by Jack Tunney
I walked outside with him. Yeah, it was worse alright.
Rafael looked at me like a kid who had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He gulped. It reminded me exactly of how Tom of Tom and Jerry fame gulped when he was in trouble, or about to get his head chopped off by Jerry in some cockamamie circumstance.
Speaking of which, we’ll get back to the head chopped off cockamamie circumstance thing in a minute, because I recognized the dudes who were standing by the car Rafael had led me to.
“Aguilar,” I growled at him. “You’re in trouble with the members of the Aguilar cartel?”
He could only nod at me and look down at the ground.
“Entrar en el coche,” the mustachioed dude in the cowboy hat, Wranglers, and straw hat snarled, waving us to enter the long white Cadillac parked next to the entrance. I could tell the dude held a piece under his leather vest.
“Take it easy, amigo,” I said, raising my hands up as I entered the vehicle. “Tranquilo. Tranquilo.”
As I got comfortable in my seat, I was quickly followed by Rafael. Two more dudes dressed in complete cowboy cartel chic sat in front of us. Both of them held automatic weapons. They smelled like cigarettes and cheap cologne.
Rafael looked at me. All I could do was glare right back at his dumb ass.
“Don’t talk to me right now,” I said, turning to look out the window as the car drove off.
Man, I got to tell you, driving down Main Street of San Uvalde never felt so depressing, so sad. I felt like I was riding in a hearse, some kind of pall bearer who got the word at the last minute his brother was dead and only moments away from being put in the ground. I needed more information.
“Rafa,” I sighed. “You got to tell me what’s going on here. Are you in danger?”
Rafael just nodded.
I took a deep breath. “Am I in danger?” I followed up.
Rafael just nodded.
I took another deep breath. “Como que I’m in danger? Huh? What do you mean?”
Rafael shook his head. “Aguilar wanted to explain to you himself.”
“Good Lord,” I sighed. Aguilar is going to make me watch my brother get his head cut off. Had to be. “I swear to Buddha, Rafael, if he doesn’t cut your head off and we get out of this little pickle you got us into, I’ll cut your head off.”
“There’s hope,” he whispered. “There’s always hope.”
“Yeah. Sure. Tell that to the last few idiots that messed with the Aguilar cartel,” I shot back at him. God, Rafael could be such an idiot sometimes. Make bad choices sometimes. That’s my brother for you, though. Even in the darkest circumstances, he always held out hope.
I never did, though. What’s hope – nothing more than something saps like my brother believe the world offers them. Hope is a lie. It’s a word used as a substitute for working through trials when you want to give up. Hope makes you believe whatever challenge life has dealt you, it won’t keep knocking you down. Problem is, life just keeps knocking you down as often as it wants.
Hope. That word, it has such a positive connotation, but it’s a sweet name for the harsh reality of having to deal with the struggles of life. It’s the price of admission. Hope sugarcoats the bull life shovels in our faces every day. That stiff right cross you don’t see coming. Hope makes you think things will get better when the truth is it’s a bandaid covering a scar, which always gets busted open again and again and again when life smacks you in the same spot. That’s the thing about the scars life gives your soul. They get ripped open so often that, after a while, sometimes you want to just let it bleed.
Yeah. Hope can go stick it, because Aguilar doesn’t deal in hope. He deals in horror, in blood. His currency is illicit drugs, and his profit is cold, hard cash for him and everyone in his inner circle.
We are definitely not in his inner circle.
So, we pull up to this place everybody in town knew was some kind of drop off point or whatever the drug runners call the place where they reposition for their moves. It was a rally point just outside of town, a few hundred yards away from the Nueces River. The place used to be a dance hall, the Purple Sage. It’s a big place where they sell tractor supplies now. Appropriately, a slaughterhouse is just across the highway
“Salir del coche” one of the thugs in front of me said, signaling for me to get out of the car. Rafael and I stepped out and are led into the place through the front door. I’d been to this place a few times before many years ago, back when I was young. The front counter was still up, but had been set up like a receptionist table now. The DJ booth door had been shut. Seemed locked. I’d had a good time here. I hated to think how this was now going to end in a place that once brought so much joy.
We were led to the dance floor where I couldn’t believe my eyes.
A boxing ring was set up in the center of the large space that was once the dance floor.
Please, God, no.
The place had a fresh, clean scent, but the aroma of stale decades-old beer could still be detected in the air. It wasn’t hard to spot more thugs with automatic weapons standing just outside the dance floor near some smaller tractor equipment. The ring set up in the middle of the floor was lit much better than the rest of the building. Our host was up on the stage.
“Raymond Torres?” a voice from the stage called out. A railing had been set up on the edge of it now, and desks were set up on it. Seemed to be the place where sales associates could do their work for clients. The man who called my name from up on the stage leaned casually on the railing. I couldn’t get a good look at him with the lights shining down on me, but I could tell he was wearing sunglasses and smoking a cigarette. Or maybe it was a cigar.
“That’s me,” I replied.
“Raymond Texas Lightning Torres?”
Oh, no. Oh, God, no. No.
That name. Always that name. I knew for sure now where this was going now. I turned to look at Rafael. He looked away again.
I looked at the shadowy figure on the stage again. “No one’s called me that in years.”
“I know. We know,” he replied.
I looked around. What does he mean ‘we’? I saw the dudes in the outer perimeter of the dance floor. But then I looked at the upper level behind me. That level used to be marked as off limits during the Thursday dances. That was, unless there was a big name who came to town, then the VIPs got those seats.
Folks like Mel Tillis and Janie Fricke once rolled through here. The Texas Tornados. Even Grupo Mazz before they fell apart. And considering the same type of VIP shadowy figures I couldn’t see through the bright lights lined the upper level against the railing, I guess I was the big name tonight.
“I’m sorry, but may I ask who I’m talking to?” I figured I already knew who I was talking to. I just wanted to make sure.
“Aguilar,” he replied. “You know who I am,” he said in a thick Spanish accent.
“Yes, sir, I do,” I replied respectfully. I didn’t want to, but I was in no position to talk trash to one of the biggest drug dealers in Mexico. The guy had family in San Uvalde it was rumored, and found ways to get into town and back into Mexico with ease. I guess they were right. “Help me out, sir. What can we do for you today?” God, I sounded like such a brown-noser.
“Your brother interfered in my business here in San Uvalde.”
That’s vague.
“For that, I was going to take his head. But he begged me like a woman to spare him. I’m not sparing your brother. But I did offer him an option. I like a good fight. So do many of my friends,” he said, indicating the upper level. “So here are the choices I gave him. He could get his head cut off like a man, or he could fight for his life like a man.”
Lord Almighty, I know where this is going.
“So he said he’d fight for his life, but pleaded with me to have someone fight in his place.”
Yep. Just what I thought. This is not cool at all.
“So, I told him he could. But if the person he pick
ed to take his place lost, then I’d cut both their heads off.”
Even worse.
“You are the person he chose. His brother, who I was pleased to learn, was the noted journeyman, Raymond Texas Lighting Torres.”
Thanks, Rafael. I didn’t say those words to him. But he could see me saying that to him with my glare.
Texas Lightning. Journeyman. All of that was ten years ago, when I had my last boxing match. 55-12 as an amateur. 21-35-2 as a pro. I was okay. Wanted the big time, but it was never in reach. Just a bad combination of matchups and luck, I still think. It just wasn’t in the cards for me. For all the punishment I took, it would have been nice to taste a little glory.
I made some bones, though. I was on Friday Night Fights a few times. I had a few fights in Mexico. That was a good time. I even had a match in Blackpool, England. That was also fun. I lost, but it was a good time. Big guy named William Campbell. Guy hit like a truck. Fun, but no fun, you know what I mean? Thinking back on those days really brings back a smile. No regrets. It was fun.
Wish I could reminisce a little more. Smile a little more. In fact, wish I had another beer back at the Montana Bar, because the big problem lies with the fact that, again, all of that was ten years ago. Ten years of working as a lumper at the HEB downtown. That’s ten years of not boxing, of not training, of not mixing it up inside the squared circle.
That’s bad news right now. I’m ten years heavier. Ten years slower. Ten years older. Boxing is not a old man’s sport. I don’t imagine tonight is going to be very sporting, either. Or fun.
This is not going to end well.
“It’s an honor to have you here today, Mr. Torres. In spite of your record, you are a fine representative of the fighting spirit of Texas.”
His shadowy figure moved away from the railing, then returned. He made a gesture as if throwing something in our direction. We flinched as a pair of 10 ounce Cleto Reyes gloves hit the floor in front of me.
“You will find some hand wraps in the gloves. You have ten minutes to get ready. In ten minutes, I will introduce you to your opponent and the rules. We will be waiting.”
God, this is not going to end well.
I picked up the gloves from the floor and turned to Rafael. “Can you find me a chair?” I growled at him. He scurried off to find a chair as I pulled out the wraps, standing outside near the apron of the blue corner.
I can’t believe my own brother put me in a godforsaken unsanctioned boxing match, a pit fight for both our lives. Boy, when it rains it pours, that’s for sure.
The wraps were yellow and new, which was nice. They didn’t stink like anyone’s sweat as I started wrapping my wrists and protecting my knuckles with them. That’s when Rafael arrived with the chair.
“Thanks, you bonehead.”
“I’m sorry, Raymond. I didn’t know what else to do.”
I sighed. “You’re lucky he spared you.”
“I know.”
Well, he hadn’t spared him yet. I still had work to do.
“You know how long it has been since I’ve boxed?”
“Ten years.”
“That’s right,” I replied, sternly. “Ten years, Rafa, since I hung it up. My conditioning’s gone. My speed is garbage. What in the world can I do for you here?”
“Fight for me,” was the feeble reply.
He’s right. Rafael was good with numbers. I was alright with my fists. It was the right matchup. It didn’t look good, but it was still the right matchup. God, I love my brother, but man does he get himself into trouble.
He knew I’d be here, too, though. Since he was a little kid, I told him I’d always be there for him. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to whip someone for him. I stuck up for him all the time in grade school. Rafael was a good kid, but he was kind of a smart-alek. His mouth got him into a lot of trouble. And though I don’t know the details of what went down to bring us here, I imagine nothing’s changed.
“I’m going to need some water, man,” I said. “Some water and probably some ice. Or something really cold. Can you go find it for me?”
“On it,” he said, as I started work on the next wrap. I probably had around six minutes left, and I hadn’t warmed up or anything. This was just great. Fat, out of shape, and beer buzzing.
This is not going to end well.
I looked up at the upper level. The smoke from their cigarettes dancing in the shadows made them seem as if they were some kind of supernatural entities, demons waiting for a fight.
“How many of ya’ll bet on me?” I called up to them as I worked on my wraps. They laughed and muttered something in Spanish as I called back, “Put me down for $20. I’m good for it. Veinte. Veinte.”
They laughed again, muttering. I shook my head. It’s not every day I’ve been in a fight to the death for the life of my brother. Sure, boxing is one of the deadliest sports around. But it’s still sport. A ref is there to stop fights to protect a fighter. Who knows what this Aguilar guy has in store for me.
But this was it. The only hope I had was not in some grand illusion, but with my hands, wrapped and ready.
As I began to loosen up, Rafael showed back up. Again, some help he was.
“I got a bottle of water and found half a bag of ice in a fridge.”
I peeled off my shirt and handed it to Rafael. “Wrap the ice in this shirt.”
I looked down at myself. God, I was disgusting. My gut spilled over the buckle of my pants. Not super fat, but out of shape enough for any knowing eye to bet against in a fight. Any fight. Hell, I would have bet against me. I look like crap.
I had to take account of stuff. Gloves, wraps, water, ice. No mouthpiece. No cup. That’s going to be a problem.
“Your ten minutes is up,” said Aguilar from the stage. Folks on the second level started to clap and cheer. “It’s time to meet your opponent.”
I climbed up on the apron and parted the ropes to enter the ring. I was pleased to find the canvas was great. Fast. My shoes were horrible, but the canvas was going to more than make up for it.
A side door opened just across from me and Rafael, and a very large form filled the doorway casting a shadow to the ring. I thought it was a Bigfoot at first, but as the brute got closer, it was a man. But that’s how huge the guy was. He had a bit of a belly, and he wasn’t ripped with muscles. But it was the body of a fighter, a dude who has everything it takes to throw down.
The guy was at least twenty years younger than me. His nose was crooked and even his ears were cauliflowered. His head was buzz-cut, revealing a bald spot near the back of his head. Tattoos lined his brown skin. His brow made him look like a Neanderthal, a throwback to the cavemen. Hell, maybe he was a Bigfoot. He wore silk boxing trunks and his gloves were already on. They looked to also be 10 ouncers.
He was a ringer, alright.
I signaled Rafael into the ring to help put my gloves on as Aguilar spoke.
“Here are the rules,” shouted Aguilar. “The fight will have an unlimited amount of three minute rounds. There will be a one minute break in between rounds. A bell will sound beginning and ending rounds. Fight is to the finish. Knockout. No ref stoppage. No ref. No count if a fighter is downed. Striking while a fighter is down is discouraged. There are no kicks allowed. Do we understand the rules, gentlemen?”
No kicks. That’s it? I’m really noticing there were no rules mentioned against low-blows, head butts, hell, even throws. This is not going to end well.
I shouted back, “Yes.” I’d never felt more like a Roman gladiator than at that moment, saluting that sick man like gladiators would salute Caesar. I almost felt like saying, We who are about to die, salute you.
“Fight,” shouted Aguilar, followed by a bell ringing.
Wow, this was it, then. Just jump right into it, then.
“Look out, Raymond!” shouted Rafa, but I already saw what was getting him scared. The ringer had charged at me and sent a looping right cross right at my head. I bobbed out of the way and move
d to the center of the ring as he bounced into the ropes. I could hear the folks in the upper level shout, “Ole’,” and laugh as I moved to the center of the ring.
I’m not going to lie to you. My heart was racing and I already felt like I was starting to hyperventilate. There was no lead up. The dude pretty much showed up and it was on.
The good thing was my instincts for boxing, for the sport, were returning. As the dude turned around and tried to deliver another haymaker, I popped him twice in the mouth with two jabs. The follow-up cross of one of my favorite combos missed, but I felt it would be there later.
He didn’t like eating the jabs much and threw another looping shot, which I could see coming yesterday. So I bobbed to the right before weaving to the left and dropping a solid left hook to his ribs. With my left hand already up to protect my face, I sent a right uppercut to his chin that really got him mad. He didn’t budge much, but I know he felt it.
As we maneuvered, I realized his guy was an idiot. He had no skill. No science. All brawn.
I might be able to pull this off.
That was, until he connected flush with one of his wild punches. There was a distinct smacking sound as his glove met my skull, rocking me and sending me to the floor flat on my ass.
With my hands down breaking my fall, the dude punched me in the cheek yet again before stepping away, and I could most definitely feel what the problem was. It wasn’t necessarily his power that he clearly had over me, but the dude was wearing knuckle-dusters under his gloves.
The folks in the peanut gallery were clapping and cheering. The Romans. I brushed my glove against my cheek and looked at the glove. Yep. Blood. That was early.
No count, so I took my time getting back to my feet. They were playing dirty, so I needed to adjust my strategy. Basically, use science, but go balls out.
I got to my feet, and Knuckles was ready to greet me with another haymaker. I bobbed, but it smacked my shoulder and it hurt.
He wasn’t bringing his hands back fast enough, no real training, so I countered with a left hook to the head and a right cross. I rocked him again, but he smacked me in the nose with a head-butt. My vision immediately became blurry and I stumbled into the ropes. He got off a few shots on me as I moved out of the ropes and back to the center of the ring.
