Fool's Eye

by Gregg Burton

  Simon gave me a long stare. Please don’t tell me he can see that he’s getting played, I thought to myself.

  He combed his hair back with his hand and looked in the direction of the street. “Why don’t we just take a cab? It’s on me, and it will be quicker.”

  I blew a silent sigh of relief. “Yes, but the train is cheaper. With this traffic, it may be quicker.”

  It was a nice breeze out that day but somehow, the mention of riding on a train caused Simon to sweat a little.

  Ace explained to me to never insult my marks and to always try to make them feel like they had control of the situation. So, I had to choose my words wisely.

  “Simon, have you ever taken the train before?”

  “Umm, no. Is it that obvious?”

  “A little. What semester are you in?”

  “I’m in my third semester. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh wow! So, you’ve been here a year and a half, and you’ve never taken the train? You don’t know what you’re missing. You have to see how cool New York public transportation is before you go back home. Two-fifty can take you anywhere you want to go and a lot faster, too.”

  “I don’t know,” said Simon. “I feel more comfortable in a…”

  I grabbed Simon by the arm before he could finish his sentence. “Well, today, you’re with me. I will make sure nothing happens to you. Okay?”

  I practically pulled him into the subway station. Yes, Ace said to make him feel like he was in control, but I think that rule was restricted to men. I think guys love it when a woman is a little bossy.

  We were soon on the F train heading downtown. Simon kept his eyes on an overweight man who was asleep and wearing something he probably had on for the last three years. The man smelled so bad that no one would come within ten feet of him. A couple feet in the opposite direction was a brother begging people to spare some change because he was homeless and hungry. Simon held my hand tight. When the train jerked a little, he clamped down on my hand like the Jaws of Life on a wrecked car. I thought my hand was going to snap. I wished he would relax. The last thing I needed was for Ace to bark at me for messing up.

  I patted our locked hands with my other hand. “Are you okay? You’re doing fine,” I whispered to him.

  “I’m okay. Just my first time, you know?”

  “Well, let’s talk. It will make the ride easier. What do you like to do for fun?”

  “Sports. I really like sports.”

  “Oh yeah? What kind?”

  “Hmmm, all kinds, especially football. I can sit and watch that all day. I’m a huge Cowboys fan. I try to make it to at least two games a year. I even made it to one here last year, when they played the Giants. That was one of the worst losses of the season. Although we only won a hand full of games last year, that loss hurt the most. ”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah, I hate the Giants. Anyway, my dad got me season tickets. Whenever I go home, I always fly to Arlington to catch a game.”

  “That’s really cool, but let me offer a piece of advice. Don’t say you hate the Giants in a public place. It could get real ugly. Me personally, I don’t care much for football. I like boxing. I really like the UFC. Seeing two men going at each other the way they do. Man, that’s exciting.”

  Simon got excited. “I like it, too. That shit’s awesome.”

  “Man, that ain’t nothing but actors on TV,” a man sitting next to Simon said. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but I overheard y’all talking about the UFC. Have y’all ever seen a real live one?”

  Simon jumped when the stranger first interrupted our conversation. After looking at the young-looking man, he calmed down.

  “No,” said Simon. “I always wanted to. And, they’re not just actors.”

  “Sure, they are. Just like the WWF is fake, so is the UFC. They’re nothing but oversized, overzealous actors.”

  Simon was clearly getting upset with the man next to him. “So you’re going to tell me Randy 'The Natural' was an actor? Are you crazy? He was the best fighter in the world.”

  The man smiled. “Think what you want. I’m telling you them boys are actors.”

  I squeezed Simon’s hand to get his attention. I whispered, as softly as I could, “Don’t talk to him.”

  He whispered back, “Why? Because he doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about? It’s cool. Just give me a minute to set him straight.”

  “Yeah, it’s cool,” said the man next to Simon.

  Simon went back to talking to the guy about the UFC, while I kept squeezing Simon’s hand to warn him away from the man. I guess Simon got sick of me, because he eventually pulled his hand away.

  The man he was talking to was a smooth talker. He was a young black man with a southern accent and a gold tooth to match it. The man had on a Dallas Cowboys fitted cap and a map of New York in his hand.

  “You’re from Texas?” Simon yelled out. “Me, too. What part are you from? I’m from River Oak. That’s in the center of Houston.”

  “Oh yeah? I’m from Waco.”

  “Aw hell, brother, you’re not talking about where that David Koresh dude burned all those people alive, are you? ‘We ain’t coming out!’ I know that’s mean, but my daddy always says that every time he meets a fellow from Waco.”

  All the proper left Simon’s voice when he started talking to a Texan.

  “Please, can we not talk about that? It’s a touchy subject. Besides, that was on the outside of Waco. ”

  “No problem. It just feels good talking to a real Texan, even if you are from Waco. Linda,” Simon turned to me. “He’s from Texas. Well, Waco, Texas, but it’s still Texas. Old Wacko, Texas. What brings you up here anyway?”

  “I’m here visiting my sister. She’s a designer. She likes to bring me up so I can go back home and brag on how good she’s doing here by herself. Family! I tell you what! They ain’t happy unless somebody else envy’s them. Anyways, enough of that. Like I was telling you, every time I come up here I go to these private fights, and I can get us in. The fight should start around two o’clock. If you want to go, I got you.”

  I tried one last time. “Simon, we’re supposed to be meeting Quincy, remember? And, our stop is coming up next.”

  “Look, didn’t you say his system has a virus? Let’s just go check out this thing with… I’m sorry, buddy. I didn’t get your name.”

  “It’s Martin. Martin Lawrence.”

  “Martin Lawrence like the actor?”

  “Yep. Spelled the same way and all, but no relation.”

  “Well, Martin Lawrence, I’m Simon Newman the Third, and this is my friend Linda. It is very nice to meet you.”

  Malik’s a damn fool. He knows he should have come up with a better name than that.

  I almost started laughing when he said his character’s name. I probably would have messed up everything.

  Chapter 8

  Malik talked us into getting off on West 4th Street, an area I had never been before and never cared to go. I vaguely listened to those two as they yapped about the Cowboys. About how the season would have been better if Romo wouldn’t have gotten hurt. Or, how after he did get hurt, if the team would have replaced him with a more qualified quarterback, a lot of those close games could have been won.

  I politely interrupted. “Um, excuse me, but where are we going?”

  Malik answered, “The meatpacking district. It’s not far from here. Don’t worry your pretty little head off.”

  Malik smiled with that gold tooth of his on full display. He sold the part well. If I didn’t know it was a con, I would have believed he was who he said he was. He looked and sounded like somebody from Texas, from his walk to the way he pronounced his words. That damn ‘y’all’ was killing me.

  We walked on cobblestone streets for a good ten minutes before stopping in front of a rundown warehouse. Malik rang the bell by the side door. A huge, bald-headed, black man with scars that ran across his face came to the door. He wa
s wearing black slacks and a skintight muscle shirt that showed every ripple of his overly built body. The black Ray Ban shades he wore topped off his intimidating look. He looked like the kind of man that you didn’t want to get caught alone with in a dark alley or someone you'd double-cross on a deal.

  His deep, husky voice, commanded more intimidation. His 6’6” frame looked down at us. “Password,” he requested.

  “Yellow Kid,” Malik replied.

  The scary-looking doorman moved to the side and said, “Welcome.”

  As we entered the warehouse, I kept a watchful eye on the big fellow as he sat down on a stool and picked up a book he was reading. It was a Jumata Emill Jones novel titled Never Dead.

  The inside of the warehouse was musty. The air was stale and it made me nauseous. Above us was a crack in the ceiling that had a steady leak, causing a puddle on the floor that we had to hop over. The place was freaking me out. Only every other light worked. It felt like I was walking in and out of hell.

  A rat that was as big as a cat ran in front of us and down into a drain on the corner of the concrete floor, causing me to jump a little. I put my hand over my mouth to stop myself from screaming.

  “What the hell is this place?” I asked Malik.

  He smirked. “What’s wrong? Are you scared?”

  “Hell yeah, I’m scared. And, don’t act like you’re not. I saw you jump when that damn rat ran by. Where the hell did you bring us? Simon, I think we should leave. I don’t have a good feeling about this place.”

  Simon took my hand, squeezed it a little, and put his mouth close to my ear. “Look, I’m a little nervous, too, but don’t you want see the fight? Besides, I don’t think anything is going to happen to us. If anybody tries anything, I have protection. ”

  Simon eased a small switchblade out of his pocket.

  I just shook my head at him. “And what if they have a gun?” I whispered.

  “Linda, stop worrying. We’ll be fine. Right, Martin?” he said louder for Malik to hear.

  “Of course, we will. I attend one of these events every time I come to New York. Watch, ya’ll are going to love it.”

  As we walked down our pathway to hell I began to hear a faint noise. Malik and Simon must have heard it as well, because they got a wild barbaric look on their faces.

  We passed by an old meat locker that reeked so bad, I had to pinch my nose to be able to stand the smell. I would have liked for us to be able to sneak in unheard, but the click-clack noise of Simon’s penny loafers made it impossible for a quiet entrance.

  The closer we got to the noise, the happier the boys seemed to get. I, on the other hand, was ready to shit myself. I knew all this was part of the game, but I’ve never been a fan of creepy places.

  Malik sounded like a six-year-old as he grabbed Simon’s shoulder and shook it uncontrollably. “Oh man, this is it!”

  Feeling the energy that Malik was putting out, Simon cheesed from ear to ear. Nothing I could have said at that point was going to stop him from seeing a live underground fight.

  We came to a stop at the end of the hall under the brightest light in the hallway and faced the only thing that looked less than ten years old––some shiny steel double doors. There was a lot of noise coming from the other side of those doors. The house music was vibrating against the steel so furiously that it caused small bursts of air to push through to our side from beneath the door. When I reached out to touch the door, my hand started vibrating. I pulled back my hand like the door had an electric current running through it.

  Malik asked, “You guys ready for this?”

  Simon and I spoke at the same time.

  I said, “No.”

  Simon said, “Yes.”

  Malik opened one side of the double door.

  The smell from inside the room almost knocked me to the floor. It was mixture of sweat, musk, tobacco, alcohol, and God only knows what else. The smells came at me so hard that I almost fainted. Simon held me as I took a step back.

  “Oh my God!” I yelled. “I think I’m about to throw up.”

  “Take a deep breath,” Simon said. “Give it a second. It will pass.”

  Ignoring my reaction to the scent of the place, Malik placed his arm over Simon’s shoulders “Man, look at this place.”

  The area was truly a sight to see. Men and women were standing around a fenced cage, yelling over each other to talk about the upcoming fight. There were girls dressed in hot pink and fitted shirts walking around selling concessions, from alcohol to tobacco products to the awaiting spectators.

  Although Simon was dressed preppy, he didn’t look out of place. As a matter of fact, no one did. There were guys in dressed in suits, and women in business attire. There were men who looked like they just came from the gym, and women who looked like they were about to go to the club.

  We moved through the crowd, following Malik as he led us to a better spot away from the door. When we got to the section, Malik happily called over one of the servers.

  “Hey love, can you get me a Sprite? Guys, do you want anything? It’s on me.”

  “A bottle of water, please,” I yelled over the noise.

  Simon asked Malik, “Do they have anything stronger than water and sodawater?”

  The bronze-skinned waitress yelled over the crowd in a Spanish accent, “Honey, I can get you whatever you like.”

  The way she said it convinced me that she truly meant whatever.

  “In that case, I’ll take a gin and tonic,” Simon responded. “Martin, put your money away. I got this. You just don’t know. You’ve made my day.”

  Malik put his money back into his pocket, while Simon asked the waitress, “How much will that be?”

  “Fourteen dollars,” she replied. “Three dollars apiece for the soft drink and water. Eight dollars for the mixed drink.”

  Simon was about to hand her the money, when I asked, “Isn’t three dollars an awful lot for a bottle of water?”

  “Yes, honey, it is. But, people don’t come here for the water.”

  “It’s okay. I know how this works,” Simon said to the both of us. He then handed the waitress a twenty-dollar bill and told her to keep the change.

  I expressed my disbelief again to Simon and Malik. “That’s highway robbery. I would have never paid that much for a damn bottle of water.”

  Simon cut me off. “You didn’t. I did. Now, relax and let’s see who’s fighting.”

  “I’ll be right back,” Malik said, rushing off.

  At this point, I really needed to sell my dislike of the place to Simon. He had to believe it was the last place I wanted to be.

  I tightened my face. “Where in hell is he going?” I barked.

  “No clue. Are you going to be okay? You seem real tense.”

  “I just don’t like it here. Everything about this place creeps me out. I’ll be glad when it’s over and I can take you to see Quincy.”

  “It will be over before you know it. Think about it like this: we’re giving your friend more time to fix his computer. So, relax, okay?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  I looked around the room and noticed two men seated a level above us. They were the only men sitting in the entire place.

  I tapped Simon on the shoulder. “Hey, who do you think that is?”

  “I don’t know. They look important.”

  The gentleman sitting on the left wore a white two-piece suit, white shirt, and a white tie. His hair was as white as his clothes, and he had a white goatee. He was a slender man, who sat up straight. The man looked like he called the shots. I bet when he spoke everyone listened.

  The man to his right looked as equally as powerful, but younger and dressed completely opposite than the older man. He had jet-black hair and was wearing a solid black suit, tie, and shirt. He had a full beard trimmed to perfection. The way he looked over the crowd gave me the impression that he thought he was better than us. It was like he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth and was still
sucking on the damn thing. He was the kind of man you didn’t like at first sight. One you had to meet in order to understand your true feelings against him.

  When the waitress returned with our drinks, Simon asked her, “Who are those gentlemen up there?”

  She looked to where Simon was pointing, “They’re the owners. On the left, that’s Mr. Leblac, and on the right is Mr. Daniels.”

  “Oh,” said Simon. “So they own this building?”

  “Well,” said the waitress. “Mr. Leblac owns the building, but they both own the fighters.”