Redhanded (10 page)

I landed a left hook to the face, and he dropped his hands for an instant, his legs locked at the knees. I couldn't believe my good luck—he was getting tired.

He jacked punches into me as hard as he could, but he was losing strength.

The bell clanked, Martell let his gloves drop again, and I gazed around like someone who had no idea what to do next, walk, sit, lie down. I knew what to do, where my corner was, but lack of oxygen made me feel stupid.

I forced a nonchalant look into my features and shrugged, a bit of theater. Raymond pried my mouthpiece from between my teeth and I said, “I'm all right.”

“Spit in the bucket,” said Raymond.

I was telling Raymond I felt great, and he was telling me not to swallow the blood, it would make me throw up.

“Spit!”

I spat into the blue plastic bucket, a tiny bit of red, and smiled, like I had done Raymond a big favor. Boxing does that, makes you glad for little things.

“You scared him,” said Raymond.

I was about to tell Raymond that I thought I should throw more lefts, when the crowd changed, got a little quieter. The small audience parted, people with their hands in their pockets, talking over the first round, showing with little head movements how they would have slipped Martell's left.

A hush and a kind of social starchiness swept through the small knot of enthusiasts. Loquesto edged through the people, trying to intersect this stranger.

Chad was making his way to the ropes, gazing up at me, taller than I remembered, athletes and their girlfriends moving to get out of his way.

“It's okay,” Raymond was saying to the coach, “he's with us.”

Loquesto joined Chad beside the ring, leaned against it, ignoring Raymond, looking at Chad as though he had seen him before, probably asking if he had signed in at the front desk.

It was an unfriendly stare-off as Chad made a point of seeming to become aware of Loquesto, turned and looked right at him.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The stare-off was brief, only a couple of seconds.

Then Loquesto climbed into the ring, and quickly went over to where Martell was leaning against the padded rung post, and gave a slow motion study of the left jab, how the fist rotates slightly as it extends outward, showing Martell he had to angle his feet to keep his body sideways, out of my reach.

I felt a little betrayed, Loquesto showing this experienced man how to neutralize me.

Loquesto came over to me. “Looking good, Steven,” he said.

“Chad's a friend of mine,” I said.

Loquesto lifted one of his delicately scarred eyebrows. His expression said: No distractions.

He peeled down my lip, gave my cheek a pat.

“Score points,” the coach said. He meant: Throw more punches. You win a boxing match by being busy and active. Scorers pay attention to smart, telling blows; being tough doesn't always win.

Sometimes you could catch Mr. Monday's expression changing when he thought no one was looking. He would lean against the ropes, gazing outward, into the recesses of the gym, and he looked like someone enjoying a quiet day, waiting for promised tidings to arrive.

Then he would turn back, catch your eye, and hitch his features into an expression of avuncular no-nonsense, his inner joy a mystery.

The bell made its chime, and Martell did his tin-soldier waltz halfway across the canvas. I stayed on my toes, showing off, licking his headpiece with a couple of jabs, tempting him, and when Martell threw his right hand, his power punch, I was ready for it. I leaned to my left, like someone trying to see around a tall person, and rushed him, hanging on.

But this time I felt Chad's eyes on me.

And an inner voice nagged me, urged me forward. Have to win.

Have to
.

But Martell had a new gambit, one that killed every attempt I made. When I hammered his ribs he grappled, smothering me, hugging me, pulling me nearly off my feet. Mr. Monday called for us to break, and finally had to reach in and pry us apart.

Several times we slow-danced like this, Martell's face an impassive, slightly smug mask, someone who knew the winning answer. Martell the boxer was nothing like Martell the helpful dad, willing to hold the stepladder while Mr. Monday screwed in a lightbulb.

Loquesto tells us to turn off the audience, like they aren't there. To Loquesto the gym is always empty nobody home, just your opponent. He also cautions us never to have a casual conversation in the ring, never ask your opponent how he is, and definitely never ask anyone if they are hurt.

But all during the second round, and into the third, I was aware of Chad, even when I wasn't seeing him, the ringside faces a blur jerked this way and that by the body punches Martell threw, lefts and rights I tried to counter with upper-cuts.

I felt the fight settle into a rhythm, Martell giving way, motoring backward, scoring with both hands, me bulldozing ahead, putting on a brave show, the sort of fight that could go ten rounds, no one getting hurt.

But I was a little tired, the long muscles of my arms and legs burning, the wind gasping in and out of me. Martell was trying to hang on. Midway into the third and last round, Martell shouldered into me. Standing sideways, he was able to flail at me with his left hand and circle.

Your arms get tired just holding the oversized gloves in front of your face, and my own arm bones were starting to ache. I was not surprised when Martell once again took a couple of long strides backward and let his gloves drop to his sides. He shook his arms, encouraging life back into them. I kept my chin down, feinted with a left, let him begin to raise his gloves.

I hit him with a right hand, a brilliant, picture-perfect blow. Right below the ribs, the punch you see in boxing highlights, an old-time champ stopping the action with one punch.

The people all around the ring seemed to catch this punch with him, a collective intake of breath.

Martell wore an anxious, tight expression.

He ducked toward me and I jacked a left uppercut into his chin, the point of his jaw digging all the way to my knuckles. I followed up with the same punch, but by then he had hit me once in the face, a pillow-soft punch. He was treading canvas far away from me, limping. He bent sideways, reaching down with his encumbered hand for his calf muscle.

I skewered a jab past the straight-arm left he was holding out in front of me. He was not boxing, now, grimacing, his leg buckling. Martell half-toppled, like someone doing a bad acting job, which is how people act when they are really hurt.

But he didn't go down. With Mr. Monday closing in, sure to end the fight because of Martell's leg cramp, Martell said he was all right.

It didn't sound like human speech, the words forced out around the mouthpiece, “I'm okay, I'm okay.”

Mr. Monday motioned for us to continue.

Martell threw an illegal punch, a classic.

He hit me hard with an elbow, and did it perfectly, the point of his muscled arm right on my mouth.

I saw it coming, and so did everybody else but Mr. Monday.

I couldn't help it—my legs went out from under me. I sprawled. I couldn't get up, and Mr. Monday counted me out.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Smelling salts are worse than a slap.

One jolt and your eyes light up, your nervous system electrified by this chemical stun gun, your brain unable to believe any scent can be so sharp.

I was insulted, having Mr. Monday wave that stuff under my nose. I had not been knocked unconscious, not even for an instant.

Loquesto told me to sit on the stool in the middle of the ring and not get up for a while. I heard him tell Martell he was disqualified and that he ought to be ashamed of himself. “Really disgraceful,” Loquesto said.

Martell's voice started in, an explanatory tone, and I heard Loquesto tell him to shut up.

Dr. Lu crouched down in front of me. He didn't bother asking me how I felt—boxers always lie. He beamed his tiny pen-light into my pupils, looking around to see if my brain was hooked up. The illumination made me see a flash of blood vessels, the insides of my eyes. He held up his fingers. He asked me how many.

I spat blood into the plastic bucket. “Damn,” said Mr. Monday, not swearing so much as commenting sympathetically. There was a lot of it.

Dr. Lu is a young doctor, with rimless glasses and a tendency to dress like an athlete, running shoes and polo shirts. He was a consulting physician for the Oakland Public Schools, and got free passes to games in exchange for being ready in case a basketball player fainted. Doctoring boxers was a hobby, or maybe an act of goodwill.

He said I needed a stitch or two in my lip. “It will take a matter of seconds,” he said. He told me to drop by his office, a block or two away, next to the tuxedo rental shop on Broadway.

“Good fight, Steven,” said Del Toro as I passed him on my way toward the locker room. “Next time he's a dead man.”

I couldn't look in Chad's direction.

Raymond didn't talk until after I had showered and had my street clothes on. I dabbed on some of the stolen aftershave, examining my face in the mirror. The bridge of my nose had been barked, not bloody so much as angry, a red place where there used to be normal flesh.

The inside of my lip didn't have a cut, just a little rent, as though my mouth was growing a new duct.

“You did really well,” Raymond said at last, sounding quiet and tired. “You had power in both hands. Martell cheated and he got caught.”

I was in no mood for conversation.

Loquesto entered the locker room, letting his arms dangle the way even ex-boxers do, staying loose.

He said, “You're going to San Diego.”

The news dazzled me, but it confused me, too. I knew I hadn't done that well today.

Loquesto sat down beside me, Raymond looking on, his eyes tense, hopeful.

Loquesto said, “You'll have to come up with the registration fee, the airfare, the hotel. I'll write you in as our number one middleweight novice.”

I could not speak until I cleared my throat. “I should have finished him when I had the chance.”

“If your opponent fights dirty, what can you do?” Loquesto rubbed the back of his head. “I got a rabbit punch in Cannes one night—I can still feel it. It was the only time I ever fought in Europe, one sneak punch in the fifth round and I was looking at the ceiling. I had a great left hook that night.
Crochet de gauche
, they call it.”

“But you lost the fight,” I said.

“I won. My opponent was disqualified.”

I thought about this, and considered Loquesto in a new light, someone who had gone further as a pro than I had guessed.

“San Diego trip comes to six hundred dollars,” he said. “With insurance. If you can't afford it—”

“My dad can write a check.”

Loquesto didn't speak for a moment. Then he added, “There are church groups and YMCA donations that'll cover the costs. Most boxers can't cough up the money.”

I told him I didn't need any help.

Stacy was lingering in the hall, and saying he was sorry, that it was one of those things.

Raymond walked stiffly and wouldn't even look at him.

Stacy looked like a security guard with two kids again, solid, pink-cheeked, as though he had been jogging around Lake Merritt, not trading punches.

I gave him a nod, staying silent, and patted his arm, because I understood.

I knew how to cheat, too.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“I am not going to park this car right in front of the restaurant,” said Chad.

Raymond was driving, switching on the turn signal to make a left turn, Oakland serene in afternoon sunlight, brick buildings and Victorian gables. Some of the old buildings had been repainted and outfitted with flower boxes, pink geraniums. Nobody looked in a hurry, all the pedestrians in a good mood.

I had dropped by the doctor's office. The doctor was there ahead of me, opening his mail. He had used a cotton-tipped wooden swab to paint my inner lip with painkiller, a flavor like spearmint mouthwash. I closed my eyes and felt the needle, the duct getting sewed up tight. I had asked Dr. Lu if the cut would hurt my career, and he replied, “Not a cut like this.”

“They have parking in the back,” said Raymond, easing the car along at a leisurely pace.

“The first thing a cop does when he goes on duty is check out the cars parked behind Camino Real,” said Chad.

“This is a shiny white Pontiac,” Raymond said. “It's going to be visible, no matter where we park.”

Chad leaned forward. “Park along in here.”

I had assumed we were seeking a shadowy alleyway. This was a highly visible street with gleaming parking meters, the three of us searching our pockets to come up with enough coins.

Camino Real is a restaurant right across the street from the Oakland Police Department. My father and I used to eat there after hearing the Oakland Symphony. Once we had seen a man get arrested there, spread out on the floor, cuffed, propped upright, and marched out the door, no fuss, no complaint. Dad had shaken his head, taken a forkful of
refritos
, and said, “How about that?”

Turning back to survey the street, the last thing you see is the tall tower of detention cells for arrested suspects. People in Camino Real have the street-scruffy look of plainclothes detectives, or guys who have just dropped by after seeing their brothers and sisters in jail.

Chad gave the place a good look, eyeing the booths under the far wall painted with pictures of Mayans working on their cities, and he picked out a place in the corner, a view of who came and went.

“Steven coldcocked that security guard,” Chad said, picking out the largest tortilla chip and popping it into his mouth. He had laughed when Raymond told him that Stacy was a guard for American Security. “One punch, and that night watchman was a cripple.”

“The man got a leg cramp,” said Raymond. “Steven fought well, but what happened was his opponent got a muscle spasm and had to throw a dirty punch to survive.”