Undercard

by David Albertyn

  Copyright © 2019 David Albertyn

  Published in Canada in 2019 by House of Anansi Press Inc.

  www.houseofanansi.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  All of the events and characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Albertyn, David, 1983–, author

  Undercard / David Albertyn.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-4870-0480-4 (softcover).—ISBN 978-1-4870-0481-1 (EPUB).—ISBN 978-1-4870-0482-8 (Kindle)

  I. Title.

  PS8601.L3352U53 2019 C813'.6 C2018-901842-9 C2018-901843-7

  Book design: Alysia Shewchuk

  We acknowledge for their financial support of our publishing program the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council, and the Government of Canada.

  P.M.

  1

  12:34 p.m.

  The air reeks of sweat, crushed leather, blood. Dust rises like charged particles. Muscles ripple and punches snap in this secluded Las Vegas gym, as fighters sharpen their skills before their make-or-break moments in the casino.

  There are none sharper than Antoine Deco. He confines his gaze to the target before him. One focus, on the bag and in the ring. One focus for the last twenty years.

  Antoine stands back, wipes the sweat from his eyes, sees the young reporter watching him. A nobody. Else he wouldn’t be here waiting to interview him, a fighter in the undercard. He’d be with the big boys, grovelling before Gibbons and Suarez.

  Antoine prefers it this way. Unseen, underestimated, overlooked — the pain he felt growing up is now his secret weapon. He crushes his gloved fist into the bag. Throws a series of combinations. Alejandro, his trainer, grunts, trying to hold the bag in place. Smack. Antoine’s fist leaves an imprint. His feet are light, rested; his lungs deep, pliant, pushed beyond the brink more times than he cares to remember. Smack. Leather on leather, his gloves on the bag. The only sound sweeter is the padded thud of his fist on an opponent’s face. No, the crack of an opponent’s nose. No, the gurgle of a —

  He draws back. Sweat running from his nose like blood. Mouth-breathing like an animal. Not yet. So much to get done first.

  He throws his last punch and turns to the reporter. The hijo de puta looks impatient. Fuck him, I didn’t ask for an interview.

  Alejandro hands him a towel, which Antoine mashes against his face. He swipes it over his shoulders, arms, and chest, loops it around his neck, and nods to the journalist. Let’s get this over with.

  They sit on black metal folding chairs in front of a back wall, far from the bags and the ring, beside the benches and weights. Antoine sprays water into his mouth, swishes it before he swallows.

  “I’ve always wondered,” the journalist begins, his tone convivial, as if they are friends, “what kind of a name is Deco?”

  “A fake one,” Antoine says. “My father picked it when he came to this country.”

  “I see. And where did he come from?”

  Antoine stares at the journalist. This man with his little notebook and his silver pen, poised to publish the secrets of his life; this man who looks about the same age as him; this man who is so — Antoine searches for the word — so normal. He spots a wedding band on the man’s ring finger. Wonders how the young wife would feel if he cut the finger off and kept the ring. “He never told me. Somewhere south of here. Obviously.”

  The journalist shifts in his seat. Antoine can sense what the man has been hoping for. Redemption tale. Sob-story orphan turns gangbanger turns inmate turns pro athlete. Grateful to God, grateful to boxing, grateful to everyone.

  But it’s me he’s got. Antoine Deco. Grateful to no one.

  “Most rankings put you in the top fifteen in the world as a middleweight. Kolya Konitsyn is ranked in the top five. A win tonight would be a major step toward a shot at the title.”

  “Is that a question?”

  “What would winning tonight mean to you and your career?”

  He almost smiles, imagining this reporter tomorrow. The man will be kicking himself when he discovers what Antoine has done and all he asked for were clichés.

  “I’ll tell you the truth,” Antoine says, leaning in. “Win or lose, I’m not looking beyond tonight.”

  “You take it one fight at a time?”

  “No. I’m all about the long-term.”

  “Just not tonight?”

  “Tonight’s the destination. Only thing left is execution.”

  The man eyes him uncertainly. “You, um . . . after some early defeats in your career, you haven’t lost a fight in over two years. You’ve skyrocketed up the rankings. What — what do you attribute this rise to?”

  Antoine’s gaze takes on a malignant glint. “Technique and athleticism. What else would I attribute it to?”

  “Prison, maybe? Everyone says you’re a different fighter since you got out. You haven’t lost since. What’s the — is there — a connection?”

  Antoine listens to the shuffling of feet and the slapping of leather on leather. He hears the commands of trainers to their charges, and the grunts of those charges as they execute the commands.

  “Not in the way you’re thinking. It didn’t make me stronger or teach me to value each moment or whatever bullshit people think prison does to you. That’s not how you rehabilitate people. Prison forced me to train myself.” Antoine smiles. “I’m a good trainer.”

  “So you wouldn’t call yourself ‘rehabilitated’?”

  He wants gossip, Antoine thinks. No better than a snitch. “I wouldn’t call anyone ‘rehabilitated.’ Even those who never went in. Except —”

  “Except who?”

  Antoine grimaces. Rises from his seat, his back hard and straight like a board. “Interview’s over.”

  “Wait . . . hold on . . . you said I had till one — we’ve still got five minutes. Who do you think doesn’t need rehabilitation?”

  Antoine looks down at the journalist, eyes dark. “Got things to do. Tonight is the fight of my life, after all.”

  2

  1:11 p.m.

  One step onto the thirsty yellow grass of Auntie Trudy’s long backyard and he almost turns around. Too late. He’s been spotted.

  “Look at you! Prince Shaw home at last,” Auntie Trudy gushes. She rounds a food-laden table on the flower-bedecked back porch. The entire cookout, fifty or so people, turn to face him. “Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty . . . our boy is free at last!” she cries at the top of her voice, as if she is the embodiment of Dr. King and not just quoting him.

  Tyron takes a step back, and Tara, his cousin, pushes his shoulder from behind. “You can handle it,” she says. “It can’t be worse than the Taliban.”

  He gives her a dubious look.

  Auntie Trudy rushes toward him, huffing in her rose-tinted dress. “And just look at you!” She wraps her strong arms around him, more of a tackle than a hug. “More handsome than ever. Our own war hero. We missed you, Tyron.”

  She stares deep into his eyes and he has to look away. He doesn’t deserve it. This devotion. This love. And from a woman who isn’t even blood, even if he does call her Auntie.

  “We missed you,” she says. “This city needs a Shaw in it.”

  “Come on, Auntie Trudy. You’re maki
ng me blush.”

  “Well, blush then, ’cause I ain’t stopping.”

  He can’t help but smile. He swallows her in his arms and lifts her off the ground. He plants a kiss on her cheek, and now she’s the one blushing and speechless.

  From two yards down a pit bull alternates between barking and moaning for affection, and beyond, the vast desert sky. From one desert to another, he thinks. A life lived in dust and sand.

  There are other people coming up to him now, congratulating him, welcoming him home. His head begins to spin. It doesn’t help that despite his protests Auntie Trudy keeps shoving plates full of barbecued chicken, devilled eggs, and mashed sweet potatoes into his hands. But he cannot deny that all this feels exceptionally good. He has been gone for such a long time. Gone to such awful places. Gone to do such terrible things.

  People ask him about Iraq and Afghanistan, about the Marines, about himself. They ask what he plans to do now that he’s back, and all he can do is shrug.

  And then they ask if he’s heard about Keenan Quinn.

  “Did you hear about the trial?”

  “You hear he got off?”

  “You hear about the protest tomorrow?”

  “You lived with him and his family, right? Back in the day?”

  “You still talking to that killer?”

  “You lost your woman to him, huh?”

  “You going to ask him why he took another Black youth from us?”

  Yes, Tyron has heard about Officer Keenan Quinn. “The whole city’s about to boil over because of him,” said Tara on the drive from the airport yesterday. “And right before the Gibbons-Suarez super fight, with the entire country’s eyes on us. I’m worried about what might go down, Tyron.”

  From the moment he heard the story, Tyron has struggled to reconcile the memory of his best friend from childhood with that of a white cop who shot and killed an unarmed Black teenager, a boy named Reggie Harrison. Keenan isn’t the type — wasn’t the type — to do something like that. Keenan was never a racist. They’d practically been brothers.

  * * *

  “You hear about your boy from back in the day?”

  “Yes, I heard about Keenan,” Tyron snaps at Ricky Laurent, the latest to corner him.

  “Nah, man, not Keenan. Your other boy from back in the day. The Mexican kid.”

  Mexican kid? At first Tyron draws a blank. “Antoine?”

  “Yeah, yeah, Antoine ‘Dex’ Deco. You hear about him?”

  Tyron’s eyes narrow as if he’s staring down the sights of his assault rifle. He has not heard Antoine’s name in years. All he can say in the wake of his surprise is, “I’m not sure if he’s Mexican.”

  “Whatever. Latin kid. He’s fighting tonight.”

  “What do you mean, ‘He’s fighting tonight’?”

  “Uh, dude, maybe you heard it’s the fight of the decade tonight at the Reef. You hear that? Well, your foster brother is in the damn undercard.” Ricky laughs at the absurdity of it. “How’s that for a welcome home?”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “Have I ever kidded you before?”

  “Just every time I’ve ever spoken to you.”

  “This is a first, then. I’m not kidding. Your buddy is fighting in the undercard to the Gibbons-Suarez super fight. The world is going to be watching and every celebrity you can think of is going to be there.”

  “But how? Last I heard, Antoine was in prison.”

  “Man, you have been gone a long time. He got out a few years ago, and ever since then he’s been tearing shit up. He wins tonight, he’ll be on his way to a title fight. Don’t you got social media?”

  Tyron shakes his head. “I don’t like to be distracted when I’m over there.”

  “Safer that way, huh? Stay focused on survival.”

  Survival? If only that was all Tyron had to think about back there. For him, total immersion in a world of suicide bombings and beheadings, in lining up a human being and pulling the trigger, was easier than constant reminders that another world existed. “Something like that.”

  He tries to shut those thoughts out of his head and return to the present. He is only partially successful. Antoine, he thinks. He was the worst of the three of us. Keenan and me beat him in the ring all the time. “How’d he get so good? Antoine, I mean.”

  “Hey man, sports is your area of expertise. All I know is the hottest women in this city, in this country — and by extension . . . the world — are gonna be ringside tonight. And what’s this?” Ricky tugs on his shoulder. “My main man, back in town just one day, happens to be boys with the guy who’s gonna win . . . well, not the main event, but at least one of the fucking fights! That should get us into some kind of after-party. I don’t need A-list groupies; B-list’s good enough for me.”

  “Now you really are joking.”

  “I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

  Tyron can’t help but snicker. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

  Ricky turns, holding out his arms to Tara, who looks fit in her tank and denim shorts, her muscles toned from her days on the track. She joins them with a paper plate filled with garden salad and corn. Her face oval and smooth, her hair short and untreated, she stares at Ricky’s outstretched arms until he reluctantly lowers them.

  “What are you guys talking about?” she asks, as she digs into her food with a plastic fork.

  “Ricky was just asking me to hit up Antoine Deco for tickets to the boxing match tonight so he can work celebrities.”

  “C’mon man — ‘work celebrities.’ I’m just a boxing enthusiast, Tara. I was actually hoping we could bring you along. Better yet, Ty’s probably jetlagged, doesn’t want to go out tonight — that’s cool — just you and me could go.” When she doesn’t respond, Ricky pumps his fist into his palm with a loud slap and says, “Beautiful, it’s a date. Looking forward to it, Tara.”

  Tara gathers her breath, winding up for a long rebuke, but decides it isn’t worth her time and simply says no, then walks away to join a larger group.

  “Smooth.”

  Ricky’s eyes are still on her. “Is she single?”

  “No.”

  “No? Really? I thought she split with —”

  “No to your actual question. You can’t go out with her.”

  “Why you would wanna deprive your own flesh and blood of a catch like me, I just don't get. So, how about them tickets?”

  “Yeah, it’s a real mystery. I don’t know, man. How am I supposed to ask Antoine for tickets? I haven’t spoken to him in years, Ricky. I’m supposed to just show up at the casino on the biggest day of his life and ask him for a favour?”

  “You a genius, dog. You really are. You know that? That’s a great idea. Way better than mine.”

  “What was your idea?”

  “Get you on board and let you figure out the rest. I guess this was my idea.”

  Tyron gives a low chuckle. “I’ll think about it.”

  He sets his cup of water down and works his way across the yard, trying to thank everybody for showing up to welcome him home.

  “That boy is still so foolish,” Tara says to him when he takes a break beside her. He follows her gaze and sees it’s aimed at Ricky.

  “I wouldn’t know,” he says.

  “You having a good time?”

  “It’s all right. Thanks.”

  “You know, I asked Naomi to come.”

  Tyron spins on her. “You invited Naomi?”

  “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because she’s a friend of mine. And because she’s a friend of yours too.”

  “I wouldn’t call her my friend.”

  “Okay, she’s the love of your life. Is that better?”

  He doesn’t correct he
r this time, just sets his jaw like he’s about to quarterdeck a grunt.

  “Relax, she’s not coming.”

  He refrains from sighing. “It’s too much for me, all this. I’m not ready to see her.”

  “You know, that’s exactly the reason she gave for not coming: ‘It’d be too much for Ty.’” Tara adds with a smirk, “Does she know you or what?”

  “Funny. So, you and her are tight now?”

  “We both coach at UNLV. Bumped into each other there about a year ago. We been hanging out ever since.”

  “She’s coaching? She don’t play ball no more?”

  “Retired a few years ago.”

  He didn’t expect that. All Naomi ever wanted was to play pro ball. “She and Keenan still married?”

  It annoys him how much Tara’s eyes sparkle. “Technically.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’ll have to ask her.”

  Tyron exhales in exasperation. There is another question he wants to ask, but he’s afraid of the answer. Do they have children? He decides to leave that bomb untouched. “I thought I might never hear about Naomi, Keenan, and Antoine ever again. I come back and they’re on everyone’s lips.”

  Tara shrugs. “Your old crew is making moves. Some good, some bad, some just . . . moves. It’s how things go sometimes.”

  He nods at her in agreement, but in truth he is distracted. Over the crowd, Marlon Joseph, at the back of the yard, is trying to catch his eye, beckoning to him with his bald, glistening, chiselled head. As Tyron’s youth football coach, Marlon was terrifying: intense, imposing, six feet, two inches tall, iron-hard slabs of muscle. As his parents’ friend, he was awe-inspiring: quoting Marx and Malcolm X, always with a book in his hands. Tyron is unsure how he feels about him now, but he respects the man enough to obey his summons. He excuses himself from Tara, then sidesteps a large group.

  “Ty, Ty, get over here,” says one of the women in the group.

  Slowing but not stopping, he works his way through well-wishers clasping his hand, patting his back, and finds himself before Marlon. He puts his large hand into Marlon’s even meatier one. Marlon’s goatee is grey, the sole betrayer of his age.