* * *
I wake up on the brown leather couch in Uncle Gus’s casino office. “Turn off the lights. They hurt my eyes,” I try to say but the words come out garbled and fuzzy.
“Just checking you out sister. Relax.” It’s a soft woman’s voice but it echoes and hurts my head. The brightness goes away and I figure out it was from the pen light she was shining in my eyes. I try to sit up but my head feels like it’s about to explode and I feel myself gently pushed back down. “Take it easy, Layla. You conked your noggin good on that rock.” I can now see that the voice is coming from Carla Littlestick, the casino’s resident nurse.
“You need to take her to the hospital. I don’t know if she has a concussion but I suspect she may have a broken fibula. They’ll find out with an x-ray.” I force myself to sit up despite my throbbing head and see that she’s talking to Gus. My brother Jack and his boss, Willie White, the head of casino security, are also in the room.
“Did you get them? I think I winged Obama. Donald Duck was hiding behind the GMC. I didn’t get a shot at him. ”
“I don’t know about a concussion, but she’s talking crazy—whacko in the head,” says Jack.
“Sensitive as always. Shut the hell up Jack,” says Willie. “Can you tell us what happened Layla?”
“Get me some water and something for the pain first.” I can now feel my left ankle throbbing in addition to my head.
“Can do the water but no meds until you’re checked out at the hospital,” says Carla.
Before Gus drives me to the hospital, I tell them the story and Willie asks me the normal cop questions. “Did I recognize them—did I get a license number for the truck—can I think of anyone who is out to get me?” My negative answers don’t make him happy.
“I’ll file a report with the Reservation police. You have to stop by the Buck Brush town cops and do the same after you leave the emergency room,” he says.
“What happened? How did I get here?”
“We heard the shots and sent a security agent out to check. It turned out to be your brother. He was on duty,” says Willie.
“By the time I got there they were long gone. All that was left was some brass from the 30-06, tire tracks, and you laying in two inches of water in a ditch. Good thing you were on your back and don’t drink. Otherwise the reservation would have a new celebrity—a female Ira Hayes,” says Jack.
“Ira Hayes?” Willie looks puzzled.
“Ballad of Ira Hayes. One of my favorite country western songs. About an alcoholic Pima Indian who raised the flag in Iwa Jima and died drunk in a water ditch in Arizona. I was humming it when I drove you back,” says Jack.
“Get the hell out of here,” says Gus, helping me limp out the door.
* * *
Buck Brush Falls has a small hospital and Doctor Mason isn’t around because he would have spotted us and I don’t know if I could stay under control. The emergency room doctor is young, blonde, with perfect teeth. She’s irritatingly cheerful. She doesn’t look any older than me and there is a side of Gus that may cause him to ask to see her license to practice medicine but he stays calm, displaying his external lawyer persona. I’m always amazed at how fast he can switch.
“I’ve got good news and a bit of bad news,” she says, bouncing in the treatment room wearing a toothy smile and holding an x-ray.
“You look like a good news lady, let’s start there,” I try to mimic her smile but it doesn’t work.
“Okay. You don’t have a broken fibula, just a sprained ankle. You’ll have to wear a boot for a week and stay off it as much as possible. The bad news, and it isn’t really all that bad, is that I think you have a slight concussion. You’ll have to stay awake the rest of the day, not make any legal decisions, drive or operate any heavy equipment for a couple of days.”
“Damn, no heavy equipment or legal stuff. You think I can live through two days like that, Uncle Gus?”
“She’s a little rattled after what happened. We appreciate your help. I’ll look after her the rest of the day. Thanks a lot,” says Gus in his best conciliatory legal tone.
They fit me with a boot, give me crutches, and I hobble out to the lobby. I ask to see Roxy, but the receptionist tells me she’s been moved to a private rehabilitation hospital in Duluth. It’s a win/win outcome. I don’t know if I could hold it together visiting and she wouldn’t know if I was there anyway.
We stop by the local police station. A fat middle aged cop with dirty fingernails and a greying crew cut takes the report. He’s like most local cops—not reservation friendly. He looks at my mud stained t-shirt and Gus’s faded jeans and work shirt and half-heartedly goes through the motions. Gus asks for his badge number, the name of his supervisor, and the phone number of the city attorney just to piss him off. In some ways, Gus isn’t all that different than me.
“How could Roxy afford a private hospital?” I ask while we’re driving back.
“Special Ojibwe contingency fund.”
“There’s no fund. You mean your own pocket.”
“That’s one hypothesis.” He tightens his jaw and stares straight ahead. Subject closed—Gus is a complex man with many surprises.
* * *
I spend the rest of the day in Gus’s office. He wants to make sure I stay awake. He makes a lot of calls, goes to a lot of meetings, and shuffles a lot of paper. I try to figure out why anyone would want to attack me, try to kill me. Late in the afternoon, we have a chat.
“Any idea who they were?” asks Gus.
“Not a clue. Could they be gamblers who lost on the Roxy fight?”
“No, I don’t think that was their motivation.”
Something about the way he answers makes me suspicions. “You know more than you’re letting on.”
“Got some hunches. No sense exploring them until we know more.” Again, the tight lips and the stare. Subject closed. No prodding will get more.
“You still need money for that spring break service trip to the girl’s school in Nigeria?” He says it as a question but it’s really a statement—another one of his lawyer tricks.
“You know the answer.”
“You still want to pay for it yourself, refuse to let me give you the money?”
“You know that answer, too. It would lose all meaning if I didn’t pay for it myself.”
“I hear what you’re saying. I don’t understand it but I’ll honor it. You’re running out of time. The only way to get the money is to fight again in two weeks.” He looks at my boot and the crutches against the wall. “Think you can really do that?”
“Boot will come off before the fight. I’ll do it with one leg if I have to.”
“Think you’ve got the balls to hit someone after what you did to Roxy?”
“I don’t . . . I don’t . . . know, Gus. I’ve got to try.” I feel the tears, turn away, and mask them with a flip comment. “I’m a girl, Gus. I know you’re getting old but you should remember we don’t have balls.”
“They’re bringing in Cathy Petrowski from Chicago. Expecting a big crowd, big betting pool. Word is you won’t be willing to hurt her. She’s a lefty and tough. She’d be a favorite even without happened with Roxy.”
“Well, uncle, we’ll just have to see if the little Squaw Girl can raise to the occasion.”
“You’ll need to lay low, be extremely wary until we get to the bottom of that attack. I’ve told Willie to assign security guys around your trailer. The local cops are useless and the reservation force only has four officers. Stay out of town and don’t go to school for the next two weeks. Keep your little .38 with you. Probably a good idea to keep the 30-30 close by too. I know you can hit what you aim at with that.”
Jack drives me back to Desperation Hollow and drops me at my trailer and I hobble in. Something blocks me from crying in public but I’m alone and go on for what seems an hour. Someone is trying to kill me. I’ve got a sprained ankle, a concussion and need to train to fight Cathy Petrowski. I don’t know if I coul
d beat her even if my mind and body were in prime condition. I’ve got to stay away from Andy. I’ve alienated Levi and made a fool of myself in front of Mia and the East Side crowd. Outside of all that, life is good.
Chapter 6
No one has attacked me. I’ve endured two weeks of self-imposed solitary confinement, and I’m back in the ring again. It’s a strange way to celebrate my twenty-first birthday—getting the crap beat out of me in front of a very different Levi, and Mia, his surprising new companion.
It’s the seventh round and I’m trapped in the corner. Cathy is ruthless. She’s a seasoned professional with a national reputation. They must have given her a big guarantee to entice her to Buck Brush Falls Casino. Her ring name is Cathy the Crusher and she’s living up to it. I can’t find the will to fight back. Two rights sting my ribs then a left grazes my forehead. I tuck my right under my chin and try to stay on my feet. Gotta hold on—need to get out of Desperation Hollow, away from the reservation—get accepted—winning’s the price I have to pay to get what I want. I shake my head, gulp a lungful of hot sticky air, taste sweat and blood from the cut on my lip and feel the numbness from the not-yet-healed sprain in my left foot.
I squint through the smoke and my swollen eyes find Levi. He looks disgusted and his voice pierces the wet air. “Come on Squaw Girl do something—give her the right—you’re not much of a lover—not much of a fighter either.” His depreciative, Squaw Girl, hits me with an impact worse than anything Cathy can deliver and the memory of what he considers love makes me sicker than the spasms in my gut.
“Cover up damn it. Clinch.” Uncle Gus screams. I take his advice and cower against the ropes and survive the round.
In the corner, my gloves feel like they’re filled with cement. My hands droop down while Gus works on the cut. Across the ring I see Mia give me a condescending sneer. “Go to hell, Indian,” she screams.”
“You can go to hell and take him with you if you’re into weird sex and pain,” I croak. The only one who hears me is Gus.
My legs cramp on the stool so I get on my feet, put my hands on the ropes, and stretch. I spot Andy standing in the shadows by the far door. I can’t believe he’s here. He hates boxing and has never been to the casino. I watch him look at Levi, then me, shudder, hug himself, and walk out. Don’t go Andy, I found you again and I’m letting you get away. “Come back.” I try to shout but all that comes out is a rasp.
Gus pulls me back down. “Ignore those college snobs. Either fight or I’ll throw in the towel. Gotta hit—can’t keep running.” His voice is flat, without the usual energy. I turn, he avoids my eyes, and I know I’m not the only one thinking of that awful night two weeks ago.
The eighth round starts and the crowd is out for blood. “Get her. Give the Squaw what she gave Roxy,” Mia’s voice cuts through the noise.
I look up and see that Cathy is ready to do just that. But something happens—a switch gets turned inside my head—the same switch that’s been in there since I was a kid—I can’t control it—just kicks in. I suddenly want to fight—burn to fight! I want to crush the crusher. I don’t care what happens next. I need to attack.
I wait until she leads with her right, then hook back, hard to her jaw. She doesn’t expect it and staggers. I give her two quick lefts and follow with a right. I put all I have into it and she crumbles. I know she won’t get up.
The referee counts her out. The switch flips back as fast as it came on and I run to her.
“I’m going to live.” Her eyes are clear and her voice is steady. “You got me good. I’ll get you back in the re-match. We can make big money if we do it in Chicago.”
“There’s not going to be a re-match. Not with you, not in Chicago. Not with anyone. I’m done.”
I help her to her feet and look over to the second row. Mia and Levi are gone. I try to flip the bird to the empty seats anyway but remember my fingers are trapped inside the boxing gloves. Gus lowers my arm and steers me to the dressing room. He cuts the tape away from my hands, puts antiseptic on my cuts, and works on the swelling beneath my right eye.
“Gus, did you see me in there?”
“You finally used your right.”
No, that’s not it. I liked it. I wanted to beat her to a pulp. If the ref hadn’t been around, I’d have pulled her up and kept hitting.”
Gus sighs, gives me a long look, and pulls a pile of bills out of his gym bag. “You made a lot of money tonight.”
“I asked you to bet on Cathy. I wasn’t going to win—didn’t want to fight until the switch came on.”
“That’s what everyone thought—very big odds against you.”
He hands me the cash. It is a little more than six thousand dollars. “This ought to cover that trip to Africa. Use the rest to help your mom and keep a few bucks for your birthday.”
“How’d you know I’d try, actually fight?”
“Let’s just say I know more about you than you know about yourself. Don’t you see, it’s the only way you could be free. You had to win to walk away with your head held high.”
“But the anger, the need to hurt.”
“I’ve been training you since you were fourteen. I didn’t do it so you’d win fights. I did it to give you an outlet for our family curse until you could learn to control it.”
“Curse?”
“The Black Bear clan has a bad seed—a destructive, angry, aggressive one. It sent your dad to prison, your brother’s struggling to keep it under wraps, and it came close to killing me. Boxing’s the only so called sport where the only objective is to beat your opponent into submission. Not pretty, but it kept you out of trouble. You’re twenty-one—time to walk away from it.”
“So, am I cured?”
“Half the battle is knowing it’s there. You’ll either conquer it or it will sink you. You’re the smartest kid this screwed up family has ever produced. I hope you don’t blow it.”
I walk out the back door of the basement ring for the last time. I feel the cold drizzle hit me as I cross the parking lot. It’s refreshing after the heat and smoke of the arena. The further away I get, the better I feel. I’ve got a pile of money in my pocket, enough to cover the Nigerian trip and then some. I’m walking away from Levi’s hurt and anger. Mia’s hostility has less impact than a Minnesota mosquito bite. Whoever is trying to kill me is welcome to try—bring it on—me and my little Smith & Wesson are waiting.
My good mood doesn’t last long. It’s blown away when I get to Jack’s creaky Jeep Cherokee. “Happy birthday Squaw Girl” is spray painted on the rusting door panel. Hanging from the rearview mirror by a wire around her throat is a dead cat. It’s my mom’s pet, Puffy.
Chapter 7
The speedometer doesn’t work so I don’t know how fast I’m going but it’s all I can handle on the uphill climb over the rutted dirt road. I haven’t unhooked Puffy so her body bounces and slides when I hit the bumps and skid around the curves.
From the top of the ridge that separates the reservation from the swampy lowland that locals call Desperation Hollow, the rundown trailers look like a scattering of rotten woodchips randomly thrown behind one of Rolf Olson’s saw mills. The jeep’s worn out. The shocks are useless and my ass spends as much time in the air as on the seat as I tear down the hill. I see the wide-open door of my mom’s double wide and skid to a stop.
I take the steps in one jump. The lights are off and I can’t see.
“Mom, you there?”
No answer. I find the light switch and see her wheelchair facing the wall. She’s making sucking noises. With her smashed in face, that’s her way of crying.
“You okay?” I turn her around, and realize that’s a dumb question. Of course she’s not. Puffy was her constant companion and never went outside. Someone broke in and killed her.
She can only talk out of half her mouth with a reedy voice, but she’s trained herself to be clear. “They . . . they . . . killed Puffy. . . Threw her against the wall, then the big guy smashed her head
with his boot . . . there.” She points to a blood stain on the floor.
“Who?”
More sucking noises.
I wait, take calming breaths and use the time to text Jack. I tell him to get his ass home fast. Then, I try again. “Who did it? What did they want?”
“They had ski masks. Wore black hoodies. One was big and clumsy the other was small—I think it was a girl. Don’t know who they were . . .”
The sucking sounds are fewer, less intense and I wait them out again. “Why?” I ask.
“They waited for Jack to leave. Kicked in the door. The big one said they had a birthday present for you.” She points to a box with a red ribbon on the table.
“That’s it, that’s why they broke in?”
“There was more to it. The big one wheeled me in the corner—stayed close—little one went through the kitchen drawers, went in the bedrooms. I couldn’t see much but I think she took something out.”
“And, Puffy?”
“She got tangled up in the big guy’s feet and he kicked her. She arched her back and hissed. He got mad. Picked her up and threw her against the wall, then stomped on her.” The sucking starts again.
I bend down and straighten her grey hair. She wears it long to cover the right side of her face, where it’s caved in and half her mouth is paralyzed from when my dad clubbed her.
I’m holding her in a lose hug when Jack runs in. Laura trails him carrying their two year old daughter Jenny. He looks at mom, looks me, and then sees the blood on the floor. “What the hell?”
“Someone broke in. Killed the cat. They might have taken some stuff.”
Jack throws a kitchen chair across the room, “Who, damn it, who was it?”
Laura knows how Jack gets when his temper’s up and escapes with Jenny to the bedroom. He’s eighteen months older than me, tough as nails, and cursed with dad’s horrible temper. He got worse when dad went to prison and he tried to take care of us before Uncle Gus came.
I put both hands on his shoulders and squeeze hard. “Calm down, let’s figure this out.”
Squaw Girl: A Boxer's Battle for Love Page 3