Echoes of a Distant Summer (70 page)

“Then call him out,” his grandfather said in a matter-of-fact tone.

Jackson turned and shouted across the pit in Spanish, “Juan Tejate, you’re a cowardly dog and a bastard! If you have any balls at all, you’ll meet me in the pit. Then we’ll see how tough you are, you homosexual thief!”

His grandfather looked at him without emotion and said, “I hope you can fight better than you can curse.”

Jackson leaped down into the pit and waited. Juan entered the pit through one of the gates. He was livid. It appeared as if Jackson’s awkward insults had hit the mark. Juan strode across the pit with the clear intent to start fighting as soon as he was close enough to punch.

Jackson’s grandfather’s voice boomed across the pit, “Hold it, Juan!”

Juan paused midstride. It wasn’t that he was afraid of El Negro, but he knew that it wasn’t wise to unnecessarily irritate him. El Negro was acknowledged by all who knew him as an extremely dangerous man. That is what made the little Negro’s challenge so sweet. Juan’s father had pointed it out to him on the way to the pit. This would be the one time that he could beat the little Negro until he fell without risking the wrath of El Negro. Any other time and El Negro would come seeking blood, even if there was no hint of foul play. However, here in front of the world, he could give the Negrito a real beating and his grandfather would be unable to take any action. His hands would be tied by his own stupid sense of honor. It was a gift from the gods. Juan almost laughed as he turned with a swagger to face El Negro.

People began returning to their seats. There were muffled conversations as the word of what was happening rippled through the crowd.

El Negro said loudly, “This is hand-to-hand gambler’s rules. No weapons allowed! No guns! No knives!”

Jackson heard his grandfather’s words and realized that he still had the .44 Mag in his waistband. He opened his jacket and pulled out the big revolver, which he handed up to his grandfather.

The crowd gasped as they saw the big gun emerge from Jackson’s clothing. Their attention shifted back to Juan; everyone was waiting to see what type of weapon he would produce.

“I don’t have no gun,” Juan said in Spanish. There was a nasty smile on his face.

Someone cried out from the crowd, “What about the knife in his boot?”

A shot rang out. The bullet ricocheted in the dirt between Juan’s feet and thudded into the wall behind him, splintering the wooden walls of the pit. The barrel of the .44 Magnum in El Negro’s hand was smoking.

There was a sudden quiet among the onlookers. It was obvious to all that there was no love lost between the families of the boys in the pit. Juan knelt quickly and removed the knife from his boot and handed the weapon up to his father, who now sat on the opposite side of the pit from El Negro.

People began jostling one another, trying to get good seats. It was a fight crowd and they could smell blood. Everyone knew that El Negro was a tough, vicious fighter who was good with a knife and an excellent shot with either pistol or rifle, but his grandson was an unknown quantity. Juan, on the other hand, was known. He was building a reputation for himself as a tough, hard-nosed kid. He had already assisted his father with several enforcement actions, and it was commonly known that the victims of those actions were dead.

Jackson was unable to concentrate on anything other than Juan. All the sounds of the crowd—catcalls, the shouts of support—blended together to produce a noise similar to the static of poor radio reception. Even his grandfather’s voice was difficult to distinguish. The lights, the faces, the bright-colored clothing all swirled and spun into a kaleidoscopic vortex and at the center of this tunnel of color stood Juan. No one else was real. Only he and Juan existed. There was an eerie peace in their isolation, but it was not relaxing. The tension seemed to grow with each passing minute. Jackson shook himself, trying to loosen up his muscles and reduce his nervousness. He was not concerned with winning, but with fighting bravely. There was no shame attached to losing if one fought courageously. And, if one fought with courage, that commitment alone often carried the day.

A referee was selected and the fight began. Juan and Jackson circled each other slowly, looking for openings. Juan carried his hands low, confident of his strength and ability. Jackson’s stance was that of the classical boxer: hands high protecting his head, and elbows in close to his body. Juan made the first attack by lunging in with a big, roundhouse right. Jackson eluded it easily and gave Juan two stiff jabs for his effort. Twice more Juan tried this approach with the same result except
the third time, Jackson followed the jab with a hard right cross that opened up Juan’s cheek. The crowd cheered at the first sign of blood.

Juan felt the blood trickle down his skin and grimly faced his taller, thinner opponent. The little Negro was quicker than he expected; not that he was in doubt about the final outcome, but Juan realized that he would have to change his strategy and get under the guard of his enemy. He saw an opportunity when Jackson got his legs crossed avoiding a feint and he rushed at Jackson with his head down, aiming for the hips. Juan felt solid contact as he hit Jackson waist high and drove him back to the wall of the pit. With satisfaction he heard Jackson exhale sharply as the air was forced out of his diaphragm. Juan dropped low and tried to grab Jackson’s legs to sweep his feet from underneath him, but Jackson’s speed helped him again and he stepped out of Juan’s grasp. Juan did not let him back into the center of the pit. He kept Jackson pinned against the wall, choosing the spots where he would press his attack. At one point he lunged and Jackson met him with a two-fisted defense.

Throwing uppercuts and hooks, it looked like Jackson was going to drive Juan back across the pit; he was landing solidly to the head and the body. Then Juan struck, once to the head and once to the body. Jackson’s knees buckled and he nearly went down, but he caught himself. Jackson took several hard blows on his arms and shoulders before he was able to escape to the center of the pit.

The fight crowd, which had started out in a noisy, jocular mood, had grown quiet. As the fight wore on, its mood grew even more somber, as if the crowd realized that there were larger issues at stake than in the dogfight which preceded it. The onlookers sat with the collective silence of a giant predator, watching the ebb and flow of the action. The only sound in the hall was made by the boys in the pit.

Jackson was hitting Juan three times for every punch Juan landed. He had opened up cuts over both of Juan’s eyes with hard, snapping combinations and was continuing to land solid punches, but he was unable to stop Juan’s forward progress. With each exchange, it grew more obvious who hit the hardest. Juan had staggered him twice and had backed him up consistently throughout the fight. Jackson had speed and technique and Juan had stopping power.

There was an air of déjà vu about the fight; people in the audience began to mention it among themselves. Jackson had the flash of Prince
and Juan was the relentless Diablito. There were many who thought the result was inevitable: Diabito would win again. There were even a few who stated to whoever would listen that both boys had proven their courage and the fight should be stopped. Needless to say, these few were a very small minority. To the gamblers, the odds were based upon whether they thought three of Jackson’s punches equaled one of Juan’s.

The fight was fairly even until Jackson made a foolish mistake. He allowed Juan to lunge underneath his guard. Juan did not stop to throw a punch, but instead continued his rush, using his head like a battering ram. Jackson swiveled to avoid the butt; however, he misjudged Juan’s momentum. Juan’s head hit him on his left jaw and he was driven, spinning, to the wall by the impact of Juan’s body. Unable to get his hands up in time, he hit the wall face first. The inertia of his spin caused the brunt of his collision to be taken on his arms and shoulders, but when he came away from the wall a tooth fell out of his mouth and blood dripped down his chin. He was stunned and out on his feet. Juan was ready for him. Juan hit him with a straight left on the chin and Jackson dropped to the ground like he had been shot. The right, which Juan had also intended for him, glanced off the top of his head and thudded into the wall. As Jackson got to his knees, Juan kicked him in the stomach and Jackson fell over in the dirt.

The crowd roared its disapproval. Kicking an opponent who was down was taboo in gambler’s rules. If someone was knocked off his feet, he was given a leisurely count of ten to get off the ground and stand up. If he wanted to continue, the fight went on. El Negro stood up and many noticed that his hand gripped the pistol in his waistband. People began to move away from where the Tejate family was sitting.

Jackson fell in a heap, hearing bells. He rolled to his knees and pain exploded in his stomach, knocking the air out of him. He fell back in the dirt. Despite the pain in his side, he noticed that his vision was clearing. He saw the referee bending over him and realized that he was still lying on the ground. He got to his feet by the count of eight. Over the referee’s shoulder, he could see the dark, piercing eyes of his grandfather. Jackson nodded his head at his grandfather, indicating that he was all right. The referee asked him if he wanted to continue. Jackson looked again at his grandfather, saw the glittering eyes, and said yes.

When it became clear that Jackson would continue, people began to
shake their heads knowingly; the boy was cut from the same material as the grandfather. For the first time there was doubt among some of the audience as to whether Juan would win or not. A Tejate supporter began shouting repeatedly in Spanish, “Stop the fight! Juan is the winner! Stop the fight! Juan is the winner!”

A voice cut through the general chatter. It was El Negro and he said, “You better say joe, ’cause you sho’ don’t know! Ten thousand dollars on my grandson!”

There was a collective gasp. Ten thousand dollars was a small fortune. In an area where people often killed for less than one hundred dollars, it created awe.

“Tejate,” El Negro yelled across the pit to Esteban. “Where’s your money?”

Once again the hall grew quiet. El Negro had thrown a direct challenge to the Tejates. Esteban had to match the money or lose considerable face. Esteban made no move to respond. It became obvious to everyone that Tejate was not going to gamble his money on his son winning. Now, even if his grandson lost, El Negro had cast shame on the Tejate family, which far exceeded any honors that would be earned from the beating of his grandson. There were those in attendance who stated that it was disgusting that anybody would allow their kin to fight in a pit designed for dogs, but to bet on it was truly a sin. These people spoke quietly and addressed their remarks in confidence to their friends. But the gamblers and regulars knew that El Negro had found his heir.

Jackson knew that his grandfather had not placed the bet just to win more money, but that it was a message for him. It was a vote of confidence. His grandfather thought he could win, but even if he lost, he knew he had earned his grandfather’s respect. This understanding made Jackson feel invincible. His pains were not forgotten, but they were in the distant background. He was eager for the fight to begin. He felt light, almost buoyant.

Juan’s right hand was swelling rapidly and hurt when he moved either his fingers or his wrist. It did not feel broken, but it hurt all the way to his elbow. He had hoped that the little Negro would not come to scratch, but he was disappointed. The fight was begun and he noticed that Jackson was fighting like he had been rejuvenated. Juan’s right hand was useless to him and for the first time, he found himself
backing up. He tried another battering-ram-like lunge, but his opponent was too quick. Juan received several hard punches to the back of his neck and kidneys. He threw a flurry of punches to drive Jackson back, but Jackson caught him on the chin with an uppercut as he was closing with him. The punch snapped Juan’s head back and staggered him. As he fought to maintain his balance, a hard right crashed against his temple. His legs were rubbery as he fought to remain upright.

Jackson saw this opening and attacked. He drove past Juan’s faltering guard and hit him on the jaw with a vicious right hook. The blow propelled Juan backward. His head hit the wooden wall of the pit with a loud crack. He bounced off the wall and stumbled as he began to fall. Jackson met him with another hard right, which snapped his head back. Juan fell in a pile at his feet.

Jackson looked up at his grandfather and saw him clench his fists in front of him and roar, “That’s my blood! That’s my blood!”

Jackson looked down at the crumpled form at his feet and felt the power of victory flow through him. With blood trickling down his face, Jackson threw back his head and roared his triumph. He was tired, but he was jubilant, for he had proven himself before the sternest of judges. He was still shouting when his grandfather led him away.

M
amie
, the forty-five-foot motor cruiser, nosed its way through the bay’s choppy waters with an easy rhythm. The powerful engines purred as Jackson Tremain let the throttle out halfway. Other than the few recent daylight test runs he had made on the bay, it had been nearly twenty years since he had piloted the big motorboat, but the memory was only hazy, not forgotten. He checked the charts and knew that if he stayed within the main channel, he would not have to rely on the banks of navigation instruments on the panel in front of him. He touched his cheek involuntarily where Jesse had hit him; it was aching and sensitive to the touch.

The night was dark and moonless and the pale light of the distant
stars cast no reflection on the dark and rippling waters of San Francisco Bay. Jackson kept his eyes on the radar screen, watching the image of an oil tanker headed toward the entrance of the Golden Gate. The tanker appeared to be going about twenty knots an hour and bearing down fast. Jackson did not want to be near the tanker when it rushed through the Gate. The cabin was lit solely by the green and yellow lights of the navigational instruments. Jackson touched the teak panel and thought of his grandfather. The old man seemed to have thought of everything. For nearly twenty-five years King had paid to maintain this same motor cruiser in the estuary between Oakland and Alameda. Jackson had reviewed the maintenance and dry-dock reports and had approved: Five years ago the cruiser had been refitted with new engines and drive assemblies, and during the time it was dry-docked, the hull was refinished and painted. The fittings glistened and the teak paneling gleamed, an indication of time and attention. Jackson felt comfortable in the cabin’s dimness. He pushed the throttle higher and felt the boat surge forward. The cruiser’s hull skimmed the surface of the bay, slapping against the waves in a complex staccato rhythm. He could see the navigational beacons in the darkness at the base of the Golden Gate Bridge. The stanchions of the bridge rose like dark shapes against the lighter darkness of night, up to a distant halo of lights. He recalled from his many boating and fishing trips along the north coast with his grandfather that there were dangerous shoals on the north side of the Gate.