GOLDEN GATE GLOVES (FIGHT CARD)

by Jack Tunney

  At least the walk back to the city was cool, but inside I was a burning furnace of anger. The crime boss wanted me to win the fight, the union boss wanted me to lose it, and I had no idea where Maggie was. Should we go to the cops or just show up at the fight?

  When at last we made it to the city proper, the day had been replaced by the damp, fog quiet, evening. For the first time in hours, I realized I was starving. Looking back couldn't remember the last time I had anything to eat. Benson and I walked into a quiet restaurant we both knew – Gus's Steak House. Smoke hung in the rafters waiting to be sucked out by a fan, tall leather upholstered booths, lined the walls of this long narrow dive, staggered so that you didn’t have to look at the people across from you. We each ordered a big, thick, prime rib and a beer.

  After we polished off our dinner, we sat in the high backed leather booth ready to collapse with exhaustion. Then Lucky Hansen walked in, dressed in a long trench coat, old and dirty from many years of use. His hair had grown long since last I saw him, and he looked as if he hadn’t had a bath in as much time, he searched the room, saw us and hustled over quickly with a nervous shuffle, sliding into the booth hunched and hidden. His eyes darted frantically.

  "Take it easy, Lucky," I said as I took a drink from a fresh beer. "We know everyone wants us dead, so if you're worried about being with us, you never should have come in the door."

  Lucky sucked in a noisy breath. “You two have no idea what you're into. The union boss has been planting your name all around town as the two who burnt down the wharf. As soon as I heard you were back in town, I started looking for you."

  "Do you think we did it?" I asked him.

  "If I did, I wouldn't be here," said Lucky. He was starting to calm down. "My brother-in-law the cop says you’re clean, but word on the street is you’re dirty. They say you were in cahoots with the owner, stole money from the union, and buried it up in the hills."

  "What's the word about the fight?" I asked.

  "That you cheated," replied Lucky. "And that Barry is going to rule the next one like he's Marciano. Everyone on the dock is betting against you. Heck, the fight is so popular they even managed to get your bout on the Sanchez and McMann fight card."

  "Is that what you wanted to come here and tell us?" I asked. Depression was starting to creep back in like the memories of a whiskey binge.

  "I just wanted to tell you I don't believe anything they're saying about you, and to watch out. Everyone on the dock and half the city want to get a piece of you before the fight."

  Lucky got up and hustled from the place, with fear following him like a ghost.. Benson and I were left to ruminate over things in our booth. From the word we just received, we weren't welcome in our old city, nor by our brother dock workers. I didn't much care whether they liked me or not, but what worried me was them wrecking my chances of defeating Barry, and winning Maggie's safety.

  Was it time to go to the cops?

  It was the question which turned the discussion between Benson and me into an argument. Growing up in the orphanage under the tutelage of Father Tim, I'd learned to take care of my own problems, but to respect authority. To that end I found it easy to avoid asking the police or perhaps a nun to help out. Benson, however, was willing to give himself over to the cops and wallow in their protection. I just didn't see it the same way.

  I knew what I needed to do.

  ROUND 9

  For the next week, I huddled in a hotel room away from the docks or any place where I might be discovered. I found an old gym, and trained. After the past few months in the mountains, I didn't need much training to tune myself up for the fight. I was rock hard, and fast – bred hard against the rock mine face I’d been working for months. My shoulder felt like it was back to new, and I was ready.

  The day before the fight a group entered the gym. My jaw nearly hit the floor, when I saw old man Freeman and a few of the other men from the mine.

  “How in the hell did you find me here?” I asked as I approached the group.

  Freeman clinched me in as big a bear hug as he could muster. “Found Maggie yet?” he asked in a tired voice.

  “Not yet,” I said as I was pulled away by others, eager to shake my hand, and throw questions at a mile a minute. “But I’ll get her back, after the fight tomorrow I’ll have her back.”

  Freeman sat down on a bench, the old guy looked as if he had aged a hundred years since last I saw him. His face was drawn and his eyes were hollow, he looked like a beggar after a long time of being hungry. “Maggie is all I got in my life, the only thing of any importance. Please get her back.”

  “She means as much to me Mr. Freeman,” I said looking into those hollow eyes. “I’ll get her back, I’ll keep her safe.”

  Friday night and outside the entrance to the hall was crowded. Posters of the fight card plastered about had been marked up by restless fans. Written over the names of the main card, were "Battling" Barry Creion vs. "Scab" O'Quinn. I didn't let the name get to me. If they thought I was a scab then let 'em, but I had a job to do and by hell or high water I was gonna do it.

  Benson had earlier cased the place and presently held open a side door away from the crowd for me to enter. Inside was a dark damp hallway leading to the dressing room. Creion and Lima's men, along with a displaced ref crowded around the cramped dressing room to watch my hands being tapped, making sure my gloves were clean.

  I told them it wasn't my gloves they had to worry about, and the resulting commotion almost stirred a battle right there. Lima's men held sway over the Creion’s underlings and quickly settled the dust up with nothing more than deadly glares.

  A guy came in and told us to get out.

  I took a deep breath, settled my nerves and focused. In my mind I could see Father Tim, standing with his palm up showing me how to make a fist and how to deliver it. It played over in my head in an endless loop.

  The roar of the crowd broke my concentration. A thunder of boos greeted me as I entered the arena followed by the chant, of, “Scab. Scab. Scab.” It was quickly replaced by cheers when Barry came down the aisle and erupted into a full blown explosion when he took to the ring.

  "We may not make it out of here alive if you beat this guy," Benson said.

  "I'm going to beat this guy," I said as a matter of fact. "We'll worry about getting out later."

  ***

  The referee gave us our orders and the bell rang clear in the auditorium to a strangely quiet crowd. It was as if everyone was collectively holding their breath.

  Barry charged out and swung with a wild right. The crowd let loose and screamed. But they were quickly silenced as I ducked underneath and caught him in the ribs with two fast hard uppercuts to his ribs, lifting his feet off the canvas. In the front row, Daddy Creion bit angrily on a cigar. I followed with a right jab, and Barry covered up, back peddling into the ropes.

  The ring was like a home, and I settled into it like it was after a hard day at work. It was like putting on comfy slippers and sitting in a favorite chair ... I relaxed. I held my hands loose, looking for an opening, moving to my right, forcing Barry to dance to my tune. He shuffled awkwardly and threw some left handed jabs, missing badly. When he tried to force me to his music and change my dance, I peppered him with right jabs that hit hard and hurt him.

  I stepped in with my left foot and popped him with a couple of punches, then finished with a right cross that took him on his cheekbone. He turned away in disgust, shaking his head and looked in the audience at his father, as if asking why I wasn't taking a fall. Daddy Creion's fist thumped his fat legs. I tipped my glove to him, which did little to alleviate his angry disposition.

  The crowd was going to sleep. Barry came in straight and led with a flurry of jabs. A couple got inside my gloves and landed on my head. I ducked under a right cross, but unfortunately met Barry's left-handed uppercut. The shot staggered me.

  For a second I saw stars, and watched Barry plow through them with a jab that landed on my nose. I fel
t it turn to mush and pain shot through my face. I shook the cobwebs from my head, and blew the blood out of my nose.

  The sleeping crowd was on their feet, screaming for blood, and Barry didn't disappoint them. He waged in with a haymaker. The blow racked my body, and rung my head like the bells of St. Peter. He went to work on my body, in close. I got closer and tied him up in a clinch. The ref broke us up, but I’d got the breath I’d needed.

  Barry stood confident, forcing me to move to the left and to protect against his relentless combinations. I slipped on the canvas and he came in hard. His blows were wild, but one caught me behind the ear. The blow hurt and I saw double, but the ref saw it and gave him a warning. He looked me over and checked my gloves before he put us against each other again.

  The round ended and we each went to our corners. Barry was jumping up and down, and beating the air like he had just won.

  With the ring of the bell to start the next round still echoing through the auditorium, Barry and I stalked the ring floor like two hunting tigers. Neither of us was willing to expose ourselves, and we both waited for the right moment to strike.

  We circled to the right and then the left. I opened with some punches and Barry countered. It was turning into a technical display of boxing, and the crowd didn't like it. Boos started in the back, leeches looking for blood, waiting for it, upset they weren't getting it and starting to let us know what bums we were.

  Barry opted to give the mob what they wanted and waded in with his heavy gloves blazing. I countered, and found an opening that caught his jaw. The crowd loved it, like any bloodthirsty mob, they were easily swayed by a little action. And the fact they swayed in my direction was not missed by Daddy Creion, who gave the crowd a disgusted look.

  Barry was backing up, trying to get his wits about him, and I came in with a dynamite right followed by sharp, quick jabs that popped hard and stung. Then I landed a strong left to the center of his chest. He blew out air, and staggered to catch his breath. The crowd was back on their feet, sensing someone was in danger, that something had changed.

  I couldn't finish him in the second round, or the sixth. And when we opened the seventh, something was up. Nobody had a smile on their face after six rounds of boxing, but Barry did. I held back, shy that they had slipped some iron in his gloves, but that thought was erased after the placid blows he threw.

  Instead, he rubbed his gloves across my face, mauled me with his mitts like a baby kitten. Then it hit me, my face and eyes started stinging, water poured from my eyes and everything went blurry. Punches bounced off my head, and I covered up. His often wild and equally powerful shots were knocking me from belt to brain. I tried opening my eyes, but it felt like a mixture of acid and gravel had been thrown in my face.

  I struggled to defend against the unseen assailant, with little effect. Each counterpunch or jab was met with a slug in the opening I gave him. The crowd cheered, laughed and was once again on Barry's side.

  The ref broke us up and gave me a warning he was going to stop the fight if I didn't defend myself better. He must have looked at my face, because he asked, "Are you all right?"

  I squinted my eyes to test them and saw the ref’s blurry image in front of me. A blurry image of Barry sat in his corner. I shook my head yes and thumped my gloves together.

  When the ref started the fight again, I watched the figure come quickly across the ring. I knew I had one shot. I fainted right and went left, my right glove caught Barry’s unprotected jaw and he suddenly went to the canvas.

  The ref counted, and Barry struggled to get up by eight. I still couldn't see worth a damn, but had to fight on after he met the count and stood ready to fight. He tied me in a clinch, and tried to push his gloves in my face. I fought him back, turning the event into more of a wrestling match than boxing.

  A relieved sigh washed over the crowd when the bell rang, ending the round.

  In my corner, Benson went to work on my face, clotting the cuts that had opened up, and washing my face and eyes.

  “What’s going on in there?” asked Benson as he frantically worked me over to patch me up and cool me off.

  “The son of a bitch, dipped his gloves in something,” I said before taking a swig of water and spitting it out.

  “What did he dip it in?” asked Benson.

  “I have no idea, but it burns like crazy, and for half the round I couldn’t see.”

  “Well maybe, this will help,” said Benson as he washed my face with water.

  As the water poured over my face, the sting slowly eased, and my sight slowly started to come back, like I was waking up after a long night with sleep crusted eyes. When the haze cleared I was eager for the bell, eager to trade leather with the bum across from me.

  The bell opened the ninth. Barry came in tentative with his glove out. His corner must have doused it again. I batted it away and wouldn't let him get inside. I went to work on his body, and he covered up.

  I drove a hard pile driver of a punch up town and landed on the button. Blood sprayed, and the crunch of broken bone echoed well into the audience. Barry stumbled back, hunched over, blood pouring from his ruined schnoz. I came in fast to take advantage, then a punch landed in my crotch.

  White pain blinded me, and I went down in a heap on the canvas with my stomach rolling and threatening to puke up my guts. The ref admonished Barry as I crawled to my knees amid a torrent of boos from the crowd. Once again, they had turned against Barry.

  I got to my feet and the ref put us back at it. He must have wanted to see me win this thing outright, because any other ref would have given me the match then and there, or perhaps he had someone pulling his strings like everyone else involved in this stinking fight.

  Barry came in cocky, taunting me and threatening another low blow. He threw a quick combination that whiffed air. I ducked under his left hook, countered with a power packed left to his gut, and followed it with a right to his jaw. He fell sideways into the ropes and I put everything I had into another right that cracked him in the jaw. He went out on his feet and crumpled through the ropes to land on his back in front of the first row – and Daddy Creion.

  The arena erupted in cheers and the chant of, “O'Quinn,” rang from the floor to the rafters as the ref held up my hand in victory.

  ROUND 10

  Benson worked on my wounds in the dressing room, wiping off dry blood and icing down my numerous bruises. I scarcely heard him say my nose wasn't broken, only the septum deviated. But I woke up quickly when he snapped it back in place, then and there. I almost slammed my fist into his face, but instead I cursed him and his family tree as the pain seeped away and my breathing opened up.

  "How long before we get a visit?" asked Benson.

  As if on cue the door opened and Creion waddled in, followed by four thugs. Anger painted his face with broad brush strokes..

  "The girl is as good as dead," spat Creion. "You made sure of that. And that rat of a friend of yours, Lucky Hansen, is spilling his guts to the cops right now. It appears he saw the whole thing – saw you and Benson light the fires and take money from the owner Mr. Mills. When the cops get to your apartment, they'll find five thousand smackers squirreled away. You’re going down, O'Quinn, and I'm gonna enjoy it, every bit of it. You don't have a hope in hell of getting out of this."

  My fists were still tapped. Scenarios danced in my head like a ballroom full of jitterbuggers. Four toughs and Creion. Not very good odds for a beat up boxer, but what the hell? They were the only odds I had.

  "You got me," I said. "Let Maggie go."

  Creion chuckled before he started in his half wheezing way. "She's just the cherry on top. Gotta prove to everyone I mean what I say. Otherwise people like your friend Lucky wouldn't see the light. He's got a pretty wife and daughter too. I invited them to the party as well."

  I started to punch Creion, but my arm was caught by one of the toughs, and the other came around to hold me tight.

  The door slammed open and Lima waltzed in wit
h a group of cops.

  "Here’s the man, officer," said Lima. He pointed towards Creion.

  "Tony," spluttered Creion. "What are you doing?"

  "Just my civic duty," he said with a sincere smile. "Kidnapping women and children, Karl? That's wrong. And setting up Mr. O'Quinn here to take the fall for the fire when it was all you and Sam Cranz’s plan? It appears we need better management in the unions."

  The police sergeant in charge took control and hustled Creion and his thugs out of the stuffy dressing room. The women had been found and taken to the police station. They were all safe. According to the police sergeant, Maggie was ready to skin the men alive and they were actually relieved to be arrested.

  I looked at Mr. Lima, not knowing whether I had a true benefactor, or if the devil was playing his hand at netting my soul.

  "Why did you do it?" I asked.

  Mr. Lima gave a smug casual smile. "I like you. You got talent – talent I'd like to see on the professional level."

  "That doesn't explain sending Creion to jail or rescuing Maggie," I replied.

  Lima shrugged. "I detest those who kidnap women and children. As for Creion – let’s just say it was business."

  Mr. Lima tipped his hat and walked out of the dressing room. Before he left, he again reiterated he really wanted me to consider going pro.

  When we were alone, I looked back at Benson. His entire body shook like a laborer running a jackhammer.

  "Are you alright, Ben?"

  "No," he said, shuddering. "No, I'm not. My nerves are shot. I need a drink."

  When the door swung open this time, Maggie was leading the group. Behind her were her father and the miners that came with him, Lucky and his family. The little dressing room barely had enough room to contain everyone.