Mojo

by Tim Tharp

  And sure enough, out of the hallway danced the very same Huy I’d met at the Vietnamese pool hall. That’s why I’d seen him and his buddy Tommy walking into Gangland the first time I went there—Nash probably won so much money off them at pool they had to enter the rumble just to pay it back. But Tommy must have lost somewhere along the line because he was nowhere to be seen this time.

  The two fighters settled into different sides of the ring while Rowan explained the rules: there would be one nonstop fifteen-minute round; fighters could use hands, feet, knees, elbows, and anything else on their bodies but no weapons; and barring a knockout, the winner would be chosen by the members of Gangland, which was pretty much the whole audience, except for me.

  “Now, boys,” Rowan continued, “come to the center of the ring and shake hands.” They did it, and Rowan asked if they were ready. They nodded and stripped off their shirts. For little guys, they both had some pretty serious muscle definition. On Rowan’s signal, the audience started the backward countdown from ten. At zero, the fight was on.

  Since Huy was Asian, I figured he’d come out with some flying karate kicks, but that didn’t happen. Instead, both guys circled each other, looking for an opening to throw a punch. Markelle launched the first fist, but Huy dodged it easily. Speed was the key to his fighting style. Every time Markelle threw a punch, Huy practically seemed to vanish, then reappear on one side or the other and pepper Markelle with sharp blows to the cheek. Markelle had a hard head, though, and never got hurt so much as frustrated with Huy’s elusiveness. The crowd booed. Apparently, they wanted to see more damage.

  Finally, Markelle got tired of missing punches and tried to wrestle Huy down. Mistake. Huy dodged him again and Markelle crashed to the floor. Huy jumped on his back and jacked a few punches into the back of his head. I thought it was probably time to stop the fight, but the crowd had a different opinion. They cheered.

  But Markelle wasn’t done. He bucked Huy off, and they continued the match on their knees, punching and slapping and spitting. It was ridiculous. At this point, even I had to laugh. The crowd yelled, “Get up! Get up! Fight like men!” but it was too late. Rowan blew the whistle to end the rumble.

  Since nobody got knocked out, Rowan called for a vote from the audience while both fighters stood there sweating and huffing for breath. It wasn’t even close—Huy won again.

  “Perfect,” said Nash. “Let’s go roll your money over on the next fight.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that. I figured I should quit while I was ahead, but he argued that it would be bad manners to cash in early. That was a manners rule I’d never heard, but like I say, I never was much of a gambler, so I went along to put down my bet.

  “Dylan’s going to double down on my man,” Nash told Tres, and Tres goes, “That’s what I’m talking about.”

  But I’m like, “Double down? I don’t have any money to double down with.”

  “That’s all right,” Nash said. “Trust me. I haven’t steered you wrong yet.”

  “Well, okay,” I said. “But this is my last bet.”

  Rowan announced the next two fighters as Dancin’ Dan and Robo-Troy. I’m like, Dancin’ Dan? Maybe I should introduce him to Rockin’ Rhonda. He was too young for her, though—a white dude with long stringy brown hair—while Robo-Troy was black and sported an Afro that could have housed several weapons if they’d been allowed. Both fighters were several inches taller than the last two but just as wiry. Stripped of their shirts, they looked like they could inflict some serious damage.

  Like Markelle and Huy, they circled each other at first, but Robo-Troy was pretty quick to jump in and show how he got his nickname—his machine-like arms pumped quick, sharp punches past Dan’s defenses, landing with loud thumps and drawing red splotches on Dan’s face and shoulders.

  On the other hand, Dan imagined he knew karate, but all his spinning kicks and roundhouses came off like magic tricks that didn’t work. He was definitely no Walker, Texas Ranger. And his head didn’t have the cinder-block quality of Markelle’s. After ten minutes, blood flowed from his lips and nose. My stomach didn’t feel so good. It must have been the combination of the blood, the champagne, and a bet that looked more and more lost with every blow.

  Finally, Dan tried one too many flying kicks and ended up on his back with Robo-Troy on his chest cranking one robo-punch after another into what was left of his face. The crowd cheered. Not a single person showed pity on Dan. Robo-Troy had to do that himself. Before the finishing whistle blew, he stood, looked at Dan for a second, then stared into the crowd, disgusted. “I hope you got your money’s worth,” he said.

  Dancin’ Dan tried to get up but couldn’t quite make it until Robo-Troy and Rowan helped him. His bloody face had the look of melted wax, his features smeared all over the place. “Woooo-hoooo!” he hollered. “Dancin’ Dan is a bad, bad man. He stings like a butterfly—” He paused to spit a gob of blood on the floor. “And floats like a bee.”

  As Rowan and Robo-Troy helped him to the dressing room, I turned to Nash and go, “Someone needs to get that dude to a hospital.”

  “He’ll be all right,” Nash assured me. “Guys like that, you can’t really hurt them.”

  “What do you mean?” I said. “Guys like what?”

  “You know—the Dancin’ Dans of the world.” He shook his head. “It is too bad he lost, though. I could’ve sworn he’d be the one to finally beat Robo-Troy. But I guess you can’t win all your bets, can you, Dylan?”

  “Are you kidding me?” I said. “Robo-Troy’s never been defeated, and you told me to double down on the other guy?”

  Nash shrugged. “I thought he was a sure thing. But that’s okay. I’m sure you’ll be able to pay me back.”

  “Pay you back? I’ve got like seventeen dollars.”

  “Well, you’re going to have to pay it back somehow. I mean, that’s just the honorable thing to do, and I know you’re an honorable guy. That’s why I let you in on the after-ten-o’clock action.”

  “But you told me who to bet for. I wouldn’t have bet on anything if it was just me.”

  “Wait a minute now. I didn’t make you bet. I just advised you. If you didn’t want to, you should’ve just said so. But now you owe me.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Really? But it’s fair that I’m out all that money? I don’t see it that way.”

  I looked toward the door, thinking maybe I should make a run for it, but I knew I’d never get there. “How about this? Maybe I could pay you back a little at a time like a loan at a bank.”

  “But the thing is, I’m not a bank. I need to get paid back tonight.”

  “I told you I don’t have that kind of money on me.”

  “Right. But there’s something else you can do.” He cocked an eyebrow and smiled. “There’s one more fight tonight, the heavyweight bout, and let’s face it, you’re pretty much a heavyweight.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I said, but I could see he wasn’t joking.

  “Look, the problem is, I don’t have a heavyweight tonight, and I can’t afford to forfeit. The competition is too close. So I figure you owe me this favor.”

  “But I can’t fight anybody. I’ve never been in a fight.” This was true. I’d never had any interest in fighting. Part of why I quit football in middle school was because I didn’t like to hit people—that and all the exercising.

  But Nash’s like, “What do you mean? You got in a fight with that guy with the switchblade, and you came out of that all right.”

  Okay, maybe when I told Nash about Sideburns and his switchblade, I exaggerated my role in chasing him off, but that was no reason to get my butt pummeled tonight. So I’m like, “That was different. I didn’t have a choice that night.”

  Nash’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t see that you have a choice tonight—except to pay me my money or do me this favor. Besides, it’s only for fifteen minutes. What can happen in fifteen minutes?”

  “What can happen in fifteen minu
tes? Did you just see Dancin’ Dan’s face?”

  Nash smiled as if recalling a fond memory. “Okay, I’ll make this deal with you. If things start getting out of control, I’ll stop the fight. How about that?”

  I glanced around the room. “Can I see who I’m supposed to fight first?”

  “Sorry, that’s against the rules. But think of it this way—all these pretty girls around here are going to see you standing up like a man. Even if you don’t win, can you imagine how much sympathy you’re going to get? You’ll be a bigger part of Gangland than ever. Hey, Aisling Collins, I guarantee, is going to love you for it.”

  Aisling was standing next to the betting table. She caught me looking at her and smiled.

  “I don’t guess there’s any way out of it,” I said.

  “That’s my boy,” Nash said. “I knew you’d come through.”

  CHAPTER 36

  When Rowan returned from stowing Dancin’ Dan in the dressing room, an oblong smear of blood decorated the front of his yellow blazer. Taking his place in the center of the warehouse, he pawed at the stain nervously like he was afraid it would crawl up and attack his jugular. The crowd gathered back into a ring, and he started his spiel, though his confidence seemed shaken by the disaster of Dancin’ Dan’s face.

  “I’m glad to report that Dancin’ Dan is fine,” he offered. “We cleaned him up and gave him a six-pack of beer, so he’s in good spirits.”

  The audience responded with the sort of lame applause you hear at golf tournaments.

  “And now for what you’ve all been waiting for—the heavyweight match.” Rowan pulled his note cards from his blazer pocket. “First, we have the big, the bruising, the large-and-in-charge man-beast from the Lower East—Nitro the Annihilator!”

  At that, Nash shoved me forward into the ring. Rowan’s eyes inflated with genuine surprise. “Wait, Nash, you can’t be serious. This is your heavyweight?”

  “The one and the only,” said Nash happily.

  “And you’re okay with this?” Rowan asked me.

  Of course, I wasn’t okay with it. Far from it. If Rowan was worried about me fighting, I figured I should be about ten times more worried. And on top of that, I realized Nash had been setting me up all along. The note card with my name on it was the giveaway. Obviously, he gave the card to Rowan earlier in the evening—before I lost any money on bets. But what could I do? Whine about the unfairness of the situation? Everyone was staring at me, including a heavy dose of perfect girls. Quitting football had been easy. All I had to do was not show up for practice. But quitting this was impossible.

  I nodded. “Let’s get it over with.”

  The crowd cheered.

  For a second, Rowan looked like he wanted to throw down his note cards and resign his membership in Gangland. But he didn’t. Fumbling with the next card, he started the introduction. “Second up in the heavyweight bout, we have the dapper scrapper of the South Side, El Tigre Grande, El Matador, El Conquistador—Beto Hernandez!”

  No, I told myself. It can’t be. It can’t be the same guy. But it was. Out of the dark corridor strode Hector Maldonado’s cousin. The audience booed, and he lifted his black fedora and waved it at them. The image of Robo-Troy on top of Dancin’ Dan flashed into my head. This wasn’t going to be good.

  Then Beto did something strange. He smiled at me and winked.

  Nash led me to my side of the ring, and Rowan brought my boxing gloves. Rowan’s like, “I don’t know what you’re up to, Nash, but this isn’t funny. Bad karaoke is one thing, but this is out of hand.”

  “Hey,” Nash said. “You’re not giving my boy, Dylan, enough credit. He’s a hero.” Then he turned to me and told me to take my shirt off.

  Of course, I’m like, “No way.” Taking my shirt off in public was pretty much at the top of my things-to-never-do list. I mean, I always cringed when I had to do it in gym class, and that was with just a bunch of sweaty guys around.

  Nash wouldn’t take no for an answer, though. It was part of the rules—you had to take your shirt off before they put the gloves on you. If I didn’t take my shirt off, then both of us would have to fight bare-knuckle style, he said. I glanced at Beto. Suddenly, getting hit in the face with one of his naked fists knocked my anti-shirtless policy down to second place on the list of things to never do.

  So I peeled off the Notorious B.I.G. T-shirt, and Nash and Rowan stuffed my hands into the boxing gloves. Nash took my glasses for safekeeping. Then they moved away and left me standing there in the harsh light with not even a hint of a tan and my belly sagging over the waist of my jeans. Somebody yelled, “Look at that sexy, sexy jelly belly!” And the laughter that followed didn’t exactly bolster my confidence.

  Rowan went over the rules again, and the whole time Beto stared at me. He seemed to be trying to communicate something through his eyes, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. Then came the countdown, and at zero he stalked into the middle of the ring. I wasn’t so eager to go there, but Nash gave me a shove to get me started. Keeping a wide distance between me and Beto, I circled to the right the way I saw the other fighters do, and he did the same.

  The crowd booed. “Quit stalling!” somebody yelled, and Beto moved in closer.

  His first punch came at me almost in slow motion, but I still wasn’t able to block it. His aim wasn’t good, though, and his fist whooshed by my face, catching nothing but air. The same thing happened with the next two jabs, and I started to wonder if maybe he was missing on purpose.

  “Come on, Nitro!” This time I recognized Brett’s voice. “Show him what you can do!”

  I had absolutely no idea what I could do, but I figured I ought to try something, so the next time Beto lunged at me, I took a wild swing. He blocked it easily and countered with a smack to my chest. It stung but not that bad. It reminded me of my short football career. Sure, I didn’t like hitting people, but getting hit never hurt that much. Maybe I have tough skin, I thought. Maybe I can actually get through this fight okay.

  Then Beto faked a high punch, and when I threw up my arms, he ducked and tackled me to the floor. My head hit pretty hard, and I was so stunned I couldn’t keep him from wrestling me over onto my stomach and grinding my face into the concrete.

  Expecting punches to start slamming into the back of my head, I gritted my teeth, but the punches didn’t come. Instead, Beto pressed his mouth close to my ear and goes, “Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you. When I let you up, I’m going to cock back my right arm so you can see the punch coming, but I’ll pull up short. You just act like I hit you and go down and don’t get up. You got that?”

  I nodded as much as I could considering the circumstances.

  “Okay, I’m going to hit the floor next to your head two times, and then you act like you’re throwing me off.”

  His fist pounded the floor next to my nose, and I lurched upward. He pretended to spill off to the side, and then we jumped to our feet and started circling each other again. My head was a little woozy from bouncing off the floor, but I concentrated on his right fist, preparing for the phony knockout blow. I didn’t know why Beto would want to help me like this, but I was glad he did. I just hoped Nash and the rest of the audience would buy it.

  Beto came at me, but his right fist never cocked, and instead he peppered my shoulders with a volley of lefts. The crowd wasn’t happy. They kept calling out for more action. I threw a couple of punches, but again Beto blocked them easily. Unlike Huy, I didn’t have speed on my side. Then Beto motioned with his head for me to come in closer. I did, and he started to set his right for the big punch. One problem—the floor was slick from my own sweat, and I slipped just as his fist launched, so instead of jerking back before he could hit me, I fell right into the punch. His fist crunched into my nose, and the next thing I knew I was lying facedown on the floor again, no faking to it.

  I wasn’t exactly knocked out. I could hear everything around me—jeers and laughter and boos—but it all sounded as if it came from far away.
Nash’s voice finally reached me, yelling at me to get up, and then other voices joined in the chant: “Get up! Get up! Get up!”

  My brain heard the chant, but my arms and legs didn’t. It was like they belonged to someone else, someone who was pissed at me for getting them into this situation. Then a collection of anonymous hands grabbed me around the biceps and rolled me over onto my back. Rowan and Beto leaned over me.

  “Are you okay?” Rowan asked.

  My mouth moved, but I’m pretty sure no real words came out.

  They helped me to my feet, and my legs started to solidify under me while, at the same time, cursing me for weighing so much. A few people applauded, but more jeered as Rowan and Beto half dragged me back to the dressing room. Aisling Collins did not run up, throw her arms around me, and kiss me on the cheek for my bravery.

  In the locker room, I sat on a bench while Rowan went for paper towels for my bloody nose, which felt like it weighed about sixty pounds all by itself.

  “I’m sorry about that, man,” Beto said. “You were supposed to pull back.”

  “Is it broken?” I asked, gingerly touching the bridge of my nose.

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “You’ll be okay.”

  “What happened?” It was Melody. She and Miss Chastity stared at me. The other fighters, including a puffy-faced Dancin’ Dan, stood behind them.

  “An accident,” Beto told her.

  “Some accident,” she said.

  Rowan came back with the paper towels and dabbed the blood away from my face. “Here,” he said, giving me a towel. “Keep your head tilted back.”

  My mind was clear now, but my whole face hurt. Melody stood on the bench next to me and brushed my hair back from my forehead. “Stupid uppity-ups,” she said. “You’re better than them any day.”

  The bleeding had slowed to a trickle by the time Nash showed up and handed over my shirt and glasses. Brett and Aisling came with him. “I guess we’re even,” he said. “Let me get you a bottle of beer. That should help.”

  I took the towel away from my face. “I don’t need anything from you.”