Pound for Pound

by F. X. Toole

  “No way. Darleen’s fucked me, all right, but I ain’t fucked her.”

  Wardell said, “Put the bitch out you head, boy, we got us a fight to win.”

  “I know,” said Chicky, “but I keep lookin for my nuts and I can’t find ‘em.”

  “They’ll grow back, same as when you prune a tree, only bigger.”

  “This ever happen to you, Wardell?”

  Wardell said, “Why you think I walk funny?” Then he saw Earl and Dan headed his way.

  “Hey, Dan!” yelled Wardell. He was laying out the gauze and tape for Chicky’s hands. “I thought you was dead.”

  “Bullshit!” he shot back. “Nobody this pretty is allowed to die!”

  Wardell slapped hands and laughed. Earl saw the gauze.

  Earl said, “I heard you stopped working corners, slick.”

  “That’s right. I’ma just he’pin this boy for tonight,” said Wardell. “This here Chicky Garza wit the blond head. He black-headed first time I see ‘im.”

  Chicky nodded and smiled, but then thought of Blond Darleen and his face darkened. Dan and Earl shook Chicky’s hand, noticed his height and weight, and the bright shine of good conditioning in his eyes.

  Wardell said, “Chicky, this here’s Dan Cooley, the one you was lookin for.”

  Dan said, “Me you were lookin for?”

  Hearing Dan’s name, Chicky’s heart began to thump. Now he was tongue-tied. Too much was happening in one day. He wanted to unload his whole story on Dan, but knew better, and just nodded, his mouth dry, his eyes wide.

  Wardell said, “Boy from San Antone. He come lookin for you to train him while back.”

  Dan shook his head. Barky was all he could handle these days. “I’m outta trainin.”

  Chicky said, “That’s what I kinda heard.”

  Dan said, “You’re from Texas, how come you know about me?”

  Chicky knew he couldn’t tell him the truth, what with his losses and another loss sure to come. Three strikes and you’re out in any ball game. He’d brought enough shame on himself, what with Blond Darleen and all, but there was no way he’d put a black mark on his grandpa.

  “How’d I know about you?” Chicky said, stalling. “Somebody at one of the gyms said you were good. I got other names, too.”

  Wardell said, “He trained some with Tony Velasco.”

  “Aw, shit,” Dan said. He turned to Chicky. “Garza, huh? You ever hear of a old-time lightweight named Eloy Garza? He was from Texas someplace. Stay on your ass like a goddamn wolf with blood in his eye.”

  Chicky lied, “Can’t say I have. See, there’s lots a Garzas in South Texas.”

  Chicky didn’t know at first why he was telling the lie but later figured it out. He didn’t want his pitiful record associated with his grandfather’s achievements in the ring.

  “Yeah, well, Wardell here’ll steer you straight now you’re here.”

  “Me’n him only a short-notice deal,” Wardell told Dan. “He be leavin right after he get paid.”

  Dan said, “With a name like Garza, what you doin with all that blond hair?”

  “I had me a ol’ gal what sung me a cunt song.”

  Once Wardell had wrapped Chicky’s hands, Chicky got a look at his opponent, who made several quick trips to the men’s room. Chicky was wondering if he should call his granddaddy from somewhere on the road, or just walk in on him. At least he’d have his El Patron to show off. Other than the Stetson, he had bragging rights on nothing.

  The arena was filling rapidly, the sounds of humans muffling the roaring music. Chicky felt disconnected. From boxing, from home, from himself. There were no Mexicans he could turn to, and he hadn’t heard any Texas talk since he’d left El Paso. He thought of his grandmother. He clung to her memory and he yearned for his grandfather’s rough hand on his shoulder.

  The referee checked and signed Chicky’s wrapped hands, and the promoter came in to wish everyone luck. Chicky was then told he’d fight third instead of first. Now he had to wait in line for his ass whipping. As he sat brooding, he remembered what Dan Cooley had said about the way his granddaddy fought. Chicky flushed Blond Darleen from his mind and vowed to go out there with blood in his eye, like his grand-daddy had.

  Earl and Dan watched the fights quietly, their eyes trained to see each combination of red punches as distinctly as cherries in a basket. The first two bouts were dull, the opponents short on skill and long on fear. The crowd hooted, but everyone knew these were just warm-up fights, and accepted them as such.

  Earl said, “Best all those boys hang ‘em up soon, maybe after tonight.”

  “It’s a hard game,” said Dan.

  Chicky and his opponent, Pepe Reyes, made their way to the ring, Chicky looking bony to Earl at 143. Reyes was well over the 147 limit, having eaten steadily since the weigh-in. When the announcer introduced Chicky as hailing from San Antonio, many in the crowd booed.

  Dan said, “Let’s see what Tex’s got.”

  Chicky lost the first two rounds, but only by a slight margin. When the East L.A. boy began to tire early in the third, Chicky’s work with Mack’s boy paid off. Once he was able to force his southpaw stance on Reyes, the balance of the fight changed. With Reyes backing up, Chicky let his power loose, fueling it with his hurt and shame, and his grandfather’s honor. The barrio boy was tough, and only backed up when Chicky knocked him back, but Chicky felt himself slip into a dancing, bob-and-weave rhythm, and suddenly the punches were throwing themselves. Chicky won the third round easily, but halfway through, a shot to his nose started bleeding severely. He breathed the way Eloy had taught him. Through his mouth, so he wouldn’t swallow blood coming down from the back of his throat or snort air into the aperture of torn nasal tissue and inflate his face.

  Wardell wobbled up to the ring apron between the third and fourth rounds. He couldn’t waste time climbing through the ropes, so he worked from outside. He stopped the blood flow with adrenaline chloride and pressure, then cleaned and greased and watered his fighter and got it all done in less than the allotted sixty seconds.

  Earl said, “Nothin stop Wardell.”

  Chicky knocked Reyes down near the end of the fourth, but was unable to put him away because the last bell rang, ending the fight. Both boys raised their arms in victory. The crowd cheered what was clearly a two-point round for Chicky. Along with most fans, Dan and Earl saw Chicky winning his third fight.

  But two of the three judges gave the fight to Reyes, the third calling it a draw—a majority decision going to the local boy. Most of the crowd hooted, but not the fans from East Al-Lay.

  “Home-town call,” said Earl.

  Dan said, “What’s new?”

  Wardell stopped by with his bucket. “Kid’s about to die. Two Velasco setups, now this mess.”

  Earl said, “We thought he won.”

  Wardell said, “Damn straight he won! Only now what we got is a good young fighter jobbed into three losses.”

  “He’s better than zero and three,” Earl said. “He don’t know how to fight, but he’s got those fast, heavy hands that came from somewhere.”

  “Yeah, but he’s got a wide-ass stance that shortens his reach and forces him to lean in to land,” Dan said. “Leaning in puts him inside the other guy’s reach. He wants to be inside, he’d best know how to counter instead of fuckin stand there and trade.”

  Wardell said, “Why don’t you take him on?”

  “Nooo,” Dan said, “I already lost too much to this game.”

  Wardell nodded. “Like the rest of us.”

  Chicky changed clothes and waited in silence as whoops of victory came from Reyes’s friends down the hall. Wardell emptied water bottles, dumped ice, and began to put all his gear together.

  Chicky spoke to himself, the words falling dead in the air. “When you can’t even win when you win, then you ain’t never gonna win.”

  Chicky wanted his check so he could go, but nobody showed up from the Commission. The bell ending the
fourth fight rang, but Chicky had heard none of it. The ring announcer shouted out the winner’s name, and then called for the intermission. The music blared while beer drinkers headed for the urinals. The commission guy arrived, had Chicky sign, and then gave him a check for the full five hundred. The promoter, a local Chicano, left the noise down the hallway and glanced in on Chicky.

  He said, “Too bad, homes, losing after coming on like you did.”

  Chicky said, “This kinda shit could make a Mexican hate Mexicans.”

  Dan checked his watch and turned to Earl. “Time to take ol’ Bark out to pee.”

  “How do you say pee in Spanish?” Earl asked.

  “I haven’t got to that lesson yet.”

  “That dog’s more trouble than a kid.”

  “Yeah,” said Dan, “but he don’t listen to loud music or need braces.”

  Chicky paid off his corner man, then turned to Wardell. “I ‘preciate what you done out there.”

  “Glad to do it. Too bad you’re leavin.”

  “Deck’s stacked against me, pods.”

  Chicky palmed a folded, crisp hundred-dollar bill he’d taken from his kicker, and shook hands with Wardell. The old man felt it and knew right off it was more than gas money.

  Wardell said, “No good, son. I be happy if I don’t make nothin workin wit you.”

  Chicky said, “God bless you, Wardell, but I want you to have it. California ain’t all bad.”

  Chapter 31

  Dan moved through the crowd toward the main exit. He saw Detective Nájera leaving the men’s room. Dan caught the cop’s attention.

  ‘Well, it’s Mr. Cooley.”

  “You remember me.”

  “How could I forget?” Nájera said, with a faint smile.

  “Like the action?”

  “Club fight, you know,” said Nájera. “But my Texas brother got robbed for sure.”

  “I know what you mean,” Dan said. “Listen. Somethin’s been botherin me ever since when I, uh, well, you know, I want to apologize for the crap I said to you.”

  Nájera smiled. “Oh, hell, I’m a cop and we don’t always see folks at their best.”

  “I just wanted you to know.”

  “I ‘preciate it, Mr. Cooley. And I understand.”

  Chicky had carried his gear out to Fresita. His hat was off and he was studying his map for a place to stay later on that night. He saw the town of Indio, located east of Palm Springs, but it brought the Indio Gym and Velasco to mind, and he decided to just drive as far as he could. Tired as he was, maybe he’d just konk out along the road like before and save money. He’d need it. If he had enough left when he got home, he’d haul his grandpa to the Paris Hatters and buy him an El Patron, too. The old man was due for something splendid, and the idea of buying a Stetson for his granddaddy made Chicky feel good for the first time in a spell.

  Barky went on alert as soon as he heard a noise outside the truck, then bounced around when he saw it was Dan. Dan unlocked the door on the driver’s side and the dog dashed out, selective in his sprinkles only after he let his main load go.

  Dan said, “I got some dog treats for you, and then I’m goin back inside with Earl, hear? You stay in the truck and sleep, and then I’ll take you out again.”

  As they returned down the lane leading to Dan’s truck, they saw three dark figures hovering near the driver’s side of the vehicle. Off to one side was the triple-black lowrider that Chicky had seen earlier, its trunk open. Dan didn’t connect the car with the dark figures until he heard glass shatter and sudden bursts of Spanglish slang.

  “¡Wátchale estúpido!” Careful, stupid!

  Barky wheezed once, then tore into all three pandilleros, his teeth ripping into ass and balls. Desperate hands tried to drive him off. One of the gangbangers took off through the stagnant pools and muddy bottom and into the reeds of the shallow river, Barky right after him.

  “Stop him! ¡Socorro! Help! Please! ¡Por Dios! In God’s name!”

  Dan tried to stay away from the other two as they checked themselves for blood and punctured flesh beneath the rips in their leather jackets. When they saw him, they began to bellow in Spanish, and they knocked him down and began to stomp him. Dan got in a nut shot that slowed one of them, but they kicked him back down. The second pulled a knife, and Dan scuttled away, his ribs aching and one thigh cramping in a charley horse that made his eyes water.

  Chicky heard the ruckus, then saw Dan on the ground, the two ‘bangers on him. Chicky moved into both from the side, firing lefts and rights into their faces and bellies, and then he cranked a one-two combination that knocked one of them over the hood of an adjacent car. He stopped the second guy with a shot to the liver that made him drop his knife and grab his guts. Chicky slid across a fender to the first, who wobbled to his feet. Chicky dropped him again, this time with a right hook that left him twitching in the dirt, his eyes blinking in spasms.

  Dan was up and drilling the second attacker when Barky came racing back. As the punk started to raise a fist to club Dan, Barky got it between his teeth and crushed the thumb and fingers. As the pandillero began to howl, Chicky kicked his knee sideways, and he went down on his side, his hand still locked in Barky’s jaws.

  “He’s eating my hand get him off me hijo de su chingada madre el pinche perro me está comiendo fuckin dog’s eatin me alive!”

  As the first ‘banger pulled himself to his knees, Dan kicked him in the stomach so hard that shit filled his Jockeys. Barky gave up his hold on the second one’s hand, and went for his face. Dan was afraid Barky would kill him and pulled him off, blood splashing and flesh hanging loose from the torn cheek and neck.

  The two pandilleros saw a chance to escape and took off in a stumbling run, both falling along the way. Barky stayed on them through the mud and reeds and up the embankment and into the darkness. Dan called him back.

  One of the running ‘bangers shouted back through the darkness, “Ain’t fair havin a silent dog, man!”

  Barky returned, pumped on adrenaline, slobber all over, his eyes bulging. He snorted and jumped around for approval, and then sniffed Chicky. He looked to Dan for instructions.

  “This is Chicky Garza, he’s okay,” Dan said. He patted and rubbed the pooch and fondled his ears. “Good boy, good dog. You’re so pretty.”

  Chicky wasn’t sure he’d heard right. Dan turned to him.

  “Hey! Thank you, thank you!”

  Chicky rubbed his hands, “I don’t much identify with truck thieves.”

  Dan saw the knife on the ground and picked it up. “Who were those guys?”

  Chicky pointed to the lowrider. “Earlier on, I saw ‘em in that.”

  Dan crossed over and knifed the tires, then got Barky into the pickup. He put the truck into low, and rammed one side of the lowrider with his reinforced-steel push bumpers. He backed around and got the other side, then bashed in the customized grill and the rear end, the open trunk tilting off to one side.

  Dan said, “We better clear out of here.”

  Dan drove to a nearby truckers’ café where they served homemade pie. Chicky, wearing his El Patron, followed in Fresita. They ordered pie and coffee and then they began to laugh. They finished their pie, laughed some more, and then ordered more pie.

  Dan said, “That’s some red truck you got.”

  “Belonged to my granddaddy,” Chicky said, feeling crossways with himself. Things were complicating up. He wanted to say more about his grandfather, but didn’t feel he could now that he had denied knowledge of Eloy. “This pie’s good stuff.”

  “They make great bread pudding, too.”

  When they finished, Dan took a double order of bread pudding out to Barky, who was still charged and shivery and going gnuff-gnuff. The bread pudding disappeared in one gulp, and then Barky sat politely back and licked his chops.

  “Some dawg.”

  “He’s my baby boy.”

  Chicky said, “I had more fun back there than I’ve had in a coon’s age
.”

  “Me, too,” said Dan, knowing how lucky they were not to have been killed. “Say, cowboy, you can crack.”

  “Yeah,” said Chicky with a sad smile, “not that it matters much now.”

  “What do you mean? You could get somebody good to train you. Hell, I’d work cuts, if you wanted me to.” Dan wobbled back. What? Did I say that?

  “Much obliged, Mr. Cooley. But see, I already quit my job and all.”

  “Well, uh …” Dan could see what he had in mind, but he couldn’t come right out and say it. “You could leave tomorrow same as tonight, right?”

  “Not really,” the kid said, rubbing his hands again. “See, I already checked out of my room, too.”

  “Look,” Dan said, “you saved my ass. I owe you.”

  “No, you don’t”

  “Yeah, I do. So why don’t you follow me back to my shop?”

  “Now?”

  “Half hour this time of night. You can check out my gym.”

  “I was fixin to leave, Mr. Cooley.”

  “Tell you what. If you don’t like what I might have in mind, I’ll put you up overnight at the Four Seasons Hotel on Doheny Drive in Beverly Hills.”

  Chicky said, “Let’s do it.”

  Dan used his cell phone to call Earl.

  Earl said, “Where the hell are you?”

  “I got into a beef with some thieves tryin to steal my truck. That Garza kid saved my ass.”

  Earl said, “Where you callin from?”

  “We’re on the way back to the gym, uh, to the shop.” Earl smiled, had a hunch his partner was near healed, but was careful not to sound too interested. “Can you trust the kid in the shop?’

  “Hell, Earl, the kid saved my fucking life!”

  Earl put his hand over his mouth in glee and bobbed his head.

  Dan showed Chicky around the shop, but didn’t mention the shot-up Caddy under the tarp. They moved out to the gym, and Chicky saw how it could be entered from the shop. He quickly understood that this was a holy place to Dan, sensed that Dan was revealing something of himself that not many were allowed to see. He also saw the hand-lettered signs on the wall: “Good Fighters Don’t Need Water and Bad Fighters Don’t Deserve Water.” “Learning’s Hard, Doing’s Easy.” “The First Rule of War Is Don’t Shoot Yourself.” Chicky understood them all, and saw their sense.