“Whose career is over?” Chanel asked, as we sat down.
“Some loser,” Quinton answered, as we took our seats.
While Quinton was handing Tracie her drink, Chanel took that opportunity to nudge my thigh. “Did you ask him?” she queried.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, baby,” I kidded, leaning over to kiss her cheek. “Drink up.”
“Oh my god. You are gonna get it. You had one job to—”
“What are you guys talking about?” Tracie asked, laughing.
I looked at Chanel, who gave me the glare of death and a nod of the head that said, ‘You better not!’ I then responded, “Babe, answer Tracie’s question. What are we talking about?”
CHAPTER 9
Ace “Hit Man” Wilder
Ace “Hit Man” Wilder was on a rampage. He roared across the table at the so-called ‘assistant’ manager, that his own manager, had hired to work alongside him. As he hollered obscenities and insults at both men, his anger escalated to heights that he normally reserved for his opponents in the ring. His hazel eyes had hate in them, wanting only answers—and wanting them now.
“So, you mean to tell me that you did this shit without at least securing me a replacement bag first? Who the fuck does dumb-ass shit like that?! That’s like walking off a muthafuckin’ job without having a muthafuckin’ backup! And while we’re talking jobs,” he shot, “...what part of the goddamn game is it for a manager to have a damn assistant manager?! You out here tryin’ to be fancy and shit!” he raged.
This time, his words were directed at Dex, his manager, slash play-uncle, slash soon-to-be-out-a-muthafuckin’ job.
“Check ya tone, son,” Dex warned, which only served to anger Ace further.
“The fuck you mean, ‘Check my tone’? And don’t son me,” Ace bucked. “You on my muthafuckin’ dollar. So, if I’m asking about staff, then I’m asking about my pockets! I refuse to pay money for a corny muthafucka that don’t know how to produce! So, is his salary comin’ out yo’ pockets?” Ace asked, combatively, leaning his head closer to where the two men sat. He pulled back to an erect standing position. “Because if not, you can cancel that . . . today. Ya heard? Today,” he emphasized, pointing a firm finger downward.
Ace stood before them, challenging either for answers that he was looking for. He was modelesque in stature, which was why some didn’t take him seriously when he got into beast mode. With skin as dark and smooth as Hershey, dark, brown eyes, and his clean-shaven look, he looked more like he belonged on magazine covers, or a New York runway, for that matter. In short, he was a walking contradiction.
“Y’all want a picture?” he shot, sarcastically, his jaw squaring, his high cheekbones sitting on full display. “Because ya staring like—”
“Ace . . .” Cody, the assistant, finally spoke. “I’m sorry that you’re upset. Truly sorry, but—”
“Fuck apologies. I want results.”
“And I get that. I’m working diligently to get the results that will make this work out. This will work,” he promised.
Dex sat next to Cody, allowing Cody to take the brunt of the punishment, while he dragged on one of his expensive cigars. His mind was somewhere outside of that room and on a plan of his own, so he wasn’t the least bit worried about the tantrum that Ace was throwing.
“I realize that you guys want a quick answer,” Cody said.
Ace threw his head back and started to laugh heartily, before bringing his fist down onto the table as hard as he could, shaking all its contents. “You damn muthafuckin’ right I want quick answers, my dude! My muthafuckin’ fight was supposed to be in two goddamn weeks!”
“A-a-and I get that,” Cody stuttered. “I totally g-get that. The first part of the plan has happened already. Shane is out of the way and—”
“Out of the way because he’s in jail? Fuck outta here! Bitches claimin’ rape ain’t shit new. His ass could be out tomorrow, and then what?”
“He could. You’re right. But the commission has a zero tolerance for such activities. So, even if he is, the damage is already done. All we have to do now is—”
“Y’all should’ve done something way more permanent with his ass than getting him locked up for a few goddamn minutes!”
“Permanent? What do you mean by that?” Cody, ignorantly, asked.
Dex removed his cigar from his mouth, sat it on the marble ashtray in front of him and belted out a sinister laugh. Cody turned to look at him, then back at Ace. He slowly leaned forward, all of a sudden showing more bravado than he had the whole time he’d been there.
“I didn’t agree to murder. I won’t agree to murder. Not for any amount of money.”
“Who said shit about murder, you corny-ass?!” Ace yelled. “Open ya damn mind. The possibilities are endless, when you do. And you probably walking about these streets with one of them fuckin’ four-year degrees too, huh? Ain’t got a lick of common sense! Damn shame.”
“Ace, kill that shit,” Dex defended, finally having had enough. “You don’t have to come at him like that. All this rantin’ and ravin’ you doin’! Got the man sitting here when he could be workin’ magic right now.” Dex looked down at his watch. “When you got started, the goddamn big hand on my damn watch was on the damn one. Shit doin’ a slow-ass creep to the muhfuckin’ eleven now. The fuck?”
Ace wanted to laugh at Dex’s humor. Whether he was intending comedy or not, the shit was funny. But as bad as Ace wanted to laugh—if for no other reason than to mock him—now wasn’t the time. He needed both men to take him seriously. He needed to know that everything was on track. He remained standing for a few seconds more, before sitting down in one of the empty chairs nearest to Dex. He rubbed his temples in frustration, before speaking, again.
“So, what’s next? What did Caivano’s manager say?”
“Workin’ on that,” Dex responded, confidently.
“How? I ran up on this fool the other night and he didn’t say shit about—”
“I don’t think it’s gonna be an issue,” Dex interjected, while Cody nodded in agreement.
“Again . . . what guarantee do you have? I haven’t seen or heard nothin’ about that white boy comin’ out of retirement.”
Dex glared at Ace, eye to eye, the patience slowly leaving his demeanor. “That’s because I’m still working on it,” he responded.
“What the fuck?! I’m sittin’ here listenin’ to you talk all calm and shit, like this shit ain’t huge! I need a guarantee that Caivano is comin’ to play! That he’s getting in the ring . . . with me!”
“Ace . . .” Cody stated. “Listen, I’m—”
“Working on it, right? I shoulda been in position to be his last fight. So, miss me with that bullshit! Results are what the fuck I need, not delays! Make some shit happen.” Ace’s eyes narrowed, his face contorted slightly, in a scowl. “. . . or some shit will happen to you.”
“Wait. Is that a fucking threat?” Cody shot.
“No, Cody. It’s not a threat. I would say that it’s much closer to a fuckin’ promise.”
“Hold on, hold on, you guys,” Dex interjected, attempting to bring calm to a brewing storm. “This is going way too far. Look, Ace,” Dex said, placing a careful hand on his client’s shoulder. When Ace cut his eyes over at his hand touching him, he smirked, then slowly removed it. “Listen. Shit is in the works. It’s taking a minute because there are some other details we have to work out on the backend. We have to make sure there’s no kickback from anybody—or the Federation. We have to do this right.”
Ace’s jaw tightened, as he inhaled and then released an elongated sigh. He found a focal point outside the window behind Cody’s head and started a silent count to 15. At the end of his countdown, without speaking anymore words, Ace stood from his seat and proceeded to walk out of the room.
“Ace!” they called after him, to no avail.
CHAPTER 10
Dario
It was about two in the afternoon whe
n I walked through a set of double doors that opened into the new building that my father was about to purchase. The man had a keen eye for real estate—commercial and residential. He thrived off of finding spots for priming. I had no idea what his plans were for this particular one, but it was nice. It had a Miami feel to it, being all white with floor-to-ceiling windows on all four floors. It had a lot of appeal and potential, with its sky-high ceilings, natural sunlight, cherrywood floors, and a healthy amount of foot traffic. Foot traffic was ideal, if he was considering the space for multipurpose use, which it looked to be. But hell, what did I know? I owned two pieces of real estate—my home and my gym.
“There he is!” my father echoed from across the first floor of the massive, empty room. As he moved in my direction to meet me halfway, all I could think of was the man seemed to never age. He still had an athletic build, maybe three grey strands of hair—maybe, and the energy of a 30-year-old man. Maybe the fact that he and my mother only had one child to contend with made it easy for them to preserve their youth. “My boy!” he exclaimed, excitedly, pulling me into a bear hug. “How are you?”
“I’m good, Papà. How are you?” I asked, as we pulled from our embrace. I looked around the large space and up to the sky-high ceilings, then back at his smiling face. “Seems like you’re good, by the looks of this place.”
“Yeah, it’s nice, right?”
“Yep. Did you buy it already? Or are you just shopping?”
“I bought it,” he stated, nonchalantly. “Haven’t figured out exactly what I’m gonna do with it, but the deal was too good to pass up.”
“Yeah, and it’s in a good area too,” I cosigned.
“When are you thinking of getting your next piece of real estate, son? Now, since you retired, you’ll have so much time on your hands that you’ll be looking for something more, before long.”
I rubbed my hand across the top of my freshly-tapered hair. “Nah, I think I’ll just do things simple for now.”
“Ahhh,” my dad said, smiling wide. “You want to preserve all that spare time for your woman, right?”
I chuckled at him picking up on it right away. Not that he, and anybody close to us, didn’t already know. “You could say that.”
He nodded his approval, then palmed the back of my neck to look me in the eyes. “Your happiness makes me happy. Chanel puts a smile on your face and that’s all I ever wanted for you. Not every woman is a good woman; and trust me, I know you don’t need your father telling you that. But I’m proud that you made the right choice and that you even allowed happiness into your heart. There was a time I was deathly afraid that you wouldn’t let happiness in, no matter how hard it knocked. Like you felt you didn’t deserve it.” He released me from his love-grip, nodded again and smiled. “Your love for her opened your eyes. You were able to see that you’re more than deserving.”
I saw both contentment and sadness in my father’s eyes, as he spoke. His speech was a result of the memories from my past. He knew all too well that when Lucas died, I died with him. The pain of losing my cousin, who was more like my brother, was too much. I was here physically, but my soul was lost. I felt lifeless. My emotions played out in fights at school, sometimes in the streets, and subsequently in the octagon. Everybody that I hit had the face of Lucas’ killer. I was filled with hate and resentment. I didn’t even believe that I could give my heart to an intimate situation—until Chanel. From the first day I met her, she made me want to see the world through love’s eyes. She made me want to show her the world. And she made me want to be a better, whole person.
“Thanks, Papà. It means a lot that we have your approval. She’s a beautiful woman—inside and out. A good mother, a good companion, smart . . . everything. Wrapped in the perfect package.”
“And she’s also lucky,” he continued. “. . . to have you.”
My father and I stood in silence for a few seconds, marinating in the words spoken. The dialogue was short; yet, as always, had plenty of depth. Times like this between us, I really appreciated. I loved my parents more than life; each of them for different reasons. But my father was something like my best friend. We had never had a shortage of father/son time, but it seemed like every time we did see each other, something meaningful always came from our time together.
“So, anyway . . . so much for the serious stuff,” my father said, quickly switching gears and leading me to an area further inside, where I could admire more of the city’s view. “Tell me about this guy that keeps speaking your name in the media.”
“Excuse my language, Papà, but it’s not shit. He’s an asshole. If it got to me the way he really wants it to, I would’ve already put my fist through his mouth.”
My father belly laughed, loud enough to be heard on all the floors of his new property. “I love your way with words, son. I already know you can take him. I haven’t asked you about it before now, because I figured that it was just some idiot trying to get your attention. But I won’t lie—and I know your mother would have 10 fits if she heard me say this—a part of me wishes that you were still fighting, so you could knock his fuckin’ teeth out of his face.” We reached the back of the building and ended up facing a small courtyard. “You know what I mean?”
I shook my head and released a belly laugh, having been caught off guard by my father’s expressive admission. I could’ve told him about the confrontation from the other night, but I decided against it.
“Yeah, I know what you mean. But it’s cool. I’m guessing that his funds are running low and he thinks that calling me out will make me come for him.”
“Uh-huh, because he knows a fight with you could set him up for the next few years. Open his career up to new possibilities. To be able to say he got beat the fuck up by Dario Caivano, seems desperate. But hey, money makes people do desperate shit.”
I ran my palms down the sides of my beard and laughed. “Well, he ain’t my son. It’s not my responsibility to keep money in his pockets. Now, if he wants, I can kick his ass on the street and call it a day. But getting back in the ring to pacify an idiot . . . that’s not gonna happen.”
Together, we stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows and looked out over a larger section of the city that showed parts of the piers. It was nice as hell out there, with beautiful structures, and water in the distance. The fact that there wasn’t a cloud in the sky made it even more beautiful.
“That’s a nice-ass view,” my father said, before turning to look at me. “Well, you don’t have to listen to me, son, but I would at least respond to that asshole. He’s talkin’ a whole lotta shit. You don’t know how hard it is for me to keep my mouth shut on your behalf. It’s been a long time since I was able to knock a motherfucka out. I think it’s long overdue.”
“Nah, Pop! No!”
I couldn’t help but laugh at him. I mean, I cracked up. Because I knew about his hot streak. Giuseppe Caivano, was a true thug in his heyday. A take-no-prisoners type of man. His hot streak didn’t fall far from the tree, either. I had one that mirrored it. That streak was why, even after a few days, I was still holding onto the fact that Ace had come into Chanel’s club. That he addressed her by a name he had no business. None of it sat well with me, and I swear that taking the high road was proving difficult.
My dad retrieved his gold case from the pocket of his Polo sports jacket. He opened it and retrieved one of his cigars and lit it. After taking a few drags, he said, “You’re laughing, but I’m as serious as hell. He’s weak. A weak-ass man. A real man would never feel like he had to ride the coattail of another. But then, how many real men really roam the goddamn earth? I’d say this one just needs a firm fist in between his two, front woodchuckers.”
I shook my head at him. His response was killing me on the inside.
“Papà . . . seriously, you’re killing me!” I unleashed more uncontrollable laughter. My father was on a roll with his rant.
“What?! I mean it!”
“I know you do,” I told him, when my la
ughter had finally died down. I reached over to pat my father on his shoulder. “But I’m gonna ignore him, Papà. He’s not on my level enough to share energy with. If he really wanted to put his money where his mouth was, he would’ve had his team try a little harder to get a fight with me. He didn’t. He waits to talk shit after I already put my gloves away. I’m sure, one day I’ll have a small itch to get back in the octagon. It was a part of my life—for most of my life. But trust me, if I do, it’ll be with somebody that has way more to offer than his pathetic-ass.”
My father inhaled, then released a heavy sigh. I knew there was much more he wanted to say, but he refrained. He gave me a prolonged stare before throwing in the towel. “Alright, son,” he said. “Let me show you the rest of this building and maybe you can give your old man some ideas of what to do with it. Sound like a plan?”
“Yep,” I answered, following behind him. “Let’s do it. The sooner I see the masterpiece, the sooner I can get to something to drink.”
My father was quiet for a bit, but then turned to me with a half-smile and said, “Drinking ain’t good for a man training to fight.”
“Good thing I’m not training, then!” I yelled out, laughing.
I could already tell, when he didn’t laugh along with me, that this wouldn’t be the last of the Ace Wilder conversation.
CHAPTER 11
Chanel
I pulled up to Anchalee Thai Cuisine in Berkeley, somewhere around 11 AM. I was surprised as hell when I managed to get a spot right in front! This location had some of the best Thai in the Bay Area. Because of that, there was hardly ever anywhere to park, unless it was blocks down in the residential neighborhood, and at least a 10-minute walk.
I reached into the back seat for my brown, leather, backpack and hopped out of my car, my taste buds going crazy with excitement. I already knew what I was going to order, too!
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