by David Levien
Behr knocked and rang the bell and waited, but there was no answer. He peered in through the window and saw a quiet, clean, nicely furnished home. There was a family room dominated by a leather sectional and large plasma television. A case holding several championship belts was on one side of the television, a gun cabinet on the other. There were several long guns behind the cabinet’s glass, and Behr wondered if a 10-gauge was among them. Even if Francovic owned one, even if he had used it on Aurelio, what were the chances it would have been put back in its place? Zero, Behr figured, but he sure wanted a look. After knocking again, he tried the knob. It didn’t turn. The door was locked. He had to admit some relief as he walked back to his car, as he wasn’t at all sure he could’ve stopped himself from going in had it been unlocked.
The door to the Francovic Training Center was wedged open, Behr saw as he approached. It was just a matter of time-or timing rather-until he caught up with and got face to face with the man, and Behr wondered if this was it. As he stepped inside, there was the must in the air, acrid and familiar. The fluorescents’ glare was blunted this time by the daylight spilling in through the windows. Behr heard grunts and muttered instructions and saw that an advanced gi class was underway. Half a dozen black belts, including Behr’s old buddy Big Boy, were in white gis practicing throws.
As Behr crossed the weight area, he realized he’d have to walk past the edge of the mat to get to the office and locker room toward the back, and there was no doubt the black belts would notice him doing it. He continued on his path, not breaking stride, when he heard it.
“Ho! Where the fuck are you going, spiffy?” Behr stopped and turned. It was Big Boy, breaking off from the class and moving in his direction. Behr was far from dressed up, but the nickname, as it were, had stuck.
“Like I told you last time, I’m here to talk to Francovic,” Behr said. He suddenly had the sensation he was in a school yard or college bar.
“Like I told you last time, what the fuck for?” Big Boy said. “And it’s Mr. Francovic until you have one of these,” Big Boy thumbed his black belt.
“Why don’t you go back to your training and stick to things that concern you, Garfield,” Behr said. It wasn’t much of a zinger anywhere else, but to go through life carrying some extra pounds in the town where Jim Davis, the creator of the cartoon cat, lived, it was a pay-dirt shot.
“Why don’t you take a suck on my cock?” Big Boy said and pushed him, hard.
Big Boy’s hands thumping off his chest sent Behr white hot with anger. The momentum of the shove took him a step backward, but he caught himself and moved to push back and it was on. Big Boy caught his wrist with one huge hand, and the other fed up under his triceps and jerked him forward with a short-arm drag. The question with a big guy isn’t whether he’s powerful- they usually are-but whether or not he can move. Upon locking up, Behr saw, or felt rather, that this dog knew how to hunt.
Big Boy stepped in smoothly and went to wrap an arm around Behr’s waist for a body lock, but Behr managed to catch the arm in a whizzer-his own forearm hooking deep under Big Boy’s armpit and ripping upward. Behr dropped his weight and swiveled his hips around, going low, as he would to hip throw, but then allowed his weight to pull down on Big Boy and collapse them both to the edge of the mat.
Behr needed to keep the arm and turn and fully face his opponent, but the kid was remarkably quick in taking the opportunity to jerk his sweated-up gi sleeve free and go for Behr’s back. Behr tried to sit out and square up to him, but Big Boy flattened out on top of him when he was midway through the move. He was heavy as hell, and Behr collapsed down to the mat on his right side, Big Boy on top of him.
The kid attempted to gain side control, going for a modified headlock around Behr’s neck and arm, but Behr framed up, using his forearms like the skis of a forklift to push Big Boy up and over his head and escape. Behr felt the young man’s hip bone impact with his face as he slid out from under him. He heard the crack and realized he’d broken his nose again for the countless time since the inaugural incident during freshman-year football at University of Washington, when a senior slapped his helmet down during two-a-days.
Behr was free, but only for a second. He flipped onto his hands and knees to get up, but Big Boy swung on him and he was forced to turtle in order to avoid it, and the blow rattled harmlessly off the back of his head. Before Behr could rise, though, Big Boy got an arm around his waist and threaded the other past his collarbone and looked to join his hands around Behr’s chest.
Shit, Behr thought. It was four moves away, but he was headed for something called a rear naked choke, which was every bit as bad as it sounded and would render him unconscious, and there was very little he could do about it.
“Do him, Brody! You got him!” the others in the school shouted, seeing the progression as well. Behr was vaguely aware of the other black belts standing around the edges of the mat cheering their buddy on, as Big Boy-“Brody,” he now knew- succeeded in joining his hands in a lock around Behr’s chest, and then rolled over, in a tight, economical spiral, taking Behr with him. Brody ended up with his own back against the mat, sitting up somewhat, while Behr was in front of him and lodged between his legs. Brody got his hooks in, his heels digging past Behr’s inner thighs, immobilizing him. Brody’s arms were still locked across Behr’s chest in a control position that would only last for a moment more before it was improved and Brody’s bent arm would form a V around Behr’s carotids. He reached back and raked for Brody’s eyes, getting a piece of something, but not a direct hit. The move failed, but Behr felt Brody’s head pull away from his just slightly. Behr didn’t immediately realize what a fluke it was, as he was busy trying to duck his chin and get a hand against his own throat in order to thwart the strangle. He wasn’t able to execute in time, though.
Behr felt Brody apply the hold. When a choke is sunk deep, it’s not about air, but blood. A person can last thirty seconds or a minute without air, but if the blood flow to the carotids is cut off, unconsciousness is abrupt. This one didn’t quite cut the blood flow completely, but it was just a matter of time until the large man’s arm wriggled in and found a true seat around his throat. Behr couldn’t get his shoulders to the mat, which is the first step in the escape, and had about three seconds before it was hello darkness. The lights on the gym ceiling were bright and stark in his eyes. He smelled the stink coming off Brody. He heard his own heart beating in his ears.
Things were getting dire in a hurry. Behr went for the eyes again. Brody pulled his face back slightly once more. Then Behr moved his hand around the back of his own head and found a crack of space. Brody’s head should have been pressed tight against his in a viselike seal, but instead there was just the tiniest bit of room. Boxing may be known as the “sweet science,” but jiu-jitsu is considered the “subtle science,” and neglecting the smallest detail can make a large difference. Behr’s hand slid through and he found the hand of Brody’s non-choking arm.
In knife fighting, in the absence of a clean killing stroke, the object is to cut the opponent repeatedly until he weakens from blood loss and opens himself to a vital strike. It was a theory Aurelio had mentioned as having a parallel in jiu-jitsu-the idea of going joint by joint, from smallest to largest, breaking them, until the man was immobilized. He hadn’t gone into much detail, as full breaks didn’t really apply in a controlled setting, but the thought had stayed with Behr over the past year, and it echoed deep in his unconscious mind now. Brody wasn’t wearing hand wraps or practice gloves, in which case there would’ve been no hope. There were no words, or coherent thoughts, or lofty concepts in Behr’s head now. Only desperation fueled him. His vision closing in as if he were entering a narrowing, unlit tunnel, Behr saw black spots in front of his eyes, but he got a hold of Brody’s pinky finger and snapped it like a breadstick.
Brody jolted and released his hooks in the onrush of panic that the pain of the damaged finger brought on, but he didn’t let off the choke. Behr moved on to B
rody’s ring finger and broke that one clean and deep, too. Now the man wailed and Behr felt the strength go out of Brody’s mangled hand. The choking arm let off next. Oxygenated blood rushed back into Behr’s brain. He rolled face-to-face with Brody to counter the next attack. But there wasn’t one. Improbably, Brody began patting Behr’s shoulder with his good hand.
“Brody, no!” Behr heard one of the black belts yell. Brody was tapping out. He was too well schooled, it seemed. Under stress, most men do what they’ve done repeatedly in training, and when it was over and one was beaten in the civilized confines of the gym, everyone stopped and reset. Now that response had taken over in Brody at the worst possible moment, for Behr wasn’t operating under those rules of engagement. And he sure wasn’t feeling sporting. Behr caught Brody’s gi in a cross-collar choke and slammed him down onto the mat. He reared up and drove his knee pistonlike into Brody’s skull, two then three times, blanking him out. It was an illegal move in organized competition, but that’s not where he was. Behr sucked air and jumped to his feet. He spat right on their mat, in disgust and disrespect, as he faced the rest of the school. The black belts paused for a moment, seeing the biggest of their lot laid out. Then they began to move slowly toward him. Behr considered the consequences of reaching for the Bulldog. 44 jammed in the small of his back and then did it, keeping the muzzle pointed down. They stopped as a unit when they saw the gun. There was a long, tense moment of quiet while everyone decided on what they would do next, and then stepping out of his office came Francovic.
Thick necked, with veins popping, he walked out onto the edge of the mat and stood between his black belts and the gun, which Behr had to admire.
“That’s not how we settle our beefs here,” Francovic said with a sandpaper voice. He approached Behr, another few steps, rolling that bull neck, ready to fight. Behr raised the gun and Francovic stopped.
“Don’t try and save face with me now. I’m a private investigator and I came here to talk, until this fuckwad started in.” Brody was flopping around on the mat now, coming out of it.
“So let’s talk,” Francovic said, showing some real jiu-jitsu and taking a confrontation in which he was at a disadvantage in another direction. He gestured to his office. After a moment Behr nodded and Francovic started walking toward it. Behr lowered the gun and followed.
They sat across from each other, Francovic’s desk between them. Behr had moved his chair so his back wasn’t to the door. For the moment, though, it seemed the other fighters had forgotten about him. One of the black belts had brought a bag of ice to Brody, and another, the jacked kid with a wiseass spiky haircut whom Behr had seen there before, had helped him out of the gym. To the doctor, Behr supposed. The rest of the group had gone back to training.
“Sorry about Brody,” Francovic began. “He’s a good kid. He was just being loyal.”
“Stupid is what he is,” Behr said.
Francovic nodded slightly at this. “Nasty move with the fingers-there goes his piano career. He needs to clean up his technique. Should’ve had his head tighter on yours.”
“Yeah,” Behr allowed, sick with himself for drawing his gun, for the fight, for ending up in the situation and not much in the mood for a postmortem review.
A moment of charged silence stretched between them before Francovic spoke. “What’s this about?”
“Aurelio Santos.”
“What-”
“Don’t fucking say, ‘What about him?’” Behr said.
“Take it easy-,” Francovic started.
“You take it easy,” Behr flung back, the residual adrenaline from the confrontation washing through him.
“You’ve got the gun.” Francovic shrugged and sat back.
“I’m looking into what happened to Aurelio,” Behr said after a moment.
“You trained with him,” Francovic figured it. Behr nodded. “That makes sense, the way you handled yourself with Brody.”
“Tell me what you know.”
“I don’t know a thing. Don’t know what he’d been up to, don’t know with who. Hell, all I do is teach and train and fight.”
“You managed to find time to do some talking too, didn’t you? You and your camera crew…”
Francovic folded his arms. “It was no crew, just one guy with a video camera. The promoter suggested it, said it’d be good hype for a potential rematch. So I did it. You ever do anything stupid?”
“Yeah, plenty,” Behr said.
A picture of Francovic was coming together quickly, and it was different than what Behr had expected. Behr had watched the clips of the man wresting the microphone from ring announcers to call out other fighters after a win and storming around the ring roaring like a rabid beast after delivering a brutal knockout, the black mouth guard across his teeth making him appear inhuman. But here he was, fairly soft-spoken, almost thoughtful. That very morning Behr had gone on You Tube and rewatched the footage of Francovic’s fight with Aurelio two years earlier, in which he’d been choked out with thirty seconds to go in the fifth round. The fight was a bit before Behr had started training and turned out to be Aurelio’s last before he retired. Despite being around the same age, Francovic hadn’t shut it down. He’d fought three or four times since, laying waste to all his opponents, mostly with ground and pound knock outs, and had been talking a lot on his web page about going again with Aurelio.
“So you weren’t done with him.”
“No, we weren’t done. Not by a long shot. He caught me in that choke… But, hell, anybody can get caught. You know that.”
“Sure,” Behr said.
“But I hadn’t shown what I could really do against him. I was going to if he agreed to it…” Francovic drifted away, deep in thought. “A loss like that… they just don’t shake off. I learned him in that first fight. The next one was gonna be a war.” Behr tried to imagine it-the first one had been a war.
“But he was done. Maybe you got frustrated with that. You couldn’t live with the loss, so you showed up one night to call him out, with some guys, with a gun…,” Behr said. Francovic shook his head. “… And it went wrong. It went wrong and now we’re here.” It was a hell of a suggestion, and Behr gripped the handle of his gun, which was still in his hand. He knew Francovic wouldn’t go tapping out with a few broken fingers.
“You think it was a battle between sensei, like The Karate Kid or some shit?”
Behr shrugged. “I don’t know how it was. You tell me.”
Francovic shook his head again. The resignation in the gesture persuaded Behr of his innocence. In order to be this convincing, Francovic would have to be in the lying business. Instead, like he said, he was just in the fighting and teaching business.
“Only thing you’re right about is not being able to live with it,” Francovic said. “But he would’ve come out and given me another one. I know it.”
Behr looked at him doubtfully. As far as he knew, Aurelio was actually retired, not just temporarily like most fighters. Francovic caught the look.
“I’m telling you, he would’ve come out and given me another one. Eventually. I know it in my bones. You spend twenty-five long minutes with someone like that-it’s a lifetime. You get to know him all the way through. I threw everything I had at that mother for five rounds and he was right there with me. He was a warrior. He understood…” As Francovic’s words trailed off, his eyes got watery. “I’m not saying I would’ve won if we did it again. I think I would’ve. I’m just saying I would’ve gotten a chance to… answer those questions. For myself. Now, I won’t ever have the chance.”
Behr let that clear before he spoke.
“While I’m here, why don’t you tell me where you were the night before and the morning it happened,” Behr said.
“I’ll tell you what I told the police: I was camping with my kid’s Cub Scout troop. They checked it.”
“You were camping with fucking Cub Scouts?” Behr said, incredulous, but also pleased the police had been thorough enough to check
Francovic out in the first place. The fighter just lifted and dropped his shoulders.
Behr looked at him through narrow eyes. “So you got any idea who might be responsible?” Behr asked.
Francovic, in his own world now, thinking about a rematch that would never happen, shook his head.
“No. I don’t know nothing about that.”
“Call me if anything occurs,” Behr said, putting a business card on the desk. Then he stood, holstered his gun, and draped his shirt over it. He walked through the gym toward the exit and no one said a word to him.
TWENTY-FOUR
Vicky Schlegel stood in front of a window-unit air conditioner that was losing in its valiant effort to staunch the heat. She was taking a cigarette/iced coffee break from rearranging the knickknacks and photos on the living room shelves. It wasn’t easy to concentrate on her task, though, considering the problems and the noise. The noise was the music, mean and ominous, coming from Charlie’s room. A singer wailed about having a “ball and a biscuit,” and then blaring guitar erupted and shot through her head.
The problems were Deanie’s. She held a picture of him, standing on a softball diamond, sweet and unfettered only a few years back. Now her boy was hurting and Vicky knew why: it was that mocha-skinned bitch he couldn’t get over. Vicky had met her a few times-she’d only been to the house on a couple occasions, since she had a place of her own-and Vicky had seen her in action turning not just Deanie, but Charlie and even Terry, all drooling and stupid. Only her Kenny-bear seemed immune to the girl’s skanky Latin charms. It was bad enough when they were together, but now she’d gone and met someone else and left Deanie a mess. Vicky didn’t know anything concrete, but she was sure of it. A girl disappears like that, and that’s what it means. Her mother’s intuition told her that much. And it made Vicky want to pluck the broad’s smoky brown eyes out.
