by Jack Tunney
The ref came in and broke us up. I tried to shake my arm awake. Like molasses from a bottle, feeling was coming back to my arm, but that was worse. The pain in my arm made my eyes water, and made it more difficult to see.
Buoy came in hard and I traded punches with him, while protecting my right. He was pummeling my left side into mush. I fought off the pain and used my body to launch a shot at his unprotected jaw with my weak right.
The whip crack noise of impact echoed in the field as I made a solid connection.
My right arm was done. I doubted if I would be using it again in this match. But it had been enough to daze him. I launched a left jab, and another, followed by a left hook. Buoy's eyes were glazing over, he was going down. The bell rang and he fell loudly to the canvas.
I struggled back to my corner. A fish could walk better on fins than I could on the dangling appendages called legs.
In Buoy’s corner, they struggled to bring him back to consciousness and get him ready to meet the bell. I sat tired and worn. My sight was bleary and limited, my right arm was all but useless, and my left barely had any steam in it. But Martin was excited.
"You got him," he shouted. "He can't take anymore, all you got a do is go push him over. Don't wait, don't box, just knock his head off."
My head was slowly clearing and with it a new wave of pain filtered in from every part of my body. They worked on my face and stopped the bleeding from my check. Each second brought new life to my body, but so it did to Buoy as well. He was awake and shaking the cobwebs from his head.
The bell rang.
I charged across the ring and caught him before he could get fully set. I attacked with animal aggression and slugged him as hard as I could. He flailed with his arms to fend me off, but the flurry of blows cut through and landed on his head, and rocked him back. The huge oak of a lumberjack fell to my deluge of destruction, and went down on his back.
The ref started counting, and at ten the camp erupted in cheers.
ROUND 8
I spent the next few days in the tent on my cot. Maggie took it upon herself to nurse me back to health. Benson was elated, glad I had won, but ready to leave the woods and go back to San Francisco. After a few days Maggie’s smiling face started looking like the coming winter, cold and gray.
After a trip to the hospital, the doc wrapped my arm, and said to keep from using it for a month. That didn't sit well with me, so as soon as I could move it, I was stretching it and doing some light exercises. Of course that didn't sit well with Maggie. Every time she caught me, she threatened to lock me up and have the doc put me in a cast. I didn't let that bother me. It just didn't feel right to let the thing lay fallow.
Mr. Freeman went to see Buffalo daily, and was worried about his recovery. The old boxer had taken one punch to many, and the beating he took from Buoy had knocked something loose. Mr. Freeman had contacted the only relative of Buffalo’s he could find, a brother in Los Angeles. The doctor was set to release him to his kin, but warned he would need to be cared for the rest of his life.
I wanted to stop in and say hello, but Mr. Freeman kept me from doing it. He said Buffalo didn’t remember much, and when people came into to see him, the pain and anguish he went through trying to remember them was too much. His brother had to spend a week with him before he felt comfortable enough to agree to leave with him.
A month into my convalescence, I was nearly healed. Maggie and I had taken to spending our free time together. We ate up whole afternoons talking about what both of us wanted to do in life, but every time the subject came around to San Francisco, Maggie would turn cold.
It was quickly coming to a point when Benson and I needed to leave and go back to San Francisco, even if just for a few days to tie up some loose ends. Benson was determined to go back and never leave the city again. I, on the other hand, planned on returning to the mountains once I settled things in San Francisco.
I was relaxing in my tent when Benson came running in like he was being chased by a swarm of bees. I tried to settle him down and find out what had him in such an uproar. The way he was fighting for his breath, and struggling to set down, I thought he was having a heart attack. I shouted for someone to fetch the doctor, but Benson beat at me to stop, pulling me back into the tent.
"They found us," he said in a scared and winded voice.
"Who found us?" I asked.
"Anthony Lima's boys," he said with frightened eyes. "They know we're up here. They were in Jamestown asking about us. A couple of mob types. Of course, since you beat the lumberjack, everyone was more than happy to tell them where you were."
I never thought anyone would find us up here in this backward part of the country. But I was wrong. And Ben and I needed to get out of here fast.
A pistol shot cracked in the air, followed by screams and an auto racing out of camp. I ran towards the commotion, unconcerned for the moment about my own safety.
Mr. Karsten was sitting slumped in the dirt, being helped by one of the workers, a patch of blood swelling on his shirt, from where he had been shot in the shoulder.
"What do they want with you?" asked Mr. Karsten in a pleading voice. "They said to tell Conall and Benson if you want to see Maggie alive, you'll go back to San Francisco."
***
Benson and I rushed to our tent, and I started throwing my things in a duffle bag, when I noticed Benson doing the same.
“This ain’t your fight,” I said.
“Like hell,” said Benson his wispy hair whipping around as he pushed stuff into his duffle.
“They know Maggie and I are an item,” I said slowly working my way through my thoughts. “They took her to get at me. This doesn’t involve you.”
“I like Maggie,” said Benson as he stopped and slumped on his cot, the ordeal starting to weigh on him. “I like her a lot, not nearly as much as you, but I like her just the same. And you are my best friend. I haven’t had one of those since the war.”
“Thanks Benson,” I said as I sat on my cot across from him, and looked into his tired old eyes. “But you don’t need to do this. I can handle it on my own.”
“I’ve been running ever since the war,” he said as he put his hands on his heads. “I’ve kept people at a distance, for fear of them becoming friends, any sort of confrontation, and I’d slip out. My best friend was killed in front of me during the war. I panicked and tried to get away. That was when I was shot. I ran, Conall, I ran away. I’m a coward.”
“You’re not a coward,” I said fighting in vain to find words. “I wasn’t there, you were. That says a lot more for you than it does for me.”
“I can’t run any more Conall,” said Benson through misty eyes.
“Finish packing, let’s get the hell out of her and find Maggie.”
The miles melted away before the sun had a chance to reach its peak. We paid our toll at the gate and crossed the Bay Bridge. Sucking in the salt air was a humble reminder we were home.
Without knowing who we needed to talk too, we drove straight to the dock. Crews had worked to remove the wreckage, but three months since the fire the wharf still looked like a picture from World War II showing the aftermath of a bombing raid.
I strode to the gate urgently, ready and eager to fight. Benson hurried along to keep up with my long strides. Standing by the remains of the guard shack, a group of men huddled around a guy in a chair, laughing at some joke. At their center was Barry Creion, his feet propped up like a fat cat in an office. His eyes went large and hate filled, when he spied me approaching.
"Well, look at what washed up from the sewer," Barry said, a sneer pasted across his face. "I heard you ran scared for the hills. They should've buried you in that mine you were working."
"How do you know where we were?" I asked. "And what concern of it is yours?"
Barry stood up from the chair that strained to hold his mass. He pushed his way between the men around him until he stood in front of me. He stared, challenging me to back down, confident
in the lackeys surrounding him.
"Word on the street," he began, "is that just about everybody in the city is out to get you for what you done here on the dock."
"We didn't have anything to do with what happened here," I said.
Barry gave a laugh and his eyes lit up like a kid doing something he knew he was going to get in trouble for – just before he did it. "Prove it."
Work on the dock had stopped and a small army assembled in rank and file behind Barry. It was a fight Benson and I could never win, but luckily for us Barry had other plans.
"My father wants to talk to you," said Barry. "You'll find him at the Tonga room."
***
It wasn't far away, so we made it there in short order. But getting in was a different story.
Coming straight from the boonies, we weren't exactly dressed to enter the swank tiki bar in the Fairmont hotel. That point was not missed by the bellman in the lobby, the concierge who looked at us with disdain, or the manager who squinted at us in disgust.
“Hey you two, what’s your business here?” asked the manager in a gruff voice as he put his body in front of us. He wore an expensive suit, and tested the strength of its seams with his weight, and considerable girth. But that had little effect when blinded by the colorful and garish tie that sat upon his chest like a billboard.
“We have business in the Tonga room,” I said stretching to get every inch of my five feet eleven. “And it’s of no concern of yours.”
“Listen, bub,” he said in a voice tired at the prospect of having to speak, “Everything that happens here is my concern. And if you two hobos want to get in there you’re gonna need to clean up and buy yourself a new set of clothes.
The guy started to poke me in the chest before he began his next sentence, and that was a mistake. I grabbed his finger and twisted his arm around until it was between us, and pointing in a direction god never intended. His eyes bulged and he stammered to breath.
“Like I was saying sir,” I began in a quiet voice, “my friend and I have business in the Tonga room and we don’t have time to go change. Now just go back to your perch and quiet down.”
To the manager’s credit, he nodded agreement. And when I let him go, he pointed us in the Tonga rooms direction, happy to have us on our way, or thinking we’re going to get what’s coming to us when got in, either way he turned around to the others in the lobby and said we were okay.
A little piece of paradise greeted us as we swung the door open – a full swimming pool complete with girls in swimsuits, palm trees, and a bar. No wonder the staff wanted to keep us out. The place was a private refuge for the jet setters.
A barman came out from his work space, spouted something about a dress code and calling the cops, but Ben and I had business and we weren’t going to be swayed.
Sitting in the corner of a high backed booth, taking in the scene was Mr. Creion and a gaggle of well-dressed men. I didn't recognize any of them and could care less.
Like a pair of rhinos heading to a watering hole, we approached the table like we owned it. I had a problem with being subtle and diplomatic, it never worked for me, a problem exacerbated by the fact I was angry.
Mr. Creion looked me up and down, and sniffed the air like something bad wafted in to upset the coconut scented aroma of the place. "I see the rat finally come up from his cave," he said disgustedly. "You could have at least washed your fur, and waxed your tail."
A few of the men chuckled, with the exception of the guy at the back of the booth, and those beside him. He sat with a stern face, and dark penetrating eyes. I caught Mr. Creion looking for something like justification from the guy with the stern face. When he didn't get it, anger grew like a storm cloud in the evening, red and blubbery on the ruddy jowls hanging on his fat face.
"You think you can just stomp in here?" spluttered Creion. "You show no regard for the civilized company you’re disrupting. You should be beaten, just so you learn your place in life."
"I don't know what you’re talking about," I said. "Your son, the guy I beat on the docks, even though he had knuckle dusters in his gloves, said you wanted to see me."
The storm in Creion's face erupted into a full blown hurricane. He struggled to get out of the booth and stand up to me.
"Listen here, O'Quinn," he spluttered in a husky voice. "We got the goods on you. We know you and your pathetic friend were responsible for the fire at the wharf."
"You don't have crap," I said.
"We don't have to know anything," said the man with unbridled anger. "What we say is what it is. And what's going to happen now is you are going to fight Barry in the ring, we're gonna make a big thing of it and he's gonna beat you. Do you understand he's gonna beat you bad, like a rabid dog?"
His eyes looked small. I stared into them but couldn’t find anything but an angry little man.. "Your son couldn't beat me in his best day."
"Don't forget you’re missing a pretty little lady," he said with a wide-eyed crazy smile. "One of you is going to be beat the night of the fight. It’s either you or the skirt."
My arm flew up from my hip faster than I knew possible, and was heading straight as a bullet. Benson, however, grabbed my arm before it got halfway. The power behind the intended blow still jerked Benson off his feet and threw him into Creion. Two thugs came out of the booth. They grabbed me and tossed Benson to the ground like a rag doll.
The two thugs had to be helped by a couple workers from the Tonga room. Within moments, Benson and I found ourselves on the street outside the entrance.
Benson dusted himself off and shuttered. "Sorry I didn't help you much," he said.
I shrugged, and adjusted my jacket. I was still seething inside and couldn't think straight, I wanted to go back in there and mop the floor with those guys, but I knew I couldn't. I'd be shot if I walked back in there, and that wouldn't do Maggie any good.
As the blood slowly stopped pounding in my ear and the city sounds crept back into my brain, I realized Benson had been gabbing on about what had just happened.
"Who are you talking about?" I asked him.
"The guy in the back of the booth, did you know who he was?"
When I shook my head, he said, "That was Anthony Lima, the San Francisco crime boss."
Benson was good for knowing what happened in and around San Francisco. Growing up here, the guy didn't leave the city limits until he shipped out for World War II. He was a city boy, and relished in the world.
After a short walk down California Street, I got educated on the crime world of the city, from the Highbender Tong wars in the late eighteen hundreds, to the present day Mafia. Lima succeeded Francesco Lanza, the man responsible for organizing the San Francisco La Cosa Nostra syndicate.
Although it hadn’t grown to the mystical allure of the Las Vegas, New York, or Chicago syndicates, the mafia controlled the crime in the city, and had a strong presence with the unions.
"What does all this mean?"
"I don't know,” Benson said. “But if Lima's involved, we may want to think about running for the hills again. And this time, we'll need to go a whole lot farther away."
A black sedan appeared in front of us like a fast moving fighter plane. A flurry of hands and strong arms appeared and stuffed both of us into the back seat of the car. The lights went out as a bag covered my head, and my hands were cuffed before I had a chance to start praying a rosary. As the car roared down the road, I couldn't help thinking I was gonna be tossed off the Golden Gate Bridge very soon.
***
We drove for what seemed an hour, up and down the many hills of San Francisco. The turns and twists thoroughly confused me. It wouldn't have surprised me if we stopped in the middle of the ocean somewhere.
Finally, with a bump, the quiet hum of the tires was replaced by crunching gravel as the car slowed to a stop.
I was pulled and pushed from the back of the sedan and my shoulder slammed against the hard ground. My head swam in a whirlpool of confusion as someone
stood me on my feet.
First the cuffs were removed and then the hood. The sun hurt my eyes. I squinted to focus. Beside me Benson did the same. Sauntering out of the glare emerged the man whose identity I just recently learned.
"The word on the docks is that you’re a pretty tough guy," said Anthony Lima, he wore a decent suit, dark grey like a banker’s, but with a thin pinstripe and dark green tie. He lived a good life with plenty of food and no need to exert himself and it showed in his chubby build. "Maybe we'll just see how tough you are."
"If this is about ..." started Benson, only to be stopped by a hand held up by Lima and a commanding glare.
"Mr. Creion made it pretty clear if you didn't take a fall and let his son beat you in the ring, a female friend of yours might be roughed up," Lima paused as he walked around and looked me up and down, like a prize side of beef. "I can guarantee the little lady in question will not be harmed. But what I can't guarantee is the outcome of the bout between you and Barry. And I don't like things I can’t guarantee." He paused for effect. “I want you to win the bout. Can you do it?"
"I've beat this lightweight before, when he had steel in his gloves," I said confidently. "In a straight fight he wouldn't stand a chance against me."
"I like your confidence, O'Quinn," said Lima. "Beat Barry and the girl is safe. Lose the fight and I can't guarantee anything."
"Where is she?" I blurted.
The thugs looked uneasy, but Liam took it in stride.
"For the time being she’s safe," he said. "Some of my men are watching her along with some of Creion's boys. Nothing will happen to her unless I say so."
For some reason, another question flew out of my mouth before I had the chance to temper it. "They're trying to pin the wharf fire on us. We didn't have anything to do with it."
Lima's face turned many shades of red, but the storm slowly receded before he spoke. "Leave that to me. I know who is responsible.”
The sedan drove away in a hail of dust and rocks with everyone in it, but Benson and me. We stood in an empty industrial lot somewhere south of the city. As easily and quickly as the changing tide, the fog rolled in and shut out the sun.
