Million Dollar Baby (23 page)

She was five feet eleven but looked taller because of her spike heels and her Billie Holiday pompadour. She weighed an easy 190, and like Billie, she wore a white gardenia. She was a red-brown color and had the keen features of an American Indian. Her long-sleeved, tight-fitting dark patterned dress had a slit up one side well above the knee. She had needle tracks on the backs of her hands and a dark scar slicing from her left eye down to her jaw. Four front teeth were missing, but both top eyeteeth were gold. She smelled funky, like roadkill on a muggy day.

Cannonball yelled at her. “You git, Ruby Thigpen!”

“I ain’t doin
nothin
!”

“I tell you before, bitch, now git ’fore I whup you ashy butt, hyuh?”

“You, maybe, but not that pin dick white pile a dog mess you wit!”

Cannonball smacked his pocket, indicating that’s where he carried something she wouldn’t want to deal with, and started toward her. She threw her stack of leaflets at him and stomped out. Cannonball shook his head, despite himself.

“She don’t look it now, but man, there was a time.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Mac asked. He didn’t appreciate racist shit out of anyone and wasn’t one to put up with it, but neither would he buck someone on it unless they got in his face. They did that, he got respect. “Who is she?”

“She a ho got religion, if that’s what you call it. She Ruby Thigpen, man, you know, the bitch ruin L. C. Poiter before he lose he title shot. When L.C. money gone, Ruby gone. By the time it all come down, and L.C. have O.D., all L.C. want was that shit in he arm, and a white bitch suckin on he dick. Blow job worst thing happen to a black fighter, ruin he legs, ’specially when a white woman do it.”

Puddin crossed to them, carrying his gym bag. He was showered and dressed neatly. “Thank you, Mr. Lee,” he said.

“Look like we be workin together,” said Cannonball, smiling shyly.

“Yeah. Mac told me, if you want.”

“We work good,” said Cannonball, stooping to pick up Ruby’s leaflets. “See you Wednesday, four o’clock.”

It was balmy as they left the gym. Several old-timers chatted with people from the neighborhood, old folks mostly. Children tore around the cars in the parking lot. Malik and his two wives were packing his gear into an old station wagon. When Mac and Puddin got to Mac’s car, white leaflets had been placed under both windshield wipers. Mac was curious and began to read one.

DO YOU REALLY KNOW WHO YOU ARE?

DO YOU?

Puddin stowed his gear in the trunk of Mac’s car. Several of the people outside the gym watched as Mac read, but he didn’t notice. Puddin noticed, and crossed behind Mac.

On the back of the leaflet, it read:

THE PICTURE EVERYONE BELIEVES TO BE JESUS CHRIST IS A LIE! THAT PERSONS NAME IS CAESAR BORGIA

(A HOMOSEXUAL).

IS THE BEAST THE SO-CALLED DEVIL OR SATAN? NO! IT IS THE SO-CALLED WHITE MANS GOVERNMENT.

READ KING JAMES ORIGINAL VERSION BIBLE ONLY!

STUDY AND LEARN THE TRUTH!!!

FOR QUESTIONS, CONTACT THE SCHOOL OF THE TEMPLE OF THE TRUE ISRAELITE (JEWS). ASK FOR RANDOLF, JAYSON OR INDIO.

As Mac was about to read the phone number, the leaflet was ripped from his hand.

“This ain’t for you kind!” spat Ruby Thigpen, tearing up the leaflet and stamping on it.

“Sorry,” said Mac.

“You sorry, all right! Now you git on back outta here go where you belong!”

“You put it on my car.”

“I don’t know it a whitey car!”

“I’m sorry, all right?” said Mac, backing away.

“No, it ain’t all right!” spat Ruby. She noticed Mac’s stiff leg. “You a cripple old white man, ain’t that right?”

“What if I am?”

Ruby puffed up even more, got braver as Mac retreated. Every eye outside the gym was on Mac. Folks didn’t necessarily want to see him get hurt because he was white, but they were curious to see whether he’d stand up, being white in South Central, particularly since just the day before they’d seen what Ruby could do to a man with her razor. Some knew Mac and liked him, but none liked him well enough to step between Mac and Ruby. The rule was you rode your own beef, and they didn’t want to get cut. Besides, they wanted to see how the old man would do against the big bulldagger ho.

Puddin started to move forward, but Mac told him to stay out of it.

Ruby said, “Old white man still givin order a black folk.”

“Look,” Mac said, “I told you I was sorry, right?”

“You so sorry, gimme you money, peckawood.”

“Nooo, no. Not giving you my money”

Ruby spoke to the onlookers. Even the children were standing stock-still. “He say he not givin up he money, huh?” She turned to Mac. “How ’bout you give Rodney King some you money?”

“I got nothin to do with Rodney King.”

“Bull
shit you got nothin to do wit Rodney King. Like the lady politician say, Rodney King git no jus’us, whitey git no peace. It be Uzi time, muthuhfucka!”

Mac tried to get to the door of his car so he and Puddin could leave, but Ruby blocked him. “It on tape what happen a Rodney King, why they need a trial, tell me that?”

“You tell me.”

“I tell you them police go free after what they done a brothuh Rodney, they be a gang a white blood a pay.”

Mac was madder than he wanted to be. “Yeah,” he said, “and if they’re found guilty, it’s still going to be white blood running red, right?”

“’At’s right, an’ we do it by any mean necessary, sucker!” said Ruby, the esses hissing like a broken gas line.

“Right on, mama, but him gettin his black ass beat was the best thing that ever happened to Rodney King, right?”

The spectators sucked air on that one, took that line hard, started to think that Mac was indeed a no-good white muhfuh who deserved a ass whippin. But they just as quickly realized that Mac was standing up, was telling Ruby to kiss his gray boy ass—and that Mac was talking about how much big money Rodney King was sure to score down the line. That made them laugh out loud, and when they did, it was clear they were laughing at Ruby, too. Inside the gym, Cannonball heard the laughter, but he’d heard laughter before and he went back to his racing form. But for Ruby, laughter was worse than a beating, and she touched her hair.

“What you say, you muthuhfucka slave-tradin po-lice dick-suckin faggot piece a redneck dog shit? Huh? What you say, cracker? Fuck wit me ain’t like fuckin wit Rodney King. I cut you muthuh-fucka white ass from you dick to you nose!”

Again Mac moved away, but as he did, Ruby started moving on long, quick strides straight at him.

“I say you gimme you cripple-ass money, peckawood, gimme that money, hyuh?, or I’ma take it!”

“Get back,” said Mac, his words barely audible off his dry tongue.

“I git back, huh? “Where I git back? Back a the bus?”

“I’m saying I don’t need no more of your shit.”

“Or what, honky? What you gonna do about it, huh? Look around you for some white skin’ll hep you, fool.” Intimidation had made Ruby a lot of money through the years, in jail and out, and had drained the fight out of most that she confronted. But it wasn’t working on this old white man, which made it imperative that she save face in front of a black crowd, obligatory that she become even more vicious in her attack against what she had figured for easy takings. “Just ’cause you white and you got a swingin dick instead a woman cock, I suppose to kiss you pale ass?, that how it is, huh? Gimme you money, punk!” she said, pulling a straight razor from her pompadour, the silver blade pinging as it flashed free of its black handle.

“Be good with that, bitch, or I’ll shove it down your nigger mouth!”

Nigger
made Ruby slow down, wonder what kind of white man would talk that shit surrounded by a gang of brothers.
Nigger
and the razor made the gawks back away, some of them shouting. People from across the street ran over. Now there were twenty people looking on. Cannonball heard the noise and started for the door. Puddin positioned himself for a try at Ruby’s razor hand. But she was too quick. She rushed with the razor, hacking with it in short little strokes. Ruby aimed at Mac’s face, but he was able to block the first slice with his forearm, pivoting to his right off his front foot. His jacket sleeve and sweatshirt saved him from serious injury, though his arm began to bleed and blood seeped down to his hand. Ruby didn’t want him dead, she wanted him cut so bad he’d remember her every time he saw his reflection: she wanted her face to be the last face his mind saw every night before he went to sleep.

Mac knew what she was up to, knew the jailhouse mentality, and wanted to flat shoot the bitch and be done with it, but he also knew that he was the only marshmallow in the chocolate factory. He knew Puddin would cover his back, but that made two against twenty, and he didn’t want Puddin getting hurt.

“Cut that white muthuhfucka’s ass, baby!” someone yelled. “Do it for Rodney!”

“Dass right, ice da punk!”

“Jesus a faggot white-man church!”

“Cut him, baby, do you thang!”

Ruby moved better than many fighters, despite the high heels. She stayed close to Mac, even though he slid off at angles to her and her popping razor. When Cannonball came through the door, he saw the blood running down Mac’s hand. Cannonball wanted to distract Ruby, but he didn’t want to get close to that razor.

“Ruby Thigpen, I told you git!” Cannonball shouted. “That old white man gonna tear
up
you process ass.”

“Shut you mouf, nigga! He call me a nigga, ’n’ he gonna pay!”

Cannonball called to Mac over the racket, “You want me a call the po-lice?”

Mac didn’t want police cars jamming into the Not Long and waved off Cannonball’s offer.

“Then put the bitch on the ground, man!”

Mac knew Cannonball was right, though he had hoped for things otherwise. So Mac moved out of Ruby’s way again, then suddenly faked a stumble on the loose gravel. Ruby went for the fake, quickly closing the distance between them, and flicked out with the razor as Mac slid to his left. He pivoted and with his left hand he gave a little push to Ruby’s razor elbow, taking her balance and causing her to lunge forward, her neck stretching like a sprinter at the finish line. The razor nicked the side of Mac’s neck, but he didn’t feel it, though blood began to work into his sweatshirt. Onlookers saw it; some of them sighed.

With his right hand Mac pulled the cocked Glock. He was careful to keep his finger off the trigger, but as he gripped the heavy black plastic handle tightly, he slipped behind Ruby and whacked her full force across the temple with the heavy metal barrel. People started whooping; some let off a high whine. Ruby’s head felt full of lightning. Semiconscious, and with her balance gone, she pitched forward on her face and dropped the razor, her eyes blinking as if flashbulbs had popped her in a dark room. Mac planted the heel of his shoe on the blade of the razor, then pulled full force up on the handle against the hinge and broke the razor in two. He threw the blade up on the low roof of the gym and turned to Ruby, who poured blood from the side of her head and rolled over twice before she could get up.

He was relieved he’d been able to disarm her, because he’d been ready to shoot her in the head. When Ruby saw her own blood, all the fight went out of her. She started to howl and began running for the street, falling twice and ripping the skin on her knees and palms.

“You go in see! You wait, honky! We git jus’us, we burn you ass
up
!”

Her yelling aroused the onlookers even more, and slowly the circle began to shrink around Mac. Hands reached out, faces were like claws. Mac trained the Glock on them, his finger now on the trigger, blood running from his neck and dripping from his hand.

“I say the motherfucking common-ass handkerchief-head nigga bitch ho got off easy. Anybody disagree?” said Mac.

Malik hated seeing a white man beating on a black anything, but he also knew that Mac had saved his ass, knew that Ruby had started the shit. “Whoa!” he yelled, moving the others back. “Everthang cool here!, everthang be cool!”

Cannonball yelled at the crowd to go back to their business and quickly got Mac inside the gym before any O.G.’s drove by.

Cannonball washed Mac’s wounds with hydrogen peroxide and stopped the blood with pressure and adrenaline chloride 1:1000 mixed with alum, an illegal mixture he used to stop blood in the corner. Puddin looked on, fascinated by the inside colors of human flesh. The forearm was worse than the neck, but the neck bled more and it took Cannonball longer to stanch the neck blood than the arm. He closed both wounds with butterfly bandages that pulled the sliced meat together for quicker healing and to minimize scarring. He used sterile gauze and ring tape to cover the wounds, which he left dry, free from ointments and salves so scabs could immediately begin to form.

“You go in emergency?” Cannonball asked.

“Emergency’d bring in the black-and-whites.”

Cannonball said, “You lucky to be alive, all that Rodney King shit go in down.” He gave a little hoot. “But I like that little move you put on the bitch, baby, the one when you go to the elbow?”

“I tried to talk, and then the pig-shit Irish in me took over, and I just about shot everyone out there.” He thought a moment and exhaled, squeezing down hard to purge himself of the residue gases and fumes of rage. “Listen, I want to apologize for calling the whore a handkerchief head and a nigger, okay?”

“Nigga what she know,” said Cannonball, noticing Puddin’s smile, noticing how much these two cared for each other. “Hey, you one lucky-ass white boy you don’t get jump out there.”

“I was one lucky-ass white boy to grab that razor, too.”

“That Glock what save you ass,” said Puddin. “Got all the niggas’ attention.”

Mac was surprised. “How come you know about Glocks?”

“Who don’t know about Glock?”

The sun was setting and Mac was driving Puddin to the señora’s for supper. The kid had earned it. Besides, the old man wanted a Mexican beer, a frosted Negra Modelo, dark and with a thick head and cold enough to hurt his eyes. Mac was exhausted. His cuts began to creep and sting.