by Henry Roi
Shocker twisted around, exasperated that someone would challenge her authority on the subject. “Because it would be more work for the same amount of money.”
“What???” My girl looked beyond cute when puzzled. I made her go through the sneak-pinch-replace hand thing again.
“If you had experienced promoters in the pros you'd know what I mean. Those guys suck. A promoter will not pay a girl more for a fight just because it has three minute rounds. Starting out, girls get two hundred dollars a round. A two minute round. If all of a sudden rounds were changed to three minutes, promoters are not going to offer three hundred a round. That's not going to happen.”
Blondie folded her arms, frowning. “So doesn't that support the argument for two minute rounds?”
Shocker let out a breath. Her passion for the subject was showing, an old wellspring of emotion that hasn't been tapped like this in a very long time. She put on a patient, experienced professor air. “No. The whole system needs to be revamped. I wish you could talk to some of the girls I know. In two thousand and six Layla McCarter was the first woman to have a title fight with three minute rounds.”
“She fought Belinda Laracuente,” Blondie said.
“Mmm-hmm.”
“I thought you were the first,” I said.
Shocker twisted again and gave me a curious glance. “Didn't figure you for a reader.”
I responded with a certain finger stuck up in front of an appropriate scowl.
She smiled, Kidding. “I was one of the first.” She looked at my girl. “In two thousand and seven Layla fought Donna Biggers in Vegas in the first women's bout scheduled for twelve three minute rounds. She is the pioneer. I jumped on the bandwagon because it was a chance to stick it to the promoters and get some girls on TV with bigger paydays.”
“What's the real advantage to three minutes versus two?” I said. “More time to set up shots?”
She nodded. Ace cursed traffic that surrounded us. It was just past sundown, sky dark overhead but brilliant with blues, greens and oranges to our right, colors brighter along the horizon lining the black Gulf. The confusing array of lights produced by rush hour traffic winked and glowed among numerous engines, rolling tires and occasional horn or booming stereo. Exhaust fumes seeped in through the cracked windows.
Shocker smiled at Ace's reference to burnt electronics, then looked back at us. “In two minutes it's hard to show off your skill as a boxer. You basically have to get out there and throw a bunch of punches to get points or a stoppage. Like in the amateurs. With three minutes women can show that they have skills equal to men.” She looked pointedly at me. “Or better…”
“Pfff,” I replied, making the girls chortle.
Shocker went on. “Two minute rounds disrupt the flow of fights. Trust me. When you get into a rhythm for three minute rounds you feel more like a pro.”
“But fewer and shorter rounds limit wear and tear on boxers, allowing us to fight more frequently.” Blondie rebutted. “And two minutes is a faster pace. Makes the fights more exciting.”
“That's a good argument, one many women are making,” Shocker acquiesced. “But it won't give us equal rights in the sport, or allow pure boxers the chance to get recognized. If we had true equality, maybe we'd have the opportunity to fight on HBO or Showtime and make half the cash men generate.”
Blondie nodded thoughtfully. I said, “Babe, cash wins any debate. Shocker: four. Blondie: three.” Ace chuckled with me until we were glared into silence.
Blondie's leg tensed under my hand. In a disturbingly quiet tone she asked me, “So you guys are keeping score on us?”
I looked into her gorgeous yes with a shit-eating grin. “Yes we are.”
“I, uh…” Ace muttered.
Shocker stared out the windshield and told her man, “Well then, you won't be keeping any scores when we get home tonight.”
Ace looked at me in the rear view mirror. It's possible I encouraged him with an Are You going To Take That? look. He glanced right and retorted, “That's okay. I have a new girlfriend on World of Warcraft.”
“I hope she's hot,” Shocker said. I could see her profile, lips trying to pucker back a grin. His attempts at humor would apparently disarm any trouble with his wife.
“She's a troll,” he said in his matter-of-fact manner.
I offered, “I'd hit that.”
Blondie smacked me. Shocker decided it was a good idea and smacked Ace. We rubbed our arms and grinned at our women, excited about wining our first Guys Vs. Girls match up. They grinned back, no doubt thinking they had won.
We turned off the highway, then onto Oak Street, cruising into the heart of Biloxi's east end. We arrived at our destination seconds later. The Buddhist temple was an unlikely evening spot for four young Caucasians, but we had an It's Cool pass because we were invited to a celebration here by Anh Long. And I mean a real celebration. The Autumn Festival is serious business to the Vietnamese. They went all out, with festive decorations and colorful dress, tables full of food, dancing. Contests. It was a huge family event, the “family” part having been stressed to me by both Blondie and Shocker, for whatever reason. I didn't care. I was attending to try my hand at dragon dancing. I had no exact idea what that entailed but it sounded like something I should have been doing all my life.
The boring-ass church next door needs to take note: the temple knows how to make religion fun.
The temple grounds were fenced in, front gate open in two places for driveways. Ace turned into the first one, piloting us through rows of cars in the parking area. It was packed. I noticed the vehicles were nearly all imports, in factory condition. The crowd would be mostly conservative Vietnamese, parents and grandparents, working-class folks and maybe a few retired gangsters. Lots of kids. Damn. Kids. Blondie will be oohing and ahing all night. Where the hell is Big Guns? We were supposed to meet up and burn one before making our entrance.
Ace found a space next to the only customized ride in the lot, a red Mitsubishi Evo. I looked the ride over, analytically, hoping its passengers would be cool enough to party with until Big Guns showed.
The driver is probably a fifteen year old dealer from the Royal Family, my ever-optimistic subconscious opined, jacked up on a fresh dose of Dexadrine. Ten to one he's one of the dragon dancers.
Ace shifted into PARK and killed the ignition. He and Shocker opened the doors, warm fresh air rushing past the front seats as they adjusted them so we could climb out. I watched my girl go first, lending a gentlemanly hand where I thought appropriate. She squealed and threatened me, squirmed away from my groping and stood on the pavement. Shook out her long locks. The parking lot lights made her snug fitting jacket shine expensively, crimson hide that looked nearly black. Her designer jeans were black and tight, showing off hell-fuck-yeah legs, long black-crimson boots ending just below her knees, heels knocking with authority. She took some things out of a scarlet handbag and pocketed them, tossed the bag in the back seat and closed the door. Looked around in a circle. “Where's Big G?”
I climbed out behind Ace. “Maybe he rode with someone else?” I speculated.
She shrugged, Oh well.
Ace closed the door, then checked out his girl while he played with his blonde spikes, getting them just right. His thermal blue long sleeve utility shirt went perfectly with the hybrid skinny jeans/cargo pants. Very techno nerd. He had gadgets of unknown design on his belt and leg pockets, arm pockets. A yellow light blinked next to his knee. Polished metal flashed at his waist and thighs.
What the fuck???
I looked over at Shocker. At first I had been surprised she wore the compression sleeve to this function. But after seeing Ace's ensemble I decided she had been extorted into going along with a cyborg geek couples matching scheme. She looked over the roof at him, scratching her bionic arm. She wore a different, far more stylish Power Felt top. It was white with one gray long sleeve, thick black stitching, the left sleeve missing. The silky, scale-like compression sleeve fill
ed its place. There was a gap between the top and sleeve, wires and tan skin visible. Her shorts were mid-thigh, white, cargo pockets on each muscular leg fully utilized: they contained her brass knuckles. She patted her pockets absently, reassuring herself, a good mechanic never leaving home without her tools.
Shocker's hiking boots were white and gray, brushed leather, tall enough to emphasize calves that didn't need any help. Her over-developed gastrocs made a plain enough statement without accessorizing. I can beat you – and YOU – at anything, the freaky gorgeous things proclaimed loudly.
As long as Ace stands next to her no one will make fun of him, I predicted.
She noticed my look and gestured at herself. “Yeah it was his turn to win.” She shrugged. “It was either this or help him build a giant lantern that hovers.” She straightened her back and deepened her voice, mimicking her husband's one squinted eye. “The Autumn Festival is also called the Lantern Festival.”
“Not bad,” I said.
“Yeah. Lantern festival,” Ace said, completely missing the sarcasm. “Part of the celebration is a lighting of lanterns. They have a contest and write riddles on the paper lanterns.” He looked around at us. “You guys want to hear mine?”
I showed him an eager face and invited, “Tell me less.”
Blondie cut her eyes at me in disapproval, then looked at the geek. “Did you Google the Autumn Festival?”
“Binged it,” he replied. “What? You guys didn't?”
I turned my back to him and fought for control of my face.
Blondie told him, “We aren't on a job, honey.” She took a compact and tube of lipstick from her front pocket. Opened both. I could see her plump pink lips in the compact's mirror as she swiped on a quick touch up. “Besides, if we needed to know something about this party or the people here I wouldn't have to research it.” She pocketed her makeup.
“Yeah, there's plenty of old Viet players here that are going to hit on you,” I said. “They'll tell you all you want to know about the Autumn Fest. And their Sausage Fest.”
“Ew! If any old player fests his sausage anywhere near me, I'll use his ass like a gong.” She smacked a fist into her palm, mugging me fiercely for putting such an unpleasant image in her head. “Fucker.” She pushed me.
“Hey. If you get disgusted, just think of this.” I waved my hands down my sides, chest out arrogantly. Put my palms together above my head and wagged my face side to side while squatting and hopping, beat-boxing a Bollywood jam. The girls burst out laughing, watching my ridiculous antics.
My pants were black leather, though thin and worn enough to look like jeans. I wore a dark red thermal tee, tucked in, belt buckle plasma sculpted into a miniature straight razor. It was chrome, opened slightly. Because it will be cold later I wore a white leather 'cycle jacket with red stripes down the sleeves, unzipped. No jewelry. My hair and 'stache were gleaming. My Johnson was scheming. We were ready for our entrance.
My bitch is badder than yours, my proud smile told the two men that walked past the Scion, forty-ish Viet locals that couldn't take their eyes off the girls. Their heads twisted around comically, legs still marching straight, captivated by Blondie's butt and Shocker's tan, ripped legs. We began walking behind them. They faced front, laughing about something. The girls' curves bulged and flexed in ways their tiny Asian women never could. I wasn't offended by their leering. Hey, I understood.
I've driven by this place for years but never thought I'd have a reason to be here. The temple was at the rear of the property, an almost Spanish-style building of white stucco with a red tile roof. Its facade was pleasing in design, open archways rather than columns. A tall white stone statue was on a pedestal in front of it, an Asian chick in a robe.
Compassionate Mother, my subconscious provided.
How the hell did I know that? The amount of useless information in my head could fill the Library of Congress.
Next to the temple was a modular home with white vinyl siding and a shingled roof, a gray KIA parked in front. Likely the residence of the caretaker. Neither of those buildings were important at the moment, however. The party was at the pavilion out front.
Over a hundred people thronged the archways, red brick walls and cement patios around the stylish pavilion. Its roof was a match to the temple, red tile with corners swooping out and curving up at the tips, an architectural mix of modern and old school oriental. CHUA VAN DUC was on the top of the center archway in large red letters, BUDDHIST TEMPLE under it. Temple of a million fortunes, I think it translated to. Flags flapped on top of the swooped roof: the U.S. flag, the Vietnam flag, and one I didn't recognize. Grass, flower beds, and assorted plants were landscaped around it, colorful lights strung over tables with food and drinks, bright red glares fogging my vision. Most of the people were dressed casually, though some wore nice suits and traditional robes. Everyone wore a smile, and spoke in Vietnamese.
The Elder Dragon stood among several men and women, all of them in robes. The men's garb was golden yellow or orange-gold, the ladies pale blue and pale gray. Anh Long looked like a king visiting his subjects. He moved slowly, speaking with everyone, eye contact timed perfectly, grasping hands and bowing affectionately. I could see why he was so revered. The man had serious charisma.
For the most part the crowd welcomed us with polite hellos, though a few older women frowned up severely when they saw Blondie and Shocker. We were certainly out of place. I was taking a perverse pride in making the conservatives uncomfortable when Anh Long walked over and shook our hands.
“Welcome. I'm so happy you could make it,” he said, looking at each of us. His epicanthic eyes shined behind his glasses, smile genuine and comfortable on his ageless face.
“I'm here for the dragon dancing,” I told him, then inclined my head at my crew. “They're here for the spiritual crap.”
“I see,” he replied, humor brightening his eyes even more. “Do you know the purpose of the spiritual crap?”
“Of course,” I said in mock offense. “It's a reason to throw a party.”
“Hmmpt,” Blondie agreed.
“Like you need a reason to throw a party,” Shocker told me.
“I don't.” I pointed at her, very serious. I gave my voice a solemn tone. “But you do. I'm here to help you people embrace your inner party animal.” I took a deep breath, let it out. “It's a higher level of Zen.”
Blondie rolled her eyes. Ace grinned. Shocker looked piqued by my Zen comment. Anh Long put a hand on my shoulder and returned my solemnity. “And we are thankful for your help. Please feel free to show us how to achieve this higher level.”
“You might want to rethink that, sir,” Blondie said, very concerned. “Your congregation might lose its religion after a night of him capering around here.”
The Elder Dragon just smiled. “I trust him to mind his manners around the children present and respect our beliefs.”
Damn. I scowled at Blondie, at him. He basically said he trusted me. I hate it when people do that. Now I had to be all PG-13 and shit. “Great,” I muttered.
Blondie and Anh Long shared a knowing look. She gave him a thumbs up. He returned the gesture, then took Shocker aside. “Do you remember Cung Le?” he asked her.
“The kick boxer?” she said. “Yeah. Bad boy. He's in MMA now.” He nodded, then pointed to the Vietnam flag on top of the pavilion. Her eyes widened. She said, “Oh yeah! Cung wears that on his trunks.”
His face showed excited passion. “The three red stripes stand for North, Central, and South Vietnam…”
I turned at the sound of loud laughter. A group of young girls in white, gray and red silk dresses were really chatting it up, huddled around a phone that must be playing some kind of OMG-LOL video. Girlie giggle-talking in Vietnamese was not something I saw every day. It sounded pretty cool. The frustrated frowns of the women standing behind them said it wasn't special for very long.
“I need a drink,” I decided, smacking my lips.
“You can't,�
�� Ace said loudly, so I could hear him over all the fun. I just looked at him. Blondie smirked, Whatever and walked over to look at the food. Ace watched her go, looked back at me and shrugged. “Well, you're not supposed to. No alcohol on temple grounds. It's sacrilegious.”
“I guess I should have binged it, huh? We are drinking,” I pointed at him, a thumb at myself, “and then we're taking over that dragon. It is written, and so it shall be.”
“Uh,” he replied.
I motioned for him to follow me. We tried not to look like we were headed anywhere in particular, so when we bumped into the old gangster it looked as if by chance. Hong looked ancient in a dark green long sleeve shirt and black tie, bald pate dark brown with gray fringe over hairy ears and a chubby face. A disturbing, toothless smile. I met Hong when I was fourteen. He sold crack on the Point, and I supplied him with transportation. Mostly. We learned a little of each other's language and made a bunch of cash. I was a dirt bike ninja in those days, I recalled with pride.
“My friend, my friend!” Hong said in nearly incomprehensible English, rheumy eyes alight with social cheer and quality alcohol. “May kheo khong?” how are you?
“Tao kheo,” I'm good, I replied, gripping his strong stubby hand. I leaned in and spoke quietly next to his ear. “Where's the booze, you damn thug? There's no way I'm going to enjoy this party sober.”
“Oh, ha-ha! Come. We talk.” He said something to his friends, two distinguished men in suits with evening-dressed ladies on their arms, and excused himself. He turned and noticed Ace, features turning comical as he squinted at the geek. “Who this?” he demanded to know.
“Julian,” Ace said, holding out his hand.
Hong looked down at it, up at his face. Squinted again. He gave an impatient bow, jerked his head at me and we followed the squat old man through the crowd and into the parking lot. We stopped at a neat looking maroon and silver Acura RDX. Hong opened the crossover's back hatch, hydraulic shock hissing. The cargo area had a black cover with a small window in the center in the shape of a money sign. Hong pushed a toggle switch next to the cover's latch and money green light glowed through the window, glass fogged with cold condensation. He hit a second toggle and the latch popped open, cooler whining open softly, clicking to a stop fully open. An alcoholic's Holy Grail confronted us. Bottles of liquor were separated from bottles of wine, some with ice, some encased in insulation, dry. Tall bottles of Heineken and Michelob glistened from sections of ice water. The green light glowed from beneath each clear bottomed section, making the colorful glass refract like dazzling treasure. A small section on the right side had slots for utensils. Several styles of bottle openers winked sharply in the shadowed interior light.
