by Jinx, Hondo
Seeing Johnny, the woman smiled.
“Gloria,” Rico said, looking back and forth between the two of them with an eager smile, “meet my new friend, Johnny.”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” Gloria said, holding out her hand.
“Nice to meet you,” Johnny said, shaking her hand. It was warm and damp.
“Gloria is my wife,” Rico said again. “We met when I was a fighter and Gloria was a ring card girl. That was back in—”
“You a pro?” Gloria cut him off, smiling at Johnny.
“He’s new,” Rico answered for him. “Green as a cucumber. Luckiest kid in the world, running into me like this. I gotta tell you, kid. Right, Gloria?”
“That’s right,” she said, not taking her eyes off Johnny, who could smell booze on her breath. “You’re a lucky boy.”
“A kid like you,” Rico said, “a good-looking kid with shoulders, you come into a gym, man, you gotta look out, you know what I’m saying, Johnny? I mean, some of these trainers are like sharks.”
Gloria nodded. “They’re assholes, most of them. I mean, they’d sell your blood for a dime.”
“That’s why I’m saying you’re so lucky,” Rico said, grinning and clapping Johnny on the shoulder. “Holy crow, son, what do you do for a living, lift trains? Gloria, feel the muscles on this kid. Is he hard as a rock or what?”
“Mm, you are a strong boy,” she said, squeezing Johnny’s shoulder.
Johnny smiled uncomfortably, wishing he hadn’t come in tonight.
“Strong?” Rico said. “That’s not the half of it. I’ll bet his piss is clear as spring water and his blood’s as black as tar. Look at him, Gloria. Kid, you gotta be careful. I’m telling you. You want to make it in this game, you need a great trainer. Somebody like me, somebody who’s already been to the top.”
Gloria nodded. She had quit squeezing but hadn’t removed her hand from Johnny’s shoulder.
“What are you gonna do, kid?” Rico asked. “You want to train a little bit? Come on, show me what you got, and I’ll teach you how to become a champ.”
Johnny waved him off. “Thanks, but I’m just going to look around.”
“Look around?” Rico snorted. “What are you, Johnny, a reporter or a fighter?”
Johnny shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Rico elbowed his wife. “He doesn’t know. Look at this kid, huh? He doesn’t know. Look at the size of his hands, Gloria. What do you weigh, kid? Don’t tell me. A buck ninety. Am I right? I’m right. I told you. One ninety, hands like that, a puncher for sure. You got feet? Can you dance a little?”
Johnny just looked at him.
“Never mind dancing right now,” Rico said. “We’ll get to your feet soon enough, all right? This kid, Gloria. He doesn’t know he hit the jackpot. Look, Johnny, I’ll build you up. He’s a good-looking kid, right, Gloria? I mean, am I right?”
Gloria shrugged. “I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for squeezing my tits.”
“You got a filthy mouth, Gloria,” Rico said, suddenly cross. “You’re scaring the kid off. Don’t mind my wife, Johnny. Looks like a million bucks but no class whatsoever. Her mind’s in the gutter.”
Gloria rolled her eyes. “Like yours isn’t, Rico? Like everybody’s isn’t? I’m sick to death of you. I’m sick of this place. Of everything. I could cut my own throat, I’m so sick of it all. Hey kid, what do say we go get a beer. You buy me a beer and I’ll suck your—”
“No thanks,” Johnny said, stepping back and raising his palms defensively. “Look, it was nice meeting you two, and I appreciate the advice, Rico, but I’m looking for somebody. See you guys around.”
As Johnny turned to leave, he heard Rico berating Gloria for chasing him off.
He’d heard boxing was crooked, with managers and promoters looking to take advantage of young fighters, but he didn’t realize trainers could be the same way.
Best find this Marvella person.
It was clearly the intention of the Vicarus script that he train under Marvella. At least it sure seemed that way, what with Sylvia’s heavy-handed name dropping and Rico’s repulsiveness.
After all, the Vicarus script wouldn’t set him up. The situation designers wanted him to succeed, right?
Chapter 6
He walked over to the mirrored walls where people shadowboxed and jumped rope. Now he could see a long row of mats that stretched along the wall on the other side of the rings. A few people were stretching out on the closer mats. On the others, people sat in lotus positions with their eyes closed and their arms resting on their legs, palms up.
Weird.
Everything else in here fit Johnny’s picture of a boxing gym. But he sure didn’t remember Rocky meditating.
“You escaped from Rico,” a petite girl jumping rope said, looking Johnny up and down with laughter in her big, blue eyes.
She was cute despite her cat ears and the small shiner beneath her left eye. Her blue satin trunks dropped all the way to her knee-high athletic socks, which disappeared into calf-length blue boxing shoes. She looked skinny in her oversized yellow t-shirt. Her long, purple ponytail bounced as she smoothly skipped the spinning leather rope, her booted feet moving with impressive dexterity. Keeping out of the way of the rope, her purple tail coiled up her lean midsection like a snake climbing a sapling.
“Yeah,” Johnny said. “I mean, I appreciate the guy welcoming me, but—”
“You don’t want Rico as your trainer. He was a good fighter back in the day, but you don’t want him as your trainer. He’s inconsistent. Here one day, gone for a week. And that wife.”
Johnny laughed. “She was… interesting.” Spotting an equipment locker against the wall, he went over and picked out a pair of old leather bag gloves.
The timer on the wall buzzed.
“Thirty seconds!” a trainer somewhere shouted, and the noise in the gym increased, fighters hammering harder and faster, finishing strong.
“Don’t put those on without hand wraps,” the girl called as Johnny was starting to pull a glove onto his hand. “Jimmy will kick you out.”
“I don’t have any wraps.”
“Jimmy sells them at the window. Twenty-five cents a pair. You paid your dues, right? You gotta pay your dues before you train.”
“Who do I pay?”
“See that little room back there next to the locker rooms?”
Johnny followed her gaze and saw a sight even weirder than the long row of people meditating. In the corner, a short guy with a gut was shadowboxing. Not in front of a mirror but facing the corner, throwing a steady stream of slow hooks and uppercuts and moving his blocky head in short motions back and forth. Despite the intense heat, the guy wore a heavy winter long coat and a wool stocking cap.
“The guy in the coat?”
“No,” she laughed. “That’s Jobbo. You’re looking for Jimmy. See that room next to the girls’ locker room, looks kind of like a closet? The guy in there watching TV? That’s Jimmy. It’s his dad’s place, but he runs it.”
Ding-ding-ding.
“Time!” someone shouted.
All around the gym, fighters quit working and gasped for air.
The girl dropped her rope. Its wooden handles clattered off the well-worn hardwood floor.
“Pick up that rope, Freddie.” The dark-haired wolfwoman with the eye patch came hobbling over with the help of her cane. “No break for you. And you just earned twenty minutes of steps after we’re done. You know the rules. No talking during work periods.”
“Yes, Marvella,” Freddie said. She picked up the jump rope and went back to work without so much as a frown.
“It was my fault,” Johnny said, “and actually—”
He had meant to tell Marvella that he’d come here looking for her, but she cut him off. “What you sniffing around for, kid? That girl has work to do.”
“Sniffing around?” he said. “I wasn’t trying to—”
“Save it,” Marvella said. Her good eye drilled into
him, as gray and menacing as a storm cloud. “Leave us alone.”
“But I came to see you.”
“See me? What for?”
“I want to be a fighter. I need a trainer. And I hear you’re the best.”
“Is that right?” Marvella said with a smile. It wasn’t friendly. “Why you want to be a fighter?”
“I don’t know, I—"
“That’s no reason,” she said, slashing the air with her cane. “You need money? So does everybody else. Go get a job. A real job. Not fighting.”
Ding-ding-ding.
“Time!” somebody yelled. “Time in. That’s time.”
A second later, the noise erupted again, fighters all over the gym skipping rope and pummeling away.
Johnny felt frustrated. He’d gotten off on the wrong foot with this woman. But he wanted to stay, and if he was going to start boxing, he wanted the best trainer… even if she had the personality of a hungry wolf. Friendly coaches were overrated anyway. He didn’t want a friend. He wanted to learn from the best. “I’d like to try.”
“Not good enough.”
“What I mean is—”
“Forget it, kid,” Marvella said. “The streets are full of people who’d like to try. Either you try or you don’t. Nobody gives a shit if you want to try. That’s the oldest, tiredest song in the world, I want to try. Bullshit. What you want doesn’t matter. What you say doesn’t mean shit. Only thing that matters is what you do. Work and winning, that’s all; work and winning. Freddie and me, we got work to do. So leave us alone and go sort out your life.”
“Fine,” Johnny said. He wanted to be trained by the best, but he wasn’t going to make an ass of himself, standing there begging and getting berated.
Freddie frowned sympathetically but didn’t say a word.
He nodded to her, ambled over to the equipment locker, and tossed the gloves back in. Then he paused beside the stinking gear, trying to decide what to do.
Should he walk over to Jimmy’s window and pay his dues, the way Vicarus seemed to want him to? Or head back out on the street and have a look around? He could bop over to The Oasis, change into some dry clothes, and then hit a bar, have a few beers, maybe meet some nice girl.
That sounded all right. He could look for a different gym tomorrow. The way people in Fight Town loved boxing, there was probably one on every corner.
That sounded good. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to head for the door. He wanted to—
Somebody tapped his shoulder. “Hey buddy, you want some work?”
It was the fat guy in the coat. Jobbo, Freddie had called him. Sweat streamed down his puffy face.
What the hell was wrong with this guy, working out in winter clothing? It had to be ninety degrees up here, and this guy was dressed for a polar vortex.
“No thanks, man,” Johnny said. “I already have a job.”
“Nah, buddy,” Jobbo said. His voice was soft and coaxing. “I mean work.” He nodded toward the rings. “Sparring. You want to get some rounds?”
“No thanks. First day.”
“First day, huh?” His smile was missing a front tooth. “Hey. Welcome to the gym. No shit. Welcome, buddy. But hey, you come here to box, right? Why not get off on the right foot, climb in the ring?”
“No thanks.”
Jobbo’s smile died. “Come on, big meat. You got me by what, twenty pounds?”
Johnny shrugged. He doubted it. Jobbo was a few inches shorter than him, but he was thick through the chest and had a big belly.
“Can you punch?” Jobbo asked.
“I punch all right.”
“Come on then, big meat. You try and punch me in there. I’ll just go light, work my defense.” Jobbo grinned again. “You think you can touch me? No offense, but you look maybe a little slow. I doubt you can touch me even.”
That’s when Johnny noticed Marvella watching the interaction from a distance. Her look of contempt decided him.
“What the hell,” Johnny said. “I’ll go a few rounds.”
Chapter 7
Jobbo’s trainer, this light-skinned, rat-eared guy with freckles and an unlit cigar jutting from one corner of a vaguely amused grin, helped Johnny to get ready. At the trainer’s command, a kid maybe seven or eight years old with chewed-up dog ears and a stub tail ran off and fetched a protective cup. Johnny stepped into it and pulled it up over his groin. The thing felt awkward as hell, but he guessed that beat getting hit in the nuts.
The kid ran off again. Jobbo’s trainer opened a canister of petroleum jelly started smoothing grease over Johnny's face.
“What's that for?" Johnny asked.
“Gotta grease you up so you don't get cut," the trainer said, applying more Vaseline to Johnny's eyebrows and nose and cheeks.
The whole time, Johnny was thinking I thought we were going light, but he didn’t say anything. He’d already come through the ropes, so he wasn’t going to start half-stepping now, especially not in front of Marvella.
Not that the trainer appeared to even know Johnny was in the ring. Every now and then, as Jobbo’s trainer wound cloth wraps over Johnny’s hands, Johnny would look over to where Marvella was leaning on her cane watching Freddie pound a heavy bag with crazy-fast punches.
Marvella never so much as glanced in Johnny’s direction, but every now and then Freddie would look at him with nervous eyes.
“How’s that feel?" the trainer asked when he finished wrapping Johnny's hands.
Johnny smacked his right fist into his left palm. The wraps were tight. They felt good. His fists felt hard, like he could punch through a block wall. Even one filled with cement and rebar. "Good."
“All right," the trainer said, taking old leather headgear from the kid, who was back in the ring. "All right, little man. Go get some gloves. Tell Jimmy they’re for me. I got this."
Then the trainer turned back to Johnny and said, "You got a mouthpiece? No? All right, kid, get the man a mouthpiece, too. Tell Jimmy it’s on me, all right?"
The kid ran off again.
"Jimmy runs a tight ship," the trainer told Johnny. "He doesn’t let just anybody crawl through the ropes, you understand what I’m saying? Jimmy’s got standards. Like, you get a couple bums come off the street, wanting to work out their aggressions in here? Jimmy’ll kick them out quicker than shit. That's why I like this place."
The trainer pulled headgear down on Johnny's head. It got stuck halfway. He took it off, messed with the laces in the back, spread it a little, pulled it down, and retied the bow.
It fit. At least until the trainer pulled the leather strap under Johnny's chin and fastened it at the top of his throat.
“Feels tight," Johnny said. "It's choking me a little."
The trainer grinned. "That's good. It's got a choke you a little. Otherwise, first time you get hit, the headgear’ll spin around. You don’t want cockeyed headgear, you understand what I’m saying?”
"Okay," Johnny said.
The kid came back with the gloves and mouthpiece.
The trainer held one glove open at his side. "Shove your hand in there as deep as you can. That’s it. Now hold still and keep your arm straight."
The guy tugged up on the sides of the glove until it was on, then pulled the glove into his stomach and laced it tight, tying the ends in a bow at the back of Johnny’s wrist. He pulled a roll of white medical tape out of his back pocket and wound strips around the cuff of the glove, cinching it to Johnny’s wrist and covering the laces. “Gotta cover them laces. Don’t want somebody getting stuck in the eye."
The trainer got Johnny’s other glove fixed up, then busted open the mouthpiece and shoved it into Johnny's mouth. “You’re just going light, but you gotta wear the mouthpiece and everything, you know? Some guys—trainers, I mean—they wouldn’t bother. But me, I like to do things right, be safe, you understand what I’m saying?”
Johnny nodded.
Jobbo came into the ring, and Johnny stood there waiting for him to get ready.
Jobbo had lost the winter coat and cap. His ears were short and pointy with dark brown fur. His body glistened with sweat. He didn’t look so fat now. Yeah, he had a gut, a pretty good one, but he sure didn’t look soft. He rolled his big head on his short, stumpy neck as his trainer pulled the cup into place, adjusting the band in back so it rode over Jobbo’s tail, which was short and bristly with brown fur.
He’s a bearman, Johnny realized. And what did that mean? Did beast-men possess species-specific strengths and weaknesses?
Jobbo whirled his thick arms and leaned from side to side, tilting his barrel chest and broad shoulders. He nodded at Johnny and smiled, but despite the smile, he had a belligerent face and a body built for violence.
So be it, Johnny thought. He was an easy-going guy himself, but he’d been in several fights and won them all, and if you counted living room brawls with brothers, he’d had about a million more. He wasn’t worried about Jobbo.
Man, this was taking forever. He rocked back and forth and shook out his arms. He wanted to try punching with the gloves but didn’t because a bunch of people were watching now, and he would feel stupid, punching the air all dressed up in this equipment.
Geared up like this, he felt super awkward. The cup felt huge and cumbersome. Did boxers actually fight in these things? He guessed so and thought he remembered seeing fighters on TV wearing them under their trunks. But you watch the fights, you don’t pay attention to stuff like that; you watch the fighters, the gloves, the punches. You watch guys swing, watch guys go reeling. That was boxing.
The headgear was almost as bad. That little strap across his throat grew more and more annoying every second. And the headgear itself made his head feel huge and weird. On TV, the fighters never wore that stuff.
The gloves were smaller on TV, too. The things on Johnny's hands looked like gigantic pillows. He doubted either man would be able to hurt the other with these massive things. It would be like punching each other with balloons. He just hoped he could throw a decent punch despite the big, clumsy things. He didn’t want to look like a fool up here, especially if Marvella glanced up.