A Dying Wish

by Henry Roi

  “Whatever,” Anastasia said unimpressed. I sensed she was going to scold Julian later for his enthusiasm over our old show. Blondie looked daggers at her. Bobby was deep in thought. Anastasia continued, “We are getting off-subject. Why are you here?”

  Blondie's body tensed, she unfolded her legs, and I grabbed her hand to calm her before she sparked another bout with the girl-beast. She hasn't acted this huffy in years. She must feel threatened by or competitive towards Anastasia for many reasons, and the girl-beast must feel the same about her. They were so different from each other it's unlikely they would ever get along. Even if they were paid to, I mused myself.

  I took a moment before answering, grimacing because I was unused to sharing personal information about myself with unknowns. I wasn't a Facebook kind of guy. But something told me I needed to connect with these people. Somehow I knew we would have met and connected strongly if I had gone pro and followed the law-abiding path. I felt like I could have just as easily had a life like Anastasia's, even though I had no idea what that entailed, and she could have easily had a life like mine. A simple choice of A instead of B could have seriously altered our paths. Maybe because her fighting skills were so much like my own that I felt this connection. I don't know. I sensed we were all here for a reason, yet another feeling that went against my norm. I didn't believe in destiny, fate, or karma. Things do happen for a reason, but the result is luck that you created with careful planning and hard work. Or the lack thereof. The rest was coincidence.

  This has to be a plan of Eddy's. The thought came unbidden, my subconscious speaking up to let me know it's okay to reveal my hand, the explanation is rational.

  “We are here because of this,” I said taking a folded document from inside my jacket pocket. Anastasia's breath caught and she pulled an identical paper from her own pocket, white and gold trimmed stationery. I felt my eyebrows rise slightly.

  “That old rascal,” Bobby muttered with a faint smile.

  “Of course. Eddy wanted you to meet them,” Julian said to his girl. He ran his fingers through his spiked blonde hair, over his angular face. A thinking tic. He frowned in incomprehension. “Why now?”

  She shook her head. “No idea. I didn't even know he had a will until I got this letter from his lawyer. All I knew was his brother was taking care of his house.”

  “What does your letter say?” I asked, eyes narrowed at her.

  She stood, put the letter away and crossed her arms. The compression sleeve glimmered, skin tight against her muscles, showing the rips in her forearm and shoulder. The engineer in me wondered what it was made of. “It said to be here today,” she said.

  “That's all?”

  She nodded, narrowed eyes daring me to dispute.

  I shrugged. Mine said the same thing. This was getting boring. “Well, here we are, brought together for some kind of social intercourse. What now?”

  “Intercourse?” Anastasia asked, eyebrow quirked.

  “I always feel like I'm getting screwed in settings like this.”

  “Ah.”

  Blondie rolled her eyes. “A drink and a joint for me,” she announced, standing and walking with a limp into the kitchen.

  “I think I'll join you for a drink,” Bobby told my girl, following her. “But I'll pass on the chronic. Makes me talk like Bubba on Forrest Gump.” Anastasia looked at him querulously, biting her tongue, as if he was supposed to stay by her side because they were still not in agreement with us. She gave Blondie a suspicious look. Julian rubbed her shoulders and stroked her hair.

  This was turning into an episode of Big Brother, a show I didn't particularly care for. I got up, deciding to do something about my boredom, following Blondie's example. Though I thought I needed something a tad more stimulating than a joint.

  I went into the hall bathroom and shut the door, Lysol prickling my nose as I flicked on the light, the wall and floor tiles gleaming blue, green, and white. Towel racks as bare as the shower curtain rod. I turned to the sink and looked closely at the person staring into the mirror. Intense is how people describe me while I'm in earshot. I had to agree with that, and couldn't deny being more derogatory descriptions. I've certainly been all kinds of motherfuckers with this face.

  My dark, almost black hair was swept back over my head, longish in the front, shorter on the sides and back, thick and shiny, thanks to Blondie's TLC. My mustache was perfectly trimmed. Skin tan and smooth. Eyes green like burning gas, one scheme after another flashing under dark brows, the skin around them shaded from too little sleep and too much speed.

  “I'll look like I'm wearing a ski mask after this,” I muttered, smiling, taking a small Ziploc from inside my jacket. I could feel the weight of the straight razor before it slipped into my hand from the sheath snug against my lower back. The five inch blade flashed chrome, silently opening from the gem-encrusted ancient silver handle, amethysts and rubies under my palm promising grip if I ever decided to use it for more than chopping narcotics.

  As I tapped out some powder on the sink, the aroma of the cocaine filled my nose strongly, a piquing that told my body to buckle up. My eyes widened in concentration, my bowels stirred restlessly for a moment, hand blurring to line it up. I licked the blade, cleaned it with toilet tissue and sheathed it. Dug some bills from a pocket and rolled up a Benjamin like a straw, staining his fat little bald head with quality speed as I snorted a thick line up each nostril, snorting and groaning loudly.

  The numbing, electrifying taste dripped into the back of my throat, and I cringed with the sickening pleasantness. “MMMahhh!” I roared, eyes darting, licking my lips. I cleaned up my mess, thinking I could deal with the women's drama now. I wouldn't be bored for a while.

  I walked into the kitchen to find my girl chatting up Bobby, explaining how she took the gun from him earlier.

  “Voodoo?” Bobby said skeptically, sitting on a bar stool, arms laying on an island counter. The kitchen made his huge frame look small, stainless steel appliances winking cleanly all around us, a dozen pots and pans hanging over the island.

  “Voodoo that I do doo,” Blondie sang with attitude, making her shoulders dance like a badass. She smoothed the front of her shirt, a purple and white blouse that showed off her fit tan stomach over Calvin Klein jeans. Black boots.

  Bobby said, “That wasn't an answer.”

  “That's your opinion,” she fired back, eyes squinting through pungent marijuana smoke. Bobby just shook his head and gave an exaggerated sigh, huge chest rumbling.

  “Her voodoo mind tricks are nearly as frustrating as her fighting tricks,” I said, smiling at them. She raised an eyebrow at me in warning. I left it at that before getting in further debt. I already owed her one for being late. A foot massage wouldn't cover that and talking smack about her in front of her new friend.

  “Voodoo is from my ancestors,” Bobby said. He looked at Blondie. “Never thought I'd see it whited-up. But you managed it.” He laughed, deep voice quaking like a stack of woofers. “Voodoo that you do doo? I guess. The magic you pulled on me would make anybody a believer.”

  “Thanks,” she said, then got up to get them more beers.

  I snorted, earning a huge, wonderful drip. My eyes darted with ADD. Blondie sucked in a breath, looked at me sharply, while closing the fridge, and shook her head in disapproval. I shrugged What the fuck? at her, turned and walked into the hallway, humming Cocaine by Eric Clapton as loud as I could.

  My mind couldn't focus on trivial issues. I craved something that would fully engage me. So I sought out the girl-beast to grill her about the science fiction-looking compression sleeve that, combined with her otherworldly physique, made her look like a cyborg.

  She stood in the living room looking at boxing memorabilia on a wall. Pictures of marquees and fight posters from four continents covered one wall entirely. A montage of some of the sport's greatest moments. Eddy had been intrinsic to so many major fighters and events, and had a world-class collection to prove it.

&nbs
p; Seeing all of it with Anastasia standing there suddenly made me realize why I've never met her until now - there are so many people Eddy worked with that I never knew. The wall of pictures slapped me with the fact that the girl-beast was just one of hundreds.

  I looked at her eyes to determine what she was studying so intently. A framed picture of Eddy and a promoter named Silvio Vittorio, flanking a female fighter I remember from the 2000s. The Shocker. Eddy had trained her not long after leaving the amateurs to make real money in the pros.

  A feeling of regret touched me briefly. That could have been you in the photo, my subconscious rubbed in my face. You could have been a world champion, even more famous than her…

  I snorted deeply, and was rewarded with a zinging sensation that silenced the voice of my feelings. Anastasia glanced at me, but I ignored her, resumed studying the photo. The girl's hands were still wrapped, her face and hair sweaty, cheeks red and puffy. She had an inhuman glint in her eyes, wildly flying on all those intense chemicals that consume a gladiator during battle. This girl was on the level.

  Recognition struck as if I had snorted a line through my dick. I managed to keep it from showing on my face. I looked at Anastasia and said with honor, “I fought the Shocker. That's the best thing that's happened to me in years.”

  A smile tugged the corner of her mouth, though she remained silent, still looking at the picture, as if waiting on me to complete the revelation.

  I was missing something here. I looked back at the wall and suddenly remembered another, more recent picture I had seen of the Shocker. On America's Most Wanted. I laughed out loud, then told her, “You are a brave motherfucker. You still look like your mug shot.” I held my fist out and she bumped it hard with her own, one boxer to another. I said, “So I take it you didn't enjoy the accommodations of Central Mississippi Correctional Facility.”

  She smiled. “I didn't belong in prison. My husband and I were innocent.”

  “What about the girl you killed in prison before you escaped?”

  “Didn't do it,” she replied, her smile gone.

  I looked at her closely. “I believe you,” I told her.

  She continued staring at the picture, seeing through it with unfocused eyes. “Julian and I were Alan and Clarice back then. We were set up by drug traffickers and put in prison. Inside, I was forced into a fight ring. I went along with it, hoping I could use the money to finance my escape. The ring got busted the day before I was able to leave. I lost everything. The whole plan was nearly ruined, and wouldn't have worked without the help of my friend.”

  “Forced into a fight ring?” I sniffed. “That would be like forcing a fish to swim.”

  She didn't know whether to glare at me for being contrary or take it as a compliment and blush.

  Normally I don't care for he-said, she-said drama. But this was an interesting discovery. She was a major fugitive, wanted by the federal government. She went on to tell me how Eddy died. He had helped her escape and was later shot while helping her rescue her son, who had been kidnapped by the traffickers. He took a bullet that was meant for her. She wiped tears from her eyes and I held back a grumble.

  Don't walk away. You can tolerate this. It's worth it. It's a good story.

  To refocus the conversation I said, “The traffickers were cops? Not surprising.”

  “Biloxi PD.”

  “They took your kid because you took six million cash from them. That was after you escaped?”

  She nodded. “We wanted revenge.”

  “Taking a criminal's money is certainly the best way to pay them back,” I said frowning, wondering what I would do if she had taken my stash. There was a lot more I wanted to know about her story, but she cut it short.

  “Enough about me. Let's pick your brain now.” She pointed to another wall and we walked over next to a trophy case full of Eddy's teenage achievements in boxing and football. Tall golden and silver awards filled five shelves, plaques on the mirrored back panel. On a shelf next to it were several framed news articles. The largest one, a walnut frame encasing an entire front page, headlined BATTLE AT THE FRONT BEACH! in bold. She said, “That was you and Eddy? I remember that.”

  “Oh yeah. I had forgotten about that. I used to have a framed copy just like it. Did Eddy tell you?”

  “Some of it. You know how reticent he can be.” She got a sour look. “Could be.”

  “Omerta. He followed the Italian code of silence.”

  “Don't I know it,” she muttered. I smiled. Eddy had the same effect on me.

  I was feeling loquacious. The drug had fully kicked in, promising great pleasure if I would only express myself, tell a feel-good story to reciprocate her sharing. I was beginning to like Anastasia for her personality as much as her accomplishments. It's not every day you run across the all-time greatest female boxer, who also happens to be on the FBI's Most Wanted list. And I like the fact that she's the obvious leader of a strong crew. Without a doubt she qualifies as a Badass in my book.

  It's possible you're also warming to her because you no longer resent her for besting you, my subconscious jabbed at me.

  I didn't argue. I felt privileged to have been punched by a legend.

  She pointed her chin at the article. “Says here you and Coach assaulted seventeen football jocks.”

  I smirked. “I was able to hurt five or six. Got lucky. Eddy slapped down the rest.”

  “Sounds like fun,” she said with that twinkle in her eyes, a mischievous predator lurking just beneath the surface. She was definitely on the level. Psycho.

  I wonder if we're related.

  She rolled a finger to prod me into giving details, and I began telling her about the incident that led to one of Ocean Springs' most spectacular stories.

  * * *

  Anger used to control my life on a daily basis. Hell, sometimes on an hour-to-hour basis. I didn't have much restraint over it back then, and even now I had to struggle to bite my tongue or halt my hands from slapping people I considered idiots. Which was almost everyone, unfortunately.

  In '98 I trained my heart out for the Regional Championships. I made it to the final easily, and dominated some hillbilly for a clear victory. Only I was robbed. My hand wasn't raised. The judges favored my opponent because we were in his hometown. It was after that I discovered my anger issues made me a real danger to society.

  As a way of dealing with the unfair pressures thrust upon my teenage-self, I developed my own therapy. My own twisted anger management: I would find a crowd of men - old, young, redneck, or gangster - and jump them. By myself. The more the merrier. The brutal ferocity I unleashed on them was soothing in a way that I couldn't possibly experience talking to some therapist about how this or that made me feel.

  My trainer found out about my dynamic venting somehow, though I never knew how he did. I had never been caught. Turns out, he could relate to it. More, he encouraged it. It was the strangest thing. An adult telling me it was okay to hurt people to make myself feel better. But that was precisely what he did that day - after he made himself feel better, by giving the judges a scathing speech about screwing fighters out of a win because they weren't from Arkansas, didn't chew tobacco or fuck their cousins.

  Eddy's insults had little effect, but his menacing glare seemed to scald the three judges' faces. He was pretty scary looking when he was in a good mood; he was absolutely terrifying right then. He continued, “You tea-baggers are a disgrace to amateur boxing. Especially you.” His deep voice boomed in the emptying building, thick finger directed at a pudgy balding man in a cheap brown suit. His two hundred and fifty pounds made the ring creak as he stalked back and forth in front of the judges, who still sat ringside, sorting papers on a table. Some fans overheard and shouted agreement. I stood outside the ring by the steps, angrily cutting off my hand wraps with Eddy's knife. He looked at me, then back to the judges, his anger growing. “How could you give every round to that hobo?! He didn't win a single one! Do you know how much this boy has sacrif
iced to get here?” He pointed at me and demanded of them. “Look at me!” Three sets of eyes glanced up, then back down.

  They didn't answer. I felt an awkward rage, the stirrings of rampage. I was impatient to leave. I couldn't vent here. I would go to jail for assaulting these clowns. They know they fucked me. Well, I'm done with this shit. I lost. I was betrayed. They're not going to reverse the decision.

  They didn't understand that because of this loss people were going to look at me differently. Several sponsorships and endorsement deals just went into the same garbage can as my perfect record. They didn't understand that I would look at myself differently now. I believed that I could beat anybody in the ring. But as it turns out that bulletproof confidence was fallible, a bug under the shoe of a biased judge to be squashed at their whim. I've lost my first fight, and it felt like losing my virginity all over again. Only this this time it was a very BAD thing.

  I wanted to curse these people out. I wanted to hurt them. Why can't we just go?

  But Eddy wasn't done telling them what he thought of their corruption. He glanced at the crooks and stabbed his finger in my direction again. “I told this sixteen-year-old boy if he worked harder than everybody else, sacrificed more than anybody else, that he would win. He did work harder than anybody else, and he did win. Who are you three idiots to say otherwise, huh? Everyone saw what happened. The entire crowd booed your decision. I should come down there and slap all of you. You need to know what that feels like because that's what you've done to this kid: slapped him in the face!”

  That earned a few wary glances, but otherwise just made them speed up their paperwork. Experienced judges were used to disgruntled trainers, fans, or parents harrying them after controversial decisions. Eddy's outburst was nothing new, and would set no precedent.

  Coach growled vehemently, obviously holding himself back from making good on his threats. He abruptly spun around and ducked under the ropes. Stomped down the steps. He walked past me with a red face and could only jerk his head for me to follow, tense with emotion.