Million Dollar Baby (27 page)

Fridge woke first, saw Puddin, and ran north on Compton, disappearing around the dog-leg turn.

Air Jordan woke a moment later, remained there blinking for a few groggy seconds, and then realized his pants were down. Lying on the sidewalk, he jacked his pants up. It was then he noticed Puddin standing there.

“What the fuck you doin a me, man?”

“I helpin you white ass get a tan, muthuhfucka.”

Air Jordan reached for the cane, thinking to pull the sword, but thought better of it when he felt the lump on his jaw and realized that his vision wasn’t clear. He fumbled with his belt and wobbled to his feet and then followed after Fridge. Looking over his shoulder, he said, “This you last time. Remember what I say, muhfuh, remember it for the rest a you life.”

Puddin said, “I remember you mama turnin tricks and suckin white dicks.”

The señora stood in the doorway shaking her head. “Now things get worse,” she said under her breath. She looked over to Puddin and said, “When does Señor Mac come back?”

“Today,” said Puddin. “Not long.”

“No long,” repeated the señora.

“They playin you for money again?, they say they hurt you or somethin?”

“No,” she said. She would tell Mac everything when he got back.

Puddin was on his bike again. Crossing Long Beach Avenue, he was halfway to Sewing Machine. East of Long Beach was all Latino. Cars in the area were driven by men in straw sombreros, the back-seats full of kids all speaking Spanish. Air Jordan was on Puddin’s mind. He wished he hadn’t lost his temper. Fighters who lose their tempers lose the fight.

Mac checked his watch. 11:45 A.M. He’d just driven through Baker, California. He figured that Puddin was halfway through his workout. Cannonball and Enrique were both asleep, Cannonball on the passenger side of the front seat with Mac, Enrique in the back. Mac reached for his cellular phone and dialed Puddin’s number. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t disturb the kid, but Mac was still excited about Enrique’s fight, about the way Enrique had won, and wanted to tell Puddin.

Puddin was still on the bike when his phone rang. He fished it from his equipment bag and answered. “Talk a me about long-leg girls and piles a money!”

“It’s the old man,” said Mac.

“Say, Pops!”

“You in the gym?”

“On my bike. Got a setback,” said Puddin.

“Enrique won, beat a good fighter, knocked him
out
in the third!”

“Awright!”

“Promoter wants us back for Enrique’s first ten-round fight,” said Mac.

“Awright, Enrique!” shouted Puddin. “Where you at?”

“About halfway to L.A. Be back in three, maybe four hours after we take Enrique home and dump my stuff at my place. You hungry?”

“Always hungry.”

Mac continued. “Then we stop by Cannonball’s so he can dump his stuff. We’ll pick you up at your place around five.”

“I’ll be ready.”

“What set you back?” asked Mac.

“Air Jordan.”

Mac didn’t say anything.

“You still there?” asked Puddin.

“Is the señora all right? Are you?”

“Oh, yeah. But some shit go down.”

“Yeah? What kind?”

Puddin said, “He come in wit that hot dog punk Fridge. Did somethin to the señora, I don’t know what. And they talk some shit in my face.”

“And?”

“I put em bof asleep.”

“Aw, shit. A fighter’s supposed to be cool.”

“Talk about my mama, what I’m suppose a do?”

Mac said, “Maybe it’s better you just go on home now and hang there all day. I’m picking you up anyway.”

“I’m almost at Alameda.”

“Okay,” said Mac. “But be careful.”

“Air Jordan know better than mess wit me.”

“Yeah, well, call me as soon as you get back home, all right?”

“Sure,” said Puddin. “You think it all right we take my mama and my brothers a eat, too?”

“Why not?”

Puddin sped up, riding across the tracks on Alameda Street, which was divided for a stretch north and south of Vernon by railroad tracks. On either side of the tracks, traffic moved in both directions on the poorly paved roads. When a train passed through, traffic backed up and drivers cursed. Latino street vendors loved the train and did a brisk business with cursing drivers, selling chilled coconut meat, half flats of strawberries, ripe papayas, and slices of watermelon. Crossing Alameda, Puddin rode flat out the rest of the way to the gym.

Just before noon, he swung into the driveway of the 150-by-250-foot bleached asphalt parking area going so fast that he almost collided with an exiting truck. Still at full speed, he crossed to the rear of the parking lot. He pulled up to a high chain-link fence next to the gym entrance and chained his bike to a metal pole supporting the gate. Going through the gate, he saw several Latino fighters who were already leaving, their gym bags heavy with sweated-out clothes, soaked equipment, and wet towels. They shook Puddin’s hand and wished him luck in Barcelona. It made Puddin feel good that people he didn’t know knew who he was.

What he didn’t know was that Air Jordan and Fridge had followed him in the stolen van, had watched him chain his bike to the fence from the driveway on Vernon Avenue. Air Jordan met Fridge’s cold eyes. Both nodded. Air Jordan smiled ever so slightly. They smoked another rock as Air Jordan drove carefully to the chop shop, which was only ten minutes away. Shareef and Emil were asleep in his car as he and Fridge delivered the van and collected. When Air Jordan woke them, Shareef said, “What the fuck happen y’all face?”

Emil said, “Shit, man, you look like you been fuckin wit a bear.”

“That right, a big-ass Olympic bear. You ready go huntin?”

“Do Michael Jordan fly through the air?”

Air Jordan tucked his Walther inside his belt, Fridge did the same with a Beretta .40-caliber. The two-hundred-pounders had 357 Smith & Wesson revolvers with six-inch barrels that made the stainless steel weapons look a foot and a half long. When all four drove back to Sewing Machine in Air Jordan’s ’86 Ford, Puddin’s bike was still chained to the fence. They lit up another rock.

“Just remember,” said Air Jordan. “The punk mine.”

The gym was located in a manufacturing complex two blocks east of Alameda on Vernon Avenue. It was at the rear of one of the newer buildings; many of the grimy old brick sweatshops and poured-concrete warehouses had broken windows and were boarded up. Connected to the west side of Sewing Machine’s building was an empty loading dock several hundred feet long that during the week would be full. The large parking and loading area between the gym and the deserted buildings was used for a soccer field by Latino employees at lunchtime. Kids often used it on Saturdays and Sundays.

Air Jordan backed his car into the loading dock near the front of the lot, which was close to the driveway leading onto Vernon. He told Shareef and Emil to station themselves in doorways of two abandoned warehouses. Fridge was to hide behind some rusted-out trucks near the gym entrance until Puddin got on his bike. Once he started to ride, all four would converge on him from different angles.

“Then what?” said Fridge.

“Then mama start a cry and old man want a die.”

Air Jordan waited like a cat in front of a mouse hole. A dozen or more fighters and trainers left the gym. Puddin wasn’t among them because he was the last to finish working out. The remaining few left while he showered. He rolled his gym clothes and boxing shoes in a towel and put them in his gym bag with his wallet and phone. His blue sweats would keep him warm as he rode home. He was hungry, but put it out of his mind as he pulled on low-top gym shoes. Just before he left, the owner of Sewing Machine congratulated him for his spot on the Olympic team.

“You gonna win, ain’tcha?”

“Damn straight I’ma win.”

“Good man,” said the owner. “Do me a favor?” He handed Puddin a lock. “Lock the gate for me out back? I’ll close up and go out the front door.”

The temperature was in the low eighties, cool compared with the gym. Puddin closed and locked the gate. He unchained his bike from the fence, set his gym bag on the handlebars, and started slowly for home. He didn’t notice anything at first, except that a dark car pulled out of the loading dock near the street. Then behind him he heard someone whistle. He turned and saw Fridge walking toward him. When he looked back the other way he saw Emil and Shareef, each walking quickly toward him from opposite sides of the parking lot. He started to ride for the street, pumping hard. But the dark car moved quickly to block him, and Puddin saw that Air Jordan was driving. Puddin made a run for it, pedaling as fast as he could toward the space between Air Jordan and Shareef, but they closed the distance, again blocking his way. He turned around and rode back toward the rear of the lot but realized that the only exit back there was the locked gate. He swung around, again racing past Fridge. He aimed for another space, this time between Air Jordan and Emil, but they were too quick for him and he retreated, this time riding in a circle within the shrinking space controlled by the approaching gangbangers.

“Say, dick sack,” said Fridge. “It Saturday-night scatter time.”

Puddin rode straight at him, swinging his gym bag as a weapon. Fridge pulled his gun and Puddin veered off.

Air Jordan grabbed his cane, set the brake in his car, and got out yelling. “Put you shit away, fool. It daytime!”

Fridge yelled back. “He fuck wit me, I stop that shit
now!”

“You start that shit, all them beaner drivin by see us!”

“They see us now!”

“No good. What the beaner see now a gang a niggas playin basketball on a playground.”

Puddin saw that he couldn’t escape on the bike, so he got off and set the kickstand. He held on to his bag and backed away, hoping to get an angle and break through. He wanted to wade into them, but he knew that wouldn’t work. If he could break through, he knew he could outrun them all to the street. Once there, he’d be gone, running full-bore against the flow of cars on first one, then the other side of Alameda until he lost them in traffic or between a building someplace. They wouldn’t use their guns in plain sight, not in heavy traffic. The trick was to get Air Jordan to lead, so he could counter. He wasn’t afraid of these crooks, he was afraid of losing, because he knew what that meant.

Air Jordan danced toward him, tapped his cane on the asphalt several times, then danced back. “You go in jump, froggy, huh? you goin jump?”

Fridge darted in, then back out. Then Emil and Shareef did the same, closing the circle by another two feet. Puddin knew that if he could break free, he’d zigzag, run low to the ground, and hope they’d miss him if they decided to fire their weapons. It wasn’t much, but he’d seen victims of gang attacks and didn’t want to join them in the ground.

Air Jordan rushed in with his cane again, tapping it near Puddin’s feet and trying to get him to grab for it. If he did, Puddin knew they’d be on him like wild dogs.

“Boy,” said Air Jordan, “that old man, he you daddy?”

“Who wanta know?”

“You brothuh want,” said Air Jordan, trying to distract Puddin with words because he didn’t want any more being knocked out again. “He ain’t you daddy, what you doin wit him?”

“He my friend,” said Puddin, stalling for time.

Air Jordan feinted with his cane, drew back. “No white piece a shit a friend of a brothuh. When a brothuh a friend of a white man, he ain’t no brothuh no more, he a traitor to he race.”

Still hanging on to his gym bag, Puddin moved around behind his bike. “Then check it out. I say Mac my daddy.”

“Say he got a white man for a daddy!” shouted Emil, who began to hoot.

“That right, same as Air Jordan,” said Puddin, taunting Air Jordan where he knew it hurt most. He next used Air Jordan’s own words against him. “What wrong, green-eye froggy, huh?, you ain’t goin a jump froggy, huh?, you four-to-one ain’t enough for you chickenshit white froggy ass?”

“You a honky-lover nigga,” Air Jordan taunted back.

“That right,” said Puddin, “same as you mama.”

“Ohhh,” said Fridge, “dick sack be talkin trash!”

Air Jordan did a stutter step, going in a little closer each time, trying to get Puddin off balance and moving him further back in the lot. Puddin could see that the other three were waiting on Air Jordan, so he knew to go for Air Jordan first and hope to take the fight out of the others when their leader went down. But he had to bide his time, wait for either Air Jordan or one of the others to commit themselves. The circling dance continued.

“Fuck this,” said Emil, walking in, punching.

Puddin threw the gym bag, forcing Emil to lift his hands to protect his face, and then Puddin dropped him in agony, nailing him full force with a straight right to the kidney and a left hook to the face that broke his nose. Emil went down, doubled into a tight ball. He was grunting with pain, and blood rolled from his nose and down along his cheek.

The others started to close in. Puddin swung his bike by its rear wheel and whacked Fridge in the face with the front tire. It knocked him down, but he wasn’t hurt, and he rolled off to one side. Puddin threw the bike at Air Jordan, the handlebars opening a deep cut on the side of Air Jordan’s head and knocking him to his knees.

“Git him!” Air Jordan screamed. “Git him!”

Puddin pivoted to his right and connected with a hook to the solar plexus that dropped Shareef flat, made him think he was dying. But Puddin tripped over his bike when Air Jordan threw it in front of him. Puddin rolled, found his feet, and then took three running steps toward Vernon Avenue as he rose. He thought he’d broken free. He straight-armed Air Jordan, but Fridge tackled him from behind. It didn’t hurt, but it slowed him down enough for Air Jordan to kick him in the eye. The pain knocked him down again, but he kept trying for the street. Air Jordan shoved him off balance, then swung his cane at Puddin’s head. Puddin slid under it, but the duck’s bill ripped a hole in the side of his neck.

Puddin landed a glancing right to Fridge’s face, knocking him down again, then dropped Emil with double hooks to the body that cracked three ribs and made him yelp like a dog. Puddin jumped on his bike thinking he now had room to make it, but Air Jordan jammed his ebony cane in the spokes of the front wheel and Puddin went over the handlebars, striking his head full force on the ground. Half conscious, he still tried to get up, but Air Jordan pulled the sword from the cane and ran him through just below the ribs.