arcoverdes, but maybe he don’t know what he is saying because Antonio kicked him out of the Academia. And his home.”

  The hush started on the dais and flowed through the reporters, washed over the crowd once the interpreter was done.

  Eddie turned and waited for a response from me. It didn’t matter who told Aviso—Eddie, Antonio, hell, maybe even Rubin—I couldn’t let it turn into a distraction for me or Jairo.

  I smiled. “See? I haven’t even put leather on his face yet, he’s already running and changing the subject.”

  Eddie was smart enough to see what could happen. If this turned into America vs. the Arcoverdes—or worse for him, Warrior Inc. vs. the Arcoverdes—he might not be welcome in Brazil again.

  He yelled over the buzz, which was building into an angry hum like a shaken hornet’s nest. “You reporters done? I’ll come back to you—let’s hear what the fans have to say. You guys have something to say, right? Hell yeah! We got a few mics running around out there, who has it first?”

  Carrasco turned the microphone in his thin fingers, flicked a switch on the bottom and tapped the black foam. The speakers thumped.

  “Hello, how are you? I have a question for the American fighter, ah, Mr. Wallace. You seem so serious about this fight, so much like a businessman. But you are in lovely Brazil, a place of joy and fun. Are you doing anything while you are here to enjoy yourself?”

  Past the podium, Jairo’s hands had turned to fists on the table. He glared at Carrasco, his chest rising and falling like he’d just finished another run up the mountain. I had no interest in whatever Carrasco was pulling. I would have grabbed Jairo and walked out if my stupid pride didn’t make me stare into his black lenses and open my mouth.

  “I enjoy fighting.”

  “Yes, we all know you are very tough, sure. But you must have other things to do while you are here.”

  “Nope.”

  Carrasco’s grin twitched. “This is too bad. Maybe I help you find something to do. Are you busy tonight?”

  I glanced at Eddie. His face was pursed, like he didn’t know what the hell was going on and didn’t appreciate it. He said, “Let’s keep the questions focused on Warrior topics, thanks.”

  “Sorry, sure,” Carrasco said. He asked me, “If you are no longer welcome in the Arcoverde home, who is watching my Pomba Gira?”

  Jairo cursed and pounded the table. I resisted the urge to whip my phone out and try her again. Gil and Antonio had vanished from offstage.

  Relax. They left to get Marcela to a safe place.

  The reporters smelled something, murmured to each other to see who knew what this guy in the white suit was talking about. When no one did, hands popped up. The crowd started bubbling again.

  Eddie said, “Thank you for coming, sir. Next question.”

  “I have another one.”

  “No, you’re done. Usher, who’s next?”

  The usher gestured for Carrasco to toss the microphone. He didn’t want to get within Malhar’s reach.

  Carrasco’s lenses stayed on me. “See you soon, sure.”

  He let the microphone fall to the floor and pushed himself up on his walking stick. Malhar led the way to the aisle. They disappeared into an exit tunnel.

  I waited for gunshots, Rubin yelling for everyone to get on the ground, the sound of someone hitting Malhar with a truck.

  Nothing.

  Eddie looked down at me from his podium. “You got some weird groupies, man. Who’s next?”

  I walked off the stage, chased by camera flashes and a resurgence of “Vai morrer! Vai morrer!”

  Gil was in the prep room, jamming gear into his coffin-sized bag. I had my phone stuck to my ear.

  Gil didn’t look up. “Antonio just talked to her. She’s fine. She’s at the academy with Javier and Edson.”

  “They need to bring her here.”

  “Why?”

  “So I can keep an eye on her, make sure she’s safe.”

  “Well, that won’t work. Because we aren’t going to be here.”

  “Fine, I don’t give a shit about the rooms anymore. Antonio wins that one. She can even stay with him and Jairo, as long as she’s close by.”

  Gil zipped the bag shut and straightened, looked at me for the first time since I’d come in. His cheeks were wet. “No, Woody, we aren’t going to be in Brazil. We’re flying home. Now.”

  “Whoa. Hold on. What?”

  “That was Carrasco in the crowd, right? The fucking Hangman?”

  “Gil, just—”

  “Shut up. Antonio knew it was him. And that cop, Rubin, said he was here to protect you from the fans, but I heard him tell his men to get ready in case you left with Carrasco. Not got grabbed by him, not attacked. Just walked out of the arena with him. Why would that happen, Woody?”

  “Okay. Here’s what happened.”

  “You lied to me. That’s what happened. I was so excited for you to come down here and be with Marcela, meet her family. The family who took me in and treated me like a son. Bad enough you insult them, but at least your intentions were good. I can mend that. But you lied. And for what?”

  “To protect you. I didn’t want you to worry.”

  “No,” Gil said. The tears were flo
wing down his face, dripping onto his chest. “You didn’t want me to stop you. And I would have, because Woody—now I want you to listen very closely to this—you are going to get murdered.”

  “No, I—”

  “Stop it! Just stop. How fucking selfish of you. Look around at everything we’ve worked for, what people have done for you, how much they love you. I love you, Woody. Antonio loves you, otherwise he wouldn’t care enough to be as furious as he is.”

  Gil carried the duffel to the door and dropped it.

  “Jairo loves you like a brother. Marcela loves you more than anything in the world. And what you’re doing will make her miserable for the rest of her life. Because you will die thinking you’re protecting her, when really, it’s for nothing. Nothing. So I’m putting your ass on a plane and we’re going home before you can commit suicide down here.”

  “Gil, I have a fight tomorrow.”

  “Fuck the fight. Eddie will get over it, or he won’t. I don’t care. What matters is you live long enough for us to sit around drinking whiskey and laughing about how goddam stupid this is. And that’s going to be a very, very long time from now.”

  He lifted the gear bag, clamped a hand on my upper arm and hauled me toward the door. I was so stunned from the whole outburst I didn’t resist. We turned left in the hallway. It was quiet, everyone still at the press conference or moving to the weigh-ins adjacent to the mini stadium.

  Gil took two steps and stopped.

  Malhar and Carrasco waited at the end of the hallway with four lean, hard-eyed men.

  Gil spun me around and started the other way.

  Eye Patch stood from his crouch against the wall. The green bag slung over his shoulder was familiar. So were the three guys with him—they’d been outside the academy on my first visit.

  Carrasco’s voice carried down the concrete tunnel: “Exu wants to talk to you.”

  “Come with us,” Carrasco said. “We not gonna hurt you. Not now, sure.”

  I knew Gil wouldn’t let them take me. And if they were determined to do so, they’d kill him or hurt him badly enough he’d crumple out of the way.

  I also knew if they laid a hand on him, they’d have to shoot me to make me stop ripping them all to pieces.