by Jeremy Brown
Great. Another chance for the overhand right to make an appearance. If Preston got back on his feet, he’d work his ass off to make sure he stayed there.
Antonio squinted, moved his head up and down, examining the angles and tension, then shouted, “Apenas lutar! Lutar!”
I said, “What’s that?”
Antonio glanced at me. “I tell him just fight. Fight.”
Jairo winked at us, then caught Preston’s left wrist with his right hand, rocked up into a kneeling position, and slammed his left fist into Preston’s face. The crowd detonated a nuclear weapon somewhere in the upper deck.
Jairo punched again and again. Preston turned his head side to side and tried to cover up with his forearms. Jairo still had the left wrist, and when Preston lifted his head off the canvas Jairo looped his right arm behind the head and dragged Preston’s left arm around his own neck and trapped it there, leaving Preston’s reddening face exposed.
Jairo landed heavy lefts onto Preston’s mouth, nose, and brow. Preston’s right hand and forearm blocked some of them. Then Jairo dropped a crushing elbow that made the arena howl.
I nudged Antonio. “I taught him that.”
Brubaker had a keen eye on Preston, watching for the moment when he could no longer intelligently defend himself. Jairo punched him three more times, ripped Preston’s left arm tighter around his neck, and fell forward to plant all of his weight on the triceps.
Preston’s legs kicked, stomped, and sagged.
Jairo let go and stood up.
Brubaker waved Jairo back into the fight, then saw Preston’s glazed eyes staring up at the lights.
I heard Davie Benton, the Warrior color commentator, screaming, “He choked him out with his own arm!”
Jairo raised a fist as the crowd shook the building apart.
Antonio slapped me on the back and touched a thumb to his puffed chest. “I taught him that.”
I followed Antonio toward the cage doorway. Edson and Javier jumped the steps, pulled their father up, and ran to Jairo. I was right behind them when Gil caught my arm.
“You gotta get your gloves on! You’re next!”
Ah, shit.
Aviso.
I took a moment to watch the Arcoverdes celebrate the victory, then ran with Gil up the aisle to the prep rooms.
Under the crowd’s elation for Jairo and the singing of Eu Sou Brasileiro, the chant was already starting.
“Vai morrer! Vai morrer!”
Marcela had tears on her cheeks as she grabbed Gil and me, gathered us into a group hug that blocked the space just inside the prep room door.
Some suit from the fight commission came in without knocking and ran into my back.
“Official business,” he apologized, then peered at my wrapped hands, hefted the gloves waiting for me on the table and poked his finger inside each one before grunting and moving to the corner. He pulled out his phone and ignored us, though I’m sure he would have spoken up if I slipped on a pair of brass knuckles before I picked up the gloves.
Marcela released us and ran a sleeve over her face, waved a hand at the TV showing replays of Preston’s punch and Jairo’s resurrection. “I turned it on and off twenty times. I couldn’t watch, then I couldn’t stand not knowing. I wanted to come out and be strong for Jairo, but with his getting sick, and my uncle . . . it was too much. He is okay?”
I tugged one glove on. “This is probably the best moment of his life.”
“He’s fine,” Gil said. “But we should all be prepared—his machismo will now grow exponentially.”
“This is not possible.” Marcela helped me with the second glove.
The commission guy kept one eye on us while Gil tightened the laces and tied them off, then presented a focus mitt. I tagged it a dozen times with each hand.
“Feels good.”
The official produced a roll of blue duct tape from his pocket and slapped a strip around each of my wrists, covering the laces and edges of sewn leather. He signed his work with a black Sharpie so everyone would know I hadn’t re-wrapped my hands with lead strips and kryptonite.
“Good luck,” he said, then left.
Gil walked to the mats. “Let’s get you warmed up again.”
“I’m ready.”
“You loose?”
“Just another Saturday.”
“Let’s have some fun.”
I smacked the pads around, Gil moving to check my footwork and angles, making sure I wasn’t defaulting away from the Aviso strategy. This was my thirtieth professional MMA fight and my third with Warrior. The previous two had been against disparate opponents: Junior Burbank, a poster-boy powerhouse and the only guy I’d fought who hit as hard as me, and Zombi, a Japanese robot sent by the Yakuza to infect Warrior.
Burbank wanted to break my will and leave me a bloody mess before he put me down for good.
Zombi took everything I threw at him and kept coming forward to choke me unconscious—at least.
I knocked them both out. Beyond the victory, there is something powerful in turning the lights off on another man. You steal a slice of time from him. You take a bit of his soul, his presence.
Aviso had never been knocked out. Hell, I hadn’t seen any footage of him taking a solid punch. He was slippery and elusive and an expert at avoiding punishment.
But he was about to get locked in a cage with me.
And I am punishment.
The Arcoverde brothers boiled through the door, hugging and hopping and laughing. Antonio followed with his hands behind his back, beaming with pride. Cameras flashed from the hallway and a Warrior media crew nosed into the room to feed live footage to the TV.
Gil and I stepped out of the way.
Marcela ran her hands over Jairo’s face and hugged him. Javier and Edson wrapped them up and within a few seconds they were all crying and laughing with relief and joy.
Gil sniffed and used the hood of his sweatshirt to wipe his eyes. Sweat ran into mine and I had to blink a few hundred times to keep things clear. It also made my throat thick and my nose run.
Antonio approached, his face blank.
Gil put a hand out. “Congratulations. Your son was incredible.”
Antonio stopped, his mouth a thin line while he studied Gil. He turned and walked away toward the Arcoverde corner, disappeared behind his sons.
Gil’s hand hung out there like a puppy in the cold. More tears fell, but they weren’t for Jairo and they weren’t happy.
I scrambled for something to say or do, came up with nothing. It didn’t seem like the right moment to put Antonio through a wall, but I’ve never been good at reading a room.
Antonio reappeared, stepped around his family and walked toward us with his weathered satchel. He stopped in front of Gil, reached into the satchel, and pulled out a carefully folded strip of cloth. It had wide, alternating stripes of black and red, similar to a coral snake. I’d seen one like it before, the first time Jairo came to Gil’s dojo in Vegas and Gil held a welcoming ceremony.
It was a seventh-degree black belt in Arcoverde jiu jitsu.
Antonio bowed his head and held the belt out to Gil with both hands. Behind him, Jairo stood with his arms around Marcela, Javier, and Edson. They were all still crying while they watched in silence.
Gil’s mouth was open. He took an unsteady step back and pulled a deep, shuddering breath, then shook his head and sobbed. He bowed to Antonio and slid his palms beneath the belt.
Antonio gripped Gil’s forearms. “You have taught me much, my friend. My son. I do not know if I am worthy to give you this, but you are worthy of it.”
They fell into a fierce embrace. The rest of the Arcoverdes piled on and Marcela hauled me in. I rubbed Jairo’s head and slapped backs and kissed lips I’m pretty sure were Marcela’s.
All in all, it was a lot more hugging than I’m used to before a fight.
We broke apart. The Warrior media crew extracted themselves and Carol stuck her head in the door.
“W
oodshed Wallace, walking in five minutes.”
She closed the door.
Gil stared down at the belt, still folded in his hands.
I said, “Do I have to call you ‘professor’ now, or ‘master’?”
“Actually, you shouldn’t be talking to me at all anymore.”
“Sounds about right.”
Antonio turned to me, his posture rigid. “Thank you for helping my son.”
“Hey, Arcoverde blood won that fight. We just needed to get out of his way.”
He nodded. “You are still not good enough for Marcela.”
“I know.”
Marcela’s jaw clenched.
Antonio held a palm toward her, then winked. “But it is only because no one is.”
He offered the hand to me.
I shook it.
“You are ready for Aviso,” he said.
“Yes.”
“I think you are. You are calm.”
“Right.”
“We saw this with Jairo. The calm fighter has an advantage, he wins. Because he knows what is going to happen next, yes?”
“Sure.”
“And you are calm because you know what you are doing.”
“Damn right. I’m getting into a fight.”
Marcela puffed her cheeks and patted my arm.
The hallway crew thumped on the door.
“We’re in business,” Gil said. He grabbed the bucket with all his cornerman gear.
Marcela kissed me hard, put her forehead against mine. “I love you.”
“I love you.”
“Oh!” She pulled back and ran to my bag. “During Jairo’s fight your phone would not shut up, but I was pacing too much to care or make it stop.”
She checked the screen.
“Your guys back home say, ‘They are here. Where are you?’” Marcela frowned. “The next one says, ‘Where is Marcela?’ These are just from a number, no name. ‘They are coming.’ Who is this from? Who are they?”
A fist pounded the door again.
Gil found my mouthguard and held it up, made a display of putting it in the bucket so I’d know it was ready. He walked around the couches.
“Somebody let poor Carol in.”
He opened the door.
Carrasco stood there with Malhar and Eye Patch.
“It is time, sure.”
16
The room was dead silent. My stomach shrank and fell between my feet.
Carrasco smiled at Marcela. “Hello, Pomba Gira.”
“Why are you here?”
“For your man, sure. Oh, maybe he did not tell you this was happening. From your face, I think so. Is too bad. I will never lie to you, Pomba Gira.”
The Arcoverde men lost their elation and turned into a tense pride of lions, staring and snorting at Carrasco’s crew. Eye Patch lifted the butt of a cut-down shotgun out of his bag, just enough to show everyone, and shook his head.
Marcela turned to me. “What is happening?”
“I didn’t have a choice. I’m sorry.”
“He lies,” Carrasco said. “Exu gave him choices. Chances to go away. He chose to stay, to run the Coluna da Cobra, sure.”
Marcela said, “Tell me.”
I felt ridiculous standing in my sandals, shorts, and gloves against men with guns, grenades, and fuck knows what else. I took Marcela’s hands, slipped the phone out of her loose grip and let it fall to the carpet, nudged it under the couch to keep Rubin’s messages away from Carrasco.
“I couldn’t leave. I couldn’t walk away knowing he’d come for you. You and your family.”
“So you will kill yourself instead. Then what? He still comes, and I am heartbroken.”
Carrasco looked concerned. “No no. Exu will heal you, Pomba Gira.”
“Shut up.”
Malhar puffed at the insult. He took a step forward. Carrasco tilted his walking stick across the doorway. Malhar stopped, the veins in his head throbbing as he scanned the Arcoverdes with pig eyes. He grinned and nodded, eager to take on the whole room. He spat something in Portuguese and squeezed his crotch.
Carrasco said to me, “Exu gave you choices. Now you have another. The Coluna is ready. The snake is hungry, sure. And it is time for your little fight, with rules and music to make people happy for the violence. Which one do you choose?”
“I’ll make the fight quick.”
Carrasco shook his head. “Not quick enough. Exu’s people are ready. If you break your oath to Exu, if you do not feed the snake, they will be angry. And scared. They will want to make Exu happy.”
“How?”
He shrugged. “Climb into the Arcoverde estate and take everything, burn it to the ground. Leave only ash and bones, I think.”
Jairo and his brothers cursed and shouted. Antonio’s chest heaved.
Carrasco tilted his glasses down and stared with his red, bulging jellyfish eye until the noise died. “In this room, Exu kills everyone and takes Pomba Gira to her new home.”
I said, “Somebody cut these gloves off me.”
Gil said, “Woody, wait.”
“Cut ’em off or I’ll chew ’em off.”
Marcela put a hand on my chest. “You are not going.”
I gnawed at the duct tape around my right wrist.
“Wait,” Marcela said. “Even if you live, your fight career is over. Eddie will never forgive this.”
“Fuck him. Fuck Warrior. This is you. This is family.”
“I won’t let you through the door.”
I told Gil, “Keep her out of my way.”
She grabbed Gil’s hand. “Make him stop. Choke him unconscious. Jairo, all of you. Help me.”
“Anyone who interferes with Exu’s will,” Carrasco said, “angers him.”
Eye Patch poked the barrel of the shotgun through the open zipper and leveled it at the room. I held my hands out to Gil, who pulled a pair of medical shears out of the cornerman bucket.
He couldn’t look at Marcela but told her, “I tried to take him home.”
He slid the shears in.
“No,” Marcela said. She turned to Carrasco. “Let him fight. Let him go out there, and afterward I will go with him for the Coluna.”
“Don’t listen,” I said shoving my gloves at Gil again. He pulled the scissors away.
Carrasco said, “Pomba Gira, the Coluna is very dangerous.”
“Yes. And if he does not survive it, I will already be there. I will come to Exu willingly.”
Carrasco gasped a prayer in Portuguese. “This makes Exu very happy. He accepts.”
“Bullshit he does,” I said.
Marcela pulled my head down, pressed her cheek against mine, and whispered, “You have fought alone for so long, and now you are willing to do this. I cannot take it. Don’t you see? It is too much. I will go with you. If they want to hurt you, they have to go through me. And if they want to hurt me, they must face you. Tell me—who in the world will be safer than us?”
She looked me in the eye.
I saw truth.
“Make a path, make a path.” Carol and her headset elbowed between Malhar and Carrasco. Eye Patch’s shotgun disappeared into the duffel like a turtle’s head. Carol eyeballed the three men blocking the doorway like they were bird shit on a bible. “Woody, we’re walking.”
I stared at Carrasco’s dark lenses and waited.
He backed away. Malhar and Eye Patch followed, clearing the exit.
Carrasco said, “Good luck out there.”
“Vai morrer! Vai morrer!”
The chant was louder than my entrance music. Brazilian fans tilted over the barricades lining the path to the cage, flailing and spitting and clutching. Flags slapped me in the face.
“Vai morrer! Vai morrer!”
You will die.
Gil had a hand on my shoulder. His mouth was moving but I couldn’t hear a word of it. All I could think about was being dropped at the top of the Axila da Serpente with Marcela. Tried to picture it, what kind of
shape I would be in after this fight with Aviso.
“Vai morrer! Vai morrer!”
Ideally, this would be over quickly.
Let me save energy.
“Vai morrer! Vai morrer!”
I had a feeling Aviso wouldn’t play along. Something else huddled in the corner of my mind, a black crusty thought I hadn’t paid attention to in years. Maybe ever.
“Vai morrer! Vai morrer!”
It was the worst thing a fighter could carry into the cage. I survived the gauntlet and stopped at the base of the stairs, stripped off my sweatshirt, kicked off the sandals, and started up.
Gil yanked me back and yelled into my ear: “Easy, Woody. Easy. They gotta check you.”
He slapped my mouthguard in and wrapped me in a bear hug. Behind him, Antonio stood with the bucket of gear. He nodded and pulled me close when Gil stepped away.
“You are calm. You are ready.”
I nodded. The surreal moment of having the grandmaster of Arcoverde jiu jitsu as a cornerman was wasted on me—everything was focused on ignoring the black thought.
It was stretching, shaking off the dust.
“Vai morrer! Vai morrer!”
Vern spun me around and did his thing. I barely felt the smeared Vaseline, relied on muscle memory to tap my cup and show him the mouthguard.
He held a hand toward the cage entrance. “Fighter may enter.”
I ran up the steps, trying to shake the thought loose and leave it behind.
It was dug in and swelling, like it had tapped an artery.
The one thought a fighter can never have.
And the one I needed to obey if Marcela and I were going to survive the Coluna.
Don’t get hurt.
Aviso came in to something with bongos. He cha-cha’ed his way down the runway to the crowd’s deafening rendition of Eu Sou Brasileiro, slapping palms, kissing women, and posing for photos.
I paced my corner.
Don’t think about getting hurt.
That doesn’t work, idiot.
Think about the strategies.
I sorted through the noise in my head, couldn’t find them.
Shit.
Gil and Antonio leaned over the top of the cage, holding a banner with the Fight House logo and our sponsors’.
