Punching Paradise (Fight Card)

by Jack Tunney

  “I’m waiting,” Gus says.

  “I understand, Gus. I’m good.”

  Neck pats Gus’ hand and stands, swings his arms around like helicopter blades and bounces on his toes. He lets his fists hang before his waist in the middle of the ring, staring through the other fighter as if he isn’t even there. He doesn’t get a name, no characteristics, no chemical makeup, no hopes, no aspirations. He is nothing until the next round, and then he is meat.

  Stars burst across the room. The man has his right before his face, left out for another probing shot. Neck shakes the room clear then pulls his hands up, flexes his fingers. Not paying attention like ain’t going to do you very good.

  One more round.

  He throws a few parries, getting in close to the man. Over his left eye is a thin cut. Neck keeps it in mind for later, though from the way this guy opens up his chest when he goes for a cross, Neck doesn’t think he’ll need it. He steps forward to tighten up the guy, jabs two quick lefts then follows with a right cross that spins the guy.

  He keeps his feet, though, and Neck gives him two breaths to recover before he uncorks a two-hit gut-punch. The man doubles over, leaving the back of his head exposed. A scar bisects the back of his skull. All around, drunks scream for blood. Clancy would be berating Neck right now, because although he doesn’t condone dirty fighting, he believes even less in letting a man who could beat you recover.

  The man tips his head up, glancing at Neck while remaining doubled over. He raises an eyebrow. Son of a bitch isn’t even breathing hard.

  Neck steps back. The drunks boo. He catches a glimpse of Rollo toward the edge of the crowd. To his left stands a man Neck doesn’t recognize, but who keeps a steady watch on him and Rollo. A plastic cup grows a rooster-tail of beer as it sails across the ring. As if he’s being filmed in slow-motion, the man rights himself, smirk still on his lips.

  “That’s the man I’ve heard about.”

  Neck takes two lunges and lays his fist on the guy’s face. A splatter of blood over his mouth. He smiles again, teeth rimmed red.

  “No equal, no control, and bollocks like a bull.”

  “What the hell’s that mean?” Neck cocks back for a haymaker and the man just stands there, like he’s expecting it, asking for it. He throws a deke, tries to play it off as intentional.

  “Means if I could beat you, I wouldn’t even try, like.” The man spits red onto the sawdust floor. “Too much dosh for me to lose. Too much fun watching your bollocks twist.”

  Neckbone goes for him for real this time, his right fist back and ready and hungry for it, but the ref is already yelling time and Gus is quick to grab Neck’s elbow before he can crush the other man’s face. He shoves Neckbone back to the corner, lays his hands on his shoulders and says to sit.

  “Keep your elbow tucked in, will you?” Gus moves his right hand like a chicken flapping its wing.

  “I’m fine. I’ve got him.” Neck watches the man who stood beside Rollo, now close to the other fighter’s corner. The man is in the middle of a conversation with some drunk, but his head still swivels between Neck and Rollo, occasional glances at the other fighter. Beigler’s man? Neck doesn’t recognize him.

  Gus squirts water in his mouth, though Neck barely worked up a sweat during the round. “This guy ain’t going to do much, but what happens when you get someone who can take you apart with jabs, huh? What’re you going to do when he slips your cross, catches you off-balance and starts splitting ribs?”

  Neck spits out the water, still clocking the guy. “Punch him harder.”

  A sting across Neck’s face. He blinks a dozen times, shocked. Gus shakes his right hand.

  “What the hell, Gus?”

  “You got talent, son. A hell of a lot of it. I know you’re smart too.” Gus hands him the water bottle, not bothering to hydrate him or keep his shoulders loose. “None of that’ll do anything if you don’t have the heart to know when to use any of it.”

  The ref appraises Gus then calls out the fighters.

  “Go do whatever the hell you want,” Gus says.

  Neck kicks the crate backwards, not even giving a passing glance to Gus. Where’s that old kook get off lecturing him? Like he’s done anything wrong. Sure, his arm is opening up the body a little, but this is barely a warm-up fight.

  Hell, it don’t really even matter what happens in this because regardless of what the result is Stokes will keep all that scratch for himself to buy whatever it is he collects, life-sized velvet paintings of Blue Hawaii Elvis or twelve pounds of Faidley’s crab cakes. He should say he has a touch of the flu and wasn’t up to fighting and, yeah, Bill, so sorry I went down. Just couldn’t find my feet. Let that fat pig take the hit instead of him or Henry. But even then the guy would lord it over Neck for the next three months and if only, if only, if only he hadn’t thrown that saw out the window.

  “Round Three, love. How d’you want to do this?”

  Neck can hear the smile in the other fighter’s voice, but all he sees is red-and-white concentric circles. He swings. The man’s head snaps back. He throws a left then right then right, all landing on the man’s solar plexus. His cough is wet, his knees turning to smoke. The man tosses out a weak right, but it’s more residual movement of falling than attack. Neck head butts his hand away and unleashes right after right after right.

  Two drunks, unaware, catch the fighter on their back by chance of being there. Neck pursues. He hears nothing. No shouts, no boos, no air sliced by fist. Only the rush of blood through his ears, the steady thump in his skull. He levels two crosses on the man’s chin. His lips explode red. The man starts to fall, but is propped back up as the drunks push him away in their attempt to flee. Neck straightens him with an uppercut, spins him with a left cross that turns the cut over his eyebrow into a gaping maw.

  The man careens into the pole, his body temporarily resting against it.

  Neck charges.

  His fist back, ready to show Stokes his own business acumen and see what he think of that, Neck lines up the man’s jaw when a flash crosses his eyes. Neck tumbles to the side, falling to his right knee but not going down. Gus shakes the circulation back into his right hand, panting as if he’d just run a mile with a sofa strapped to his back.

  “Round Three, Gus,” Neck says.

  Gus spits on the floor before Neck. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  Neck pushes himself to his feet then barges through the crowd toward the keg room. He shoves bodies to the side, then runs into a wall. He looks up and sees Rollo.

  “What was that?” Rollo says, though Neck can feel the words more than hear them, Rollo’s voice being so quiet. “That was unnecessary.”

  He steps to the side and Neck tumbles forward into the dark keg room. He doesn’t bother to flip on the light, just collapses on the floor with his back against the wall and sits there, staring into the darkness.

  ROUND TEN

  Neckbone creeps through the apartment and washes in the bathroom sink again instead of showering. He drinks a glass of water he knows is brown with rust, just from the taste, then fills his glass again. He sits at the table and stares at the wall for an hour, then slips into bed and stares at the ceiling, watching the faint line of light grow stronger as it slips down the wall. Ally is still snoring beside him when he rolls out of bed and dresses in the dark, taking a banana and two old tacos from the fridge for breakfast.

  At work, he barely speaks, just hauls scrap from one room of an condemned row-home out to the dumpster then moving on to the next one. He forgot his lunch, but doesn’t feel much like eating anyway. While the rest of the crew hoots and hollers and insults each other’s mothers and wives, Neck sits under a tree to escape the sun, tracing the brick patterns of the building across the street. His foreman stops and offers half his sandwich, but Neck declines, saying he’s already eaten. Fifteen minutes later, they’re back eviscerating homes again.

  Neckbone walks home, looking forward to washing the day off him
and stretching the kinks out of his body before Ally gets home. Maybe they’ll go out to dinner tonight. Hell, the possibility of them getting thrown out is already there with the rent being late. Might as well have a good time while they can.

  He unlocks the door and steps inside. Ally’s sobbing echoes through the apartment.

  “Ally?” He drops his clothes and hurries to the bedroom. She’s lying beneath the covers, even though it’s summer and they have no air conditioning. He rips the covers off and she startles. “Honey, what’s wrong?”

  “Jermaine’s boyfriend got beat up last night. The play’s ruined.”

  “What? Who the hell is Jermaine?”

  “He won’t leave the hospital until Niall’s better.” She smashes a pillow over her face.

  “Who the hell is Niall?” Neck feels his stomach clench as he says it.

  Ally blubbers something, but it doesn’t make it past the pillow.

  “Al,” Neck says, pulling the pillow away. “Who is Niall?”

  “Just one time ... Can’t I get one break?” Ally’s words are broken by sobs. “It’s bad enough I don’t even get paid for it. you’ll get exposure, everyone said. It’s all about paying dues and if you love it, it’s not work.”

  “Well,” Neckbone says, though he doesn’t know where to go from there.

  “I do love it. But I’m tired of being broke. You’re tired of being broke. I just ...” she takes a deep breath, pressing her palms against her eyes, “I just thought it was going to work out this time. I had such a good feeling. Jermaine has such vision and we work so well together. We had chemistry, he said. Like Rock and Doris, he said. I knew this was the start of something big.” She lets go a theatrical sigh. “I should’ve known better.”

  “Allison,” Neckbone says. “Who is Jermaine?”

  She thumbs away tears. “The other lead. Do you remember anything I talk about?”

  “Don’t you have understudies or something?”

  Staring at him like he’s just asked her what her name is. Ally says, “He’s the director. It’s his project. You and Henry were sitting behind him the other day.”

  Neck’s spine melts. His fingertips are cold.

  “Why do you think we were doing Behan? It’s Jermaine’s birthday present to Niall.” Allison shakes her head. “Niall’s the Irish guy, remember?”

  “I don’t know,” Neck says. “I don’t know.”

  ROUND ELEVEN

  Neckbone’s fist slams against the heavy bag so hard dust puffs from the top. He grits his teeth and rears back, sinks another right, another left-right-right into the gut of the bag. The stuffing groans and shifts, the canvas hopping with every punch. He uncorks rights and lefts and uppercuts and overhead shots directly into the nose at such a frenetic pace that within two minutes he’s out of breath, his chest heaving, but still he punches. A right to Jermaine’s chest for having no spine, an uppercut to Niall’s chin for smiling too much, a left jab-right cross to Jeff’s cheeks for running his mouth in the first place, a haymaker to the bridge of Stokes’ nose for being Stokes. A fist of bile throttles its way up Neck’s throat but left, right, left, left, right, right, rightrightrightrightright.

  “Neck!” Rollo says. “Stop screaming!”

  He heaves over, coughing and choking, spitting on the ground. He tries to press his forearms against his face to whisk away sweat or whatever is rolling into his eyes, but they’re no longer there. Two tubes of lead, one attached by twine and the other by thin wire, have replaced his arms. He tips his head up, breath rushing from his mouth, and looks at Rollo.

  “Where are you,” Rollo asks.

  Neckbone just lets air coarse from his mouth. His throat is raw. His licks his lips and tastes salt. Sweat or blood, neither more surprising than the other.

  He pushes himself upright, sucks air into his lungs, and realizes the constant murmur of the gym has fallen silent. The odd-dozen pugs stand with fists dug into hips or hung over their heads. A squeak echoes through the gym.

  Neck glances around, but the other fighters aren’t looking at him. The squeak grows louder. He turns around and clocks Beigler and his flunkie Otis striding across the gym.

  Otis wears his perpetual grey suit, Beigler in a different sweat suit from the other night, but it’s still dead obvious it costs more than half of Neck’s rent. They walk to him as if no one else is in the gym. This makes Neckbone either proud or terrified. He’s not sure which.

  “Mister Beigler.” He nods and tries to pull off his gloves, but Beigler shakes his head.

  Rollo addresses him, though he won’t look directly at the man. Neck can feel the shame and anxiety radiating off him.

  “Chris,” he says, and a murmur spreads through the gym like a high school cafeteria. “We need to talk.”

  Neck holds his gloves out and Rollo rips them off, damn near taking Neck’s hands off at the wrists. He looks around for a private place to speak, but Beigler launches into it without ceremony.

  “You have a deadly right, but it opens up your side when you overpower it.” Beigler says, holding his hands before his face, indicating Neck should do the same. “When you go for the killshot,” Beigler continues, “you’re leaving yourself open for a counter, which I don’t think you’re prepared for.”

  Neck stands there, staring like a dope, until Beigler nods, indicating Neck to telegraph the punch. As soon as Neck nears the man’s face, Beigler’s fist strikes out, smashing Neck’s kidney and sending shockwaves through his torso, down to his groin. It’s all he can do to not fall down.

  “Keep your wing in, and you’ll keep your feet under you.” Beigler claps Neck on the shoulder, which further rumbles his internal organs. “Otherwise, you’re pretty a solid pug. Wouldn’t mind having you in my gym, but Clancy’s the honorable choice, so I understand. You need a change of scenery, come talk to me.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Neck thinks his words come out normally, but can’t be sure. “I appreciate it.”

  “Unless you lose your next fight. Then it’s you and me in a closet with a lead pipe for twenty minutes. One of us will have his hands bound. I think you know who it will be.”

  Neck’s fingers turn cold. He hopes the wraps are too tight, but knows they aren’t.

  “I spoke with Bill Stokes. Interesting guy, but stupid. Death-wish, maybe, but an interesting outlook on life. Not so sure why you’re under his awning, but that’s on you. This kid,” he turns back to Otis, who whispers something in his ear, then turns back to Neck, “Henry, right?”

  “Yes. Henry. He’s a good kid.”

  “That’s what I hear. I figure you wouldn’t do something so stupid if he wasn’t. You really tried to cover his dad’s debt?”

  “He shouldn’t have to suffer because of his father’s choices. Especially with a father like his.”

  “Noble,” Beigler says. “You understand the full magnitude of the agreement?”

  “Five large, and change. Yeah, I know it.”

  Beigler cracks a smile. “Maybe last week. Guy doesn’t know when to quit. Up near eleven as of yesterday. Hell, I’m a lawyer and even I’d call those house rates criminal. But again, that’s on them.”

  Neck sticks out his chest so his shoulders won’t droop.

  “Let me get to the point. Stokes has his fingers where they shouldn’t be. Normally I’d just cut them off at the knuckles, maybe yours too for playing sides. Amazing what stories stumps can tell. But he intrigues me. So, I made him a deal.”

  “I’ll dive,” Neck says.

  Rollo coughs behind him. “Excuse me?” Beigler says.

  “If it helps Henry, I’ll dive.” Neck chews on the inside of his cheek.

  “Why would I want you to dive?”

  “He don’t ever dive,” Rollo says. “Sir. He’s that good. Honorable too.”

  “Thanks, Mike,” Beigler says to Rollo. “I now appreciate the gravity of the offer.”

  “No one will expect it, is what I’m getting at,” Neckbone says. “I just
don’t want anyone else hurt.”

  “Oh, someone’s getting hurt, Chris. We’re hosting a fight next week. You’re going to be fighting for me. You win, Stokes is gone before sun-up and you get the money Jeff’s dad owes. What you do with it is your decision.”

  Neck coughs, thinks to ask how much that is, but feels it would come off as gauche. “Is his book clear if I win?”

  “Jeff’s?” Beigler coughs out a laugh. “Hell no.”

  “So it’s not really much of a decision, then.”

  “However,” Beigler purses his lips and shrugs. “If Stokes’ guy wins, I have to keep my hands off him. Which means, I’m going to be pissed and you’re going to belong to him. That boy, Henry, is going to be working for him, and you’re going to be fighting for him ... without a paycheck if I know Stokes.”

  “That’s a pretty generous proposition,” Neck says.

  “I’m being generous by not breaking your hands yet. Mostly because I don’t like to lose bets.”

  “I understand, sir.” He doesn’t, but thinks it’s the appropriate thing to say. “I just meant Bill Stokes should be thankful.”

  “I’d had a couple drinks. I found him interesting.” Beigler shrugs. This is all fun to him, a little excitement to pass the time. “Diving won’t do anything to help you, Chris. No one expects you to win this match. Diving will just be a confirmation. It’s in your own hands.”

  Before he even asks, Neckbone knows he doesn’t want to know the answer. How could it matter. Nothing good could come of it. All he had to do was walk into the ring, keep his right covered and dismantle the other man. No one had come close to hurting Neck. He could take them all ... couldn’t he?

  Even still, Neckbone has to ask, “Who’s Stokes” fighter?”

  Beigler gives a half grin and nods behind Neck.

  Neck turns around and sees Rollo, his face pale as bone.

  ROUND TWELVE

  Neckbone puts up two fingers. The bartender looks behind him, maybe for Allison. Neck shakes his head, says, “Turkey, please.”