Redhanded

by Michael Cadnum

  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 t
ower 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.”

  “I was there,” said Chad.

  “You were there, but maybe you don’t have that much—” Raymond stopped himself before he said knowledge about boxing.

  Chad let Raymond know he could hear the words that were said, and the ones Raymond kept to himself. “I don’t think I have a high opinion of the sport,” said Chad. “But I understand someone who can knock out a rent-a-cop.”

  Chad offered me a sly look of sympathy—almost pity—and Raymond held a tortilla chip in his fingers, not eating. The painkiller was wearing off and I could move my mouth. It hurt, but not very much.

  “Loquesto maybe did one thing right in his life,” Chad continued, “teaching Steven how to box. It’s a shame about Loquesto, maybe the man had some ability. He turned out to be one of these guys running away from his past.”

  There was, in fact, a touch of the fugitive in the way Loquesto kept stacks of fresh dress shirts, starched and waiting, next to his collection of sports magazines in the office, as though he might have to don a new disguise any minute. Maybe feinting and dodging in the ring makes you believe in a fluid sneakiness you can’t shake off when you retire. But I didn’t want to hear any criticism of the coach, and maybe Raymond didn’t either.

  Raymond said, “Loquesto’s not such a jerk.”

  Chad let this affront pass like it hadn’t been uttered. “I used to shoot baskets, play one-on-one with my brother until it was too dark to see.”

  For a moment I could see the boy Chad sitting there, although I wondered if he might suggest a game between the three of us, a chance to use his height and experience.

  “Did you play basketball in school?” I asked, expecting him to make some dismissive remark about education.

  “I wasn’t good enough at the game,” he said.

  “It takes practice,” I said, a little surprised.

  He happily admitted that this was so. “But even with practice I was only going to be pretty good, not serious-good.”

  Chad talked about how he had gone fishing with his brother once, and how his brother caught a perch right out of the bay. I was very hungry, eagerly awaiting the arrival of my flautas con guacamole. When an unshaven, convict-type customer looked my way, I gave him a stare until he found something else to do with his eyes.

  I felt the stitches with the tip of my tongue, like a huge sailor’s knot. Our food arrived, gigantic Syracuse china platters, with food baked onto the surface so thoroughly I had to imagine the hydraulic power in the dishwashing arena, real pros gunning frijoles off the dishware.

  “This is a wonderful sight,” said Chad, and he delivered up a smile aimed right at the waitress, beaming up at her like a man who had never seen such a beauty in his life. She was good-looking, pretty eyes and plenty of chest. Her arrival broke Chad’s mood.

  “Hot plates,” said the waitress. “Don’t burn your fingers.”

  Chad waited for her to leave, and rolled his eyes at us, letting us imagine what slurs he was silently casting in the waitress’s direction, pussy, slut.

  There was no way I could borrow money from Chad.

  I tested my mouth with a tortilla chip. The salt scalded my cut lip, but I maneuvered the food around so it didn’t sting much.

  Raymond stirred his chili sauce with his fork, not eating.

  I listened, and as I did I thought: If I don’t go along with these two, they will get themselves shot. Or worse yet, maybe they wouldn’t do anything at all, maybe just talk about it.

  There was no way I could ask my cash-strapped dad for the money, and I wasn’t about to call my mom that night and steer the conversation around to how much it costs to make it in amateur sports.

  I was going to have to take a risk.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Outside our apartment you can sometimes hear conversation, even when you can’t make out the words, a rise and fall of sounds, unmistakably human, but obscure.

  I thought my mother had come back.

  I took a moment before I opened the door, listening to my father’s voice and a woman’s. The key slipped almost soundlessly into the slot.

  A woman who looked nothing like my mother, a petite, well-coiffed woman, was perched on the sofa. She looked at me with wide eyes, like someone startled. Dad often invited his women friends here, but I had expected him to take a vacation from this habit for a few days, out of respect for Mom’s visit.

  This woman certainly didn’t dress like my mother, wearing a puffy-sleeved concoction, dark, creased pants, and the kind of shoes that look dressy, except they have Vibram soles with serrated treads—you can walk nine miles to the office.

  Dad was sitting beside her, a folder open on his lap, receipts and business forms all over the coffee table. He glanced up and smiled, a brighter, happier man than the shell I had left this morning.

  The woman ran her hands up her arms to keep the overlarge sleeves from slipping down, younger than Mom, and someone who paid more attention to her looks.

  Dad stirred himself out of whatever airy mood he was in and said, “Steven, this is Emily Shore.”

  She was a voice I recognized from the phone, the husky, slow-speaking financial advisor. She had quite a grip, and plainly put some effort into it, letting me know she was used to shaking hands with big bucks.

  “I’m so glad we could meet at last,” she said, low and careful, someone who had trained herself out of a hometown accent. She had more of a figure than my mom, and maybe the stylish parachute-blouse was a way of disguising this, keeping the male mind on the bottom line.

  “I’m going to give piano lessons,” said Dad.

  I said I was glad to hear it. Actually, Emily Shore seemed nice enough, but I knew it was pointless to get friendly with the women Dad brought home. A few turns of the calendar and Dad would have a replacement.

  “Emily says we can write off the rent we pay on fifty percent of the unit,” Dad was saying. You could see what women saw in him, his enthusiasm for the subject at hand, whatever it was.

  A single plate with crumbs gleamed in the breakfast nook. Two cups of chamomile tea, three-quarters gone, the tea bags sitting soggy in the sink. The tea was cold. The carpet is so new you can see the footprints, ghosting here and there down the hall, toward the bedroom.

  “We can write off cookies and coffee for the piano students, and a percentage of the rent on the furniture,” Dad was saying, picking up sheet music company invoices like they were long-lost family letters. “We’re taking a proactive tax strategy.”

  “A tax strategy,” I said, trying out one of Mom’s dry echoes.

  Couldn’t you work things out better with Mom? I wanted to say. You had to call up this living ad for eye shadow and ask her to drop by to discuss how to avoid paying taxes on a gaunt income?

  The way I stood there got Dad’s attention—he isn’t stupid—and when he swings into full focus you know it.

  He said, “Where have you been?”

  “Stacy Martell,” I said, being truthful but not elaborating. I gave a hint, making a fist.

  Emily made a self-conscious stretching movement, maybe embarrassed and letting off a little tension, Dad and son about to have a set-to right in front of her.

&nbs
p; Dad’s features softened. “Steven boxes.”

  A very un-Momlike dimple appeared in Emily’s cheek. “You told me,” she said.

  “But I mean he boxes. You ought to see him move the big bag around.”

  Dad had never come to see me in one of my bouts, explaining that he was 100 percent behind me but couldn’t bear to look.

  “Really?” said Ms. Shore, one of those exclamations that mean either how fascinating, or I have no idea what you mean.

  “The ‘big bag’ is that huge leather sausage you see boxers pounding in movies,” Dad explained. “Boxing is full of droll terminology. A guy who gets cut a lot is called a tomato can. When you hear that a fighter has fought a string of easy opponents you say he’s been fed a diet of dead bodies.”

  “Good heavens,” said Emily, sounding sultry and polite in a way that made it easy to see why Dad might want to tell her all kinds of things.

  “Dad has read a couple of books about it,” I said.

  “How’d the match go?” Dad asked, not getting it quite right. Soccer teams and chess players have matches.

  “He extended me,” I said. I was being deliberately technical, using a boxing term for “he gave me a challenging workout.”

  I really wanted to ask my father what had gone wrong. He spent the night with my mother and got up the next day with nothing to say for himself. I wondered if maybe all women were the same for Dad, no matter the differences in their faces or their views on life.

  “I’m designing a poster,” said Dad, proud, like this was a rare talent for an intelligent adult.

  Ms. Shore handed me a blue sheet of paper. My dad looks good in all his photos, carefree, lively. Beginners welcome. Piano study with a master. Hourly rates.

  I said, “Maybe it should go ‘Study piano,’ instead of the other way.”

  “That’s what I thought,” said Ms. Shore, giving me a ninety-dollar smile.

  My bedroom is not a place to spend a long evening alone.

  I have a TV and a video player, and some paperbacks I keep around, but it’s been years since that morning I saw an African lion sitting in the sun. I kept my ancient comic book collection in a Ballantine scotch box, and I had shelves of rocks and curiosities I had once found interesting, a penny that had been run over by a switch engine in the Oakland rail yard, a .45 shell I had found in a creek bed, a rattlesnake rattle my mother’s father had sent me in a Jiffy bag.