The Manager (7 page)

CHAPTER TWELVE

T
he first round was as uneventful as a Sunday in Sydney. Thunder Donnelly threw out an uppercut to Jesse's groin, but he dodged it. Just as Tina told him to do, he let his opponent waste a good deal of energy with long, slow punches.

After the bell, while Tina whispered a bunch of stuff into his ear, I sponged Jesse's neck, tilted up his water bottle and let him spit some out, then rinsed his mouthpiece. Exactly the kind of stuff that made my skin crawl back home, but somehow I didn't mind looking after Jesse. He always smelled good, even when dripping with sweat.

The second round was much like the first, and finally, by the third, Tina told him it was time to go for the jugular.

The two fighters met in the middle of the ring, slugging and going at each other so fast now that I couldn't tell who was getting hit. One of Donnelly's rights connected with the bridge of Jesse's nose.
Crack!

The blood started spurting in every direction.

The crowd went wild. People were jumping on top of their seats for a better look.

Tina screamed her guts out.

“Jab with the right, jab with the right!”

Jesse hurled Donnelly against the ropes, but the bell rang.

“Damn!” hollered Tina.

She threw the salve at me.

“I can't get it to stop!” I cried, using the cold enswell and then the ice and then the salve.

“Not like that! It's not tanning lotion, for God's sake.”

Tina pinched the flesh hard, then fingered her ointment right into it like she was stuffing a deviled egg. And the whole time she was cleaning him up, she was shouting instructions at him.

Now that Jesse'd been cut, it was going to be a tough fourth round. He started out sharp, pushing Donnelly around the ring, but Thunder knew enough to aim for the wound. Then he rammed his head into Jesse's face. And even when the referee was in the process of breaking them up, Donnelly took another stab at the cut. The referee warned him, but he didn't care. He'd do anything to win the match, and Tina knew it.

We cleaned Jesse up again, and the salve was doing its job wonderfully well. Still, the slams that Jesse was taking from Donnelly kept re-opening the wound, and the blood flow was interfering with his vision. It was Halifax all over again.

“You've got the skill, now go for the kill,” said Tina. “Let him have the first one, and when he's open, stick him with the best left hook you've ever delivered.”

She tossed him back into the ring, and following her instructions to the letter, he let Donnelly throw the first punch, a hard jab that glanced off his chin and left Donnelly wide open for the belt that crushed his cheekbone and sent him flying.

Jesse went at him again, this time with a straight right. Thunder staggered backward, and I figured things were going to end right there, but he came back fiercer than ever. He muscled in on Jesse, dropped his shoulder and threw another uppercut to the groin.

Jesse writhed in pain.

The bell rang.

I sponged him like crazy. And I tried to clean up his cuts. Tina didn't have time.

“This is it, Mankiller,” she said. “It's got to be done in this round or we're going to lose you. I've stopped the worst bleeding, but Donnelly's opening it up every chance he gets. And now he's going below the belt.” Tina held up the water bottle for him, and Jesse spat it out in one long stream into the bucket. Then he opened his mouth for her to replace the mouthpiece. She kept hollering stuff at him.

“He's stupid, Mankiller, and you're not. I want you to jab with the right – do you hear me, Mankiller?”

He was dazed and couldn't talk, but he nodded.

“Jab with the right, just to push him back, okay? When his shoulder drops for the uppercut – that's his style, Mankiller, that's what's coming next, I know it – when he goes for that uppercut I need you to hook to the head.”

The crowd screamed like mad when the boxers came back, rushing together and pumping out punches and banging their heads together.

Jesse was tired, and I could see it.

Donnelly circled to the right of him, biding his time, waiting for the chance to try another one of his cheap shots. And then, just like Tina said he would, he dropped his shoulder and prepared for the uppercut, but Jesse throttled him with a left hook to his noggin.

Thunder Donnelly fell backwards against the ropes.

The crowd went wild. They screamed for the ref to call the fight.

“They want him to call it so Jesse doesn't win,” Tina told me, driving her fist into the stool. “If the ref calls it now, they could be tied with points. The judges could even rule for Donnelly.” She cupped her hands and shouted through them as though her life depended on it. “Take him out now,” Tina screamed, “or they'll hand it to this jerk on a platter.”

Jesse heard her. He surged forward like a leopard, then moved on him with a devastating series of short, powerful punches, and Donnelly went down like a colossal stone megalith.

Thunk!

The referee gave him the ten count, but he could have counted to five hundred, it wouldn't have mattered. Thunder wasn't getting up anytime soon.

The crowd roared so loud I couldn't tell if they were for us or against us, but I didn't really care. We'd won, and Jesse Mankiller was going to Portland, Maine, for his biggest fight yet.

The referee grabbed Jesse's right arm and held it high in the air.

In my opinion, Tina should have been out there with him, sucking up some of the glory.

She was covered in blood, sprayed with sweat and smelled like an old root cellar from that salve of hers, but I was proud of my sister. Really proud.

—

“It was a barnburner!” squealed Tina into the phone. “Did you listen to the fight?” Her voice was so deafening, Paul Holley must have thought he'd mistakenly been connected with the ring announcer.

“They wouldn't let me anywhere near a radio,” I heard him say. “Where's Jesse now?” Paul's voice was loud too, and Tina held the phone out so I could hear.

“He's lying down,” answered my sister. “We're calling from the motel lobby. Sorry it's so late, but you said—”

“I've been waiting for your call! I don't care what time it is!”

“And I'm sorry we had to call collect, but—”

“I told you to! Enough with the sorries, okay? I'm so happy I could jump right out of this hospital bed.”

We could hear Louise in the background, giving Paul hell.

“Mankiller took a lot of punishment tonight,” said Tina. “He's got to rest up if we're going to win in Maine next week. Most fighters wouldn't attempt three bouts in a row, but he can do it.”

“Yeah, but if he wins the North American title in Boston, he can write his own ticket. He can decide when and if he wants to fight. Until then, you'll have to keep him in top shape, Tina. If he takes the U.S. title in Portland, I want to be there in Boston for the big night.”

Louise started arguing with him. Then we heard Paul say, “If I
don't
go and watch, I'll be dead. From boredom!”

“How are you doing, anyway?” Tina asked Paul.

“I'm all right. But they've been stickin' so many needles in me, you'd think they were hooking a rug.” He chuckled. “I'm going home soon, though.”

“That's good,” said Tina. “Paul?”

“What is it?”

“Jesse wonders if you could ask Louise to ask Bonita to check in on his Mom and sisters. They don't have a telephone, and he's worried about them. If she could, it would put his mind at ease.”

“And I want his mind at ease!” declared Paul. “Tell Jesse not to worry over his family, we'll look after things. And you keep calling me, will you, Tina? I want to be in the loop, do you hear?”

Louise hollered at him again, but he kept on talking.

“Say, did you hear about Flyin' Ryan Byrne, Tina? I read in the paper that he won in Glace Bay. He's the Eastern Canadian champ now. Look, I gotta go, but keep in touch, will you?”

We headed outside and walked around the back of the motel to our room. Even though I didn't like Ryan very much, I was happy for Dad that he had won; when I admitted it to Tina, she grunted something about it being a fluke. Just as the door to our room came into view, a dark blue Jaguar pulled in slowly past us; the driver parked directly behind Brandy, as if he was trying to make sure she couldn't be moved.

Two men eased their way out of the Jag, ambled around Bonita's car and knocked at our room. One of them was ugly enough to cure hiccups, with deep gullies running from the bridge of his nose to the edges of his mouth. The other one was blond and not ugly, but still looked like he'd kill you for twenty bucks.

“Oh my God.” I grabbed Tina's arm. “I know those guys. I've seen them in Sydney; they're mobsters. Dad said so.”

“There you go with your gangsters again,” mumbled Tina, although by the expression on her face I could tell that she didn't think they were there to collect money for a new church roof.

Jesse opened the door.

“Yeah?” he said, leaning against the door jamb.

“Mankiller, we wanna talk to you.” The blond sounded like his throat was full of phlegm.

“Beat it. I don't want whatever it is.” He tried to shut the door, but the ugly one stuck his foot in it.

“Oh my God, Tina,” I gasped. “I'm getting out of here.” I went to run, but she grabbed my shirt and yanked me back.

“Like hell you are.”

“But—”

“Come on,” she said, dragging me back to our room. I decided that my future was short and black.

The two visitors had Jesse pinned against the wall, and he was swearing at them to get the hell out of our room or he'd crack open their heads.

“Shut up, Jesse,” snapped Tina. “Do you want to get yourself killed?” She guessed they were armed, and I'm sure she was right; guys like that wouldn't be caught without a revolver any more than their girlfriends would be seen without makeup.

Jesse didn't heed Tina's warning and continued wrangling with the ugly one. “There's no way in hell that I am going to throw a fight for you or anybody else. I don't give a damn how much money you'll pay me, and your threats don't frighten me.”

“You're gonna take a dive, Mankiller. If you don't, you'll never fight again. Get my drift?”

Jesse went to belt him, but Tina grabbed his arm.

“Who's your man in Portland?” she asked.

“Who the hell are you?”

The blond answered. “I've seen her someplace. Whitney Pier – that's it.”

“Yeah,” agreed the ugly one. “MacKenzie's gym.”

Did you have to be a dwarf?
I thought.
Did you have to be so memorable?

“We're from France,” I said quickly.

“Damn it, Ellie,” barked Tina, “do you have to be so stupid?” She took several steps toward the men. “I am Mankiller's manager, and I decide if he's going to take a dive or not.”

“Like hell,” mumbled Jesse.

“You didn't answer my question,” continued Tina. “The promoter hasn't told me who my boxer is supposed to be fighting in Portland. Cough it up!”

“Judd Stone.”

“Stone – oh yeah,” said Tina. “He's got the American title now.”

“That's right, sweetheart, and we don't want anybody walking off with it,” said the blond. “If he doesn't get the chance to fight for the North American crown in Boston, we aren't going to be very happy. And our boss isn't going to be very happy. And when we're not happy, we do crazy things.”

“Who's your boss?” Tina asked.

They didn't answer her.

“We'll see you in Portland, Mankiller,” said the ugly one, and the two of them left, smiling.

Jesse threw himself down on the bed. “I won't take a dive for anyone.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

T
he only part of me that got any sleep that night was my arm. Tina and I were squeezed together in one of the twin-sized beds, which meant I couldn't turn over. And I was too hot. Neither one of us had the nerve to wear a nightgown, so we slept in our clothes. The heat was the worst kind – thick and sticky; the motel had no air conditioning, the fan made a whiny metallic grinding sound and the threats made by the two thugs echoed from the dark recesses of my mind.

Tina slept like a log.

For her, the combination of a profound feeling of accomplishment for winning her first fight as a professional manager, and extreme exhaustion, led her straight to dreamland without a single detour. I was glad she could sleep; I didn't want her to start thinking about the Ilizarov procedure, although even it wouldn't have been as bad as what the two mobsters had in mind for us if Jesse didn't let their guy win.

Jesse had no problem sleeping either. Obviously not the shy type, when he came out of the shower (which was down the hall, across from the front desk, and past six other rooms) he wore nothing but a towel, which he promptly threw to one side of the room before retiring for the night. Tina and I were used to naked men, but Jesse didn't know it; I think he was trying to rattle our cages a bit. Mine was rattled, but it would take a lot more than male anatomy to stir Tina's imagination, so his attempt to show off didn't have quite the impact he might have thought it would.

In fact, Tina continued to drill him about his combination punches even after he'd tossed the towel. From the look on his face, I'd have to say that it was the first time in his skirt-chasing life that a girl – my sister – had not been the least bit impressed by his masculinity.

I guess I must have drifted off at one point, because the sound of Tina and Jesse's bickering startled me. It was about three in the morning. He was asking if she had any aspirin, and she was reminding him what it would do to his blood.

“You'll just have to work through the pain. We've got to get that cut healed or Stone will aim for it as soon as he hears the bell.”

Jesse swore at her.

“That's just the pain talking,” said Tina.

“You're the only pain that's talking.”

Then Jesse mumbled something else – I couldn't make it out – then they were quiet for a minute or two. The room was dark, silent except for the fan and the faint sounds from a party going on a few doors down. I was closest to the window; the motel's neon lights flashed red and blue patches of colour across my pillow.

At one point, Jesse spoke softly to Tina.

“Your old man, he's a boxer, right?”

“Was.”

“What happened?”

“Wrecked his hand.”

“How?”

“I don't know.”

Silence again.

“You don't like your old man?” asked Jesse.

Tina didn't reply.

Then she answered with a question. “Where's your father?” she asked him. “Did he take off on you?”

“Yeah,” muttered Jesse in a sarcastic tone. “He was drunk every night on Jack Daniels, never held a job in his life, then he ran off with some buddies of his to rob a bank and now he's in jail.” He sighed heavily. “Typical Indian. No good bum.”

“All right,” said Tina, “I'm sorry I bought into the stereotype and assumed the worst. I apologize, okay?”

It took a few minutes for Jesse to cool off.

“He died in a construction accident. Back in Oklahoma. He worked six days a week and he loved his family more than anything in the world.”

“Sorry,” said Tina. “You moved to Millbrook after that?”

“Yeah,” replied Jesse. “Without our father to support us, my mother came back to Nova Scotia to be with her people.”

“Do you like it there?”

Jesse laughed scornfully. “I'm not even going to answer that.”

—

Tina didn't want Jesse to spend more than a few hours driving each day; that way she would have plenty of time to force the guy to work out. She had a mean streak, my sister, and loved to watch men suffer at her command. So it was two days before we reached the border at St. Stephen, New Brunswick.

Crossing into the United States at Calais, Maine, was a bit like entering high school; everything – the sky, the trees, everything – looked different somehow. And being on the other side of the Canadian border made it okay for me to wave at people in cars as they drove by, sing out loud with the radio or lie down and stick my feet out the window.

“Get your feet back in the car,” said Tina, who, after the win in Amherst, was riding in the front seat again.

“What share of the purse do you want?” asked Jesse, fumbling through his back pocket with one hand while driving with the other. He pulled out his wallet and threw it at her. “Take what you want.”

“That belongs to Paul, not me,” declared Tina. “You can pay for our meals and motel out of it though. That way I can keep what I have for Boston.” She pushed the wallet back at him. “And don't be so eager to give up your share of the profits. The promoters are going to grab enough off you as it is. Hang on to as much as you can for your family.” She sneered. “Don't be such an idiot.”

She reached for the newspaper she'd picked up in Calais and like a kid to the comics, headed straight to the sports page.

“I guess Paul was right. I couldn't believe it.” She kept reading.

“Believe what?” I asked.

“Ryan Byrne did win the Eastern Canadian title.”

Jesse turned to her. “I said he was good.”

Her eyes never left the page.

“Yeah,” she mumbled. “Yeah, now I see,” she said.

“What do you see?” Jesse and I asked in unison.

“Schulman was robbed. He should have won. Ref called a technical knockout – said they were both in bad shape and couldn't finish the fight.”

“But the fact that Ryan won on points will still help Dad, right?”

Jesse looked at me in the rear-view mirror.

“You need Ryan Byrne to win so your dad gets business, is that it?” he asked me.

“Otherwise we fold and the gym is history,” I said.

“Well then,” said Jesse to Tina, “be glad that Byrne took the title.”

Tina shrugged.

“I thought that gym was important to you?” Jesse asked.

“It is.” Tina paused. Then she turned to him. “It's my life.”

Jesse kept his eyes on the road for a long stretch of highway, then he starting pumping Tina with questions.

“Why are you going to Boston, anyway? And don't tell me it's none of my business, I'm getting sick of that excuse.”

“I'm training to become a gypsy fortune teller.”

“Very funny,” said Jesse. Then he looked into the mirror at me again. “What's the big secret? Will you tell me?”

“Not unless she wants every hair ripped out of her head.” Tina changed the subject. “As you know, Mankiller, this fight in Portland is an important one. That's why we're going to have to take some heat from goons like the pair in Amherst. Win in Portland and it's on to Boston for the North American title. Win that and by September, you're going for the world crown.”

Jesse didn't say anything. He just kept motoring along and ignoring her like a cab driver would ignore chitchat or a garbage man would flies.

Then it hit him.

“So are you going to be around in September? Will you still be in Boston when I get back there?”

“I … I, uh … yeah, I'll still be in Boston, but I won't be able to manage you for the big one.” She turned to him. “Don't worry, if you win the next two fights, you'll have your pick of any manager from Florida to Cape Breton. I guarantee that.”

“Maybe Paul can do it by then,” I suggested, but my idea didn't go over well.

“No, Ellie,” said Tina, “he won't be able to do it. The stress is too much. Probably kill him.”

“Why can't you do it if you're going to be in Boston?” asked Jesse.

“Thought you didn't want me for your manager.”

“Thought you weren't good enough.”

God, they loved to argue.

“You two never stop!” I said. “You sound like you're married or something.”

That did it. That shut them up. Neither one said a word until we stopped for lunch.

We didn't know how long it would be before another truck stop, so the next place would have to do; unfortunately, the next place was Bill's Comfy Diner.
Somewhere between Calais and Bar Harbor, it was the epitome of everything you didn't want in a restaurant.

“Complete Meal – 3.95” advertised the diner in its fly-specked window, while the greasiest, most unappetizing smells oozed out of a big metal thing on the roof. I don't know who Bill was, but I figured if he ate there very often, he was probably pushing up daisies by now.

There was a stained, yellowed menu pasted on the door and a stack of them on a table inside. Tina told Jesse and me to try to find something decent to order while she made a phone call from the desk.

“Who are you calling?” I asked her.

“Don't worry about it.”

“Are you calling Dad?”

“No, Ellie,” replied Tina with a sneer. “I'm calling the poison control centre in advance, so I know what to do when we all start collapsing after a meal in this place.”

She talked to someone for at least five minutes (and it must have been a collect call, because there was no way that Bill would spring for it) then joined us in a grimy booth.

“Hello, good day, what can I do for you folks today?”

The twenty-year-old waitress approached the table with a practised cheerfulness, but when she noticed Tina was a dwarf, the smile dropped off her face. Her way of coping with the awkward situation was to never let her eyes fall anywhere near my sister. She looked at me, she looked at Jesse, but when it came time for Tina to order, she said, “What will you have?” while keeping her gaze firmly fixed on her order pad.

“How do you stand it?” asked Jesse, once the waitress had left for the kitchen. “Do you count your blessings or something?”

“I would if I had any.”

“Crap,” said Jesse.

“What the hell blessings have I got?” She thought for a minute. “You're no blessing. You're a pain in the—”

“I didn't say I was a blessing.” He took a swig of water. “I just wanted to know how you dealt with idiots like her. What do you do? Imagine them falling off a cliff or something?”

“Don't be stupid,” snapped Tina. “Lay off, okay?”

Jesse turned to me. “Is your sister always such a crab?”

“In a word, yes.”

“Well, then,” offered Jesse, turning to Tina, “I guess we know which one of the seven dwarves you are. And it isn't Bashful.”