Bluff City Brawler (Fight Card)

by Heath Lowrance

  Regardless, he liked that I had the same last name as this writer guy and maybe that’s why he hired me.

  Since then, I’d made a new life for myself in Memphis. It wasn’t much, but it was sure as hell better than being dead. I wasn’t unhappy.

  Clarence said, “You wanna go another round with the bag?” and I shrugged, said, “Why not?” I was just about to start when a voice behind me said, “Tom.”

  I turned to see Big Earl standing in the doorway of his little office, beckoning to me. “Come in my office, Tom, I wanna talk to you,” he said in his thick Mississippi drawl.

  Big Earl was not big at all, not height-wise anyway. The top of his bald head came up to my chest. But he made up for it in girth—thick as an oak tree around the middle, and just as hard. He’d been on a health kick for a couple of months, laying off the cigarettes and the sweets, but I hadn’t seen any effect yet, other than a shorter temper.

  He wheeled around on his heel, went back in his office without waiting for me to respond. Clarence said, “Oh, you in trouble now.”

  I laughed, and he helped me off with the gloves. I was halfway to the office when Big Earl yelled, “Tom! I said get in here!”

  “Coming, boss.”

  ROUND 8

  Big Earl’s desk took up most of the room, and a bunch of junk took up most of the desk. There were a couple of empty orange juice bottles, since all he drank these days was juice, and another bottle half-full. He must’ve gone through three or four bottles a day, visited the john at least that often. There were stacks of papers, too, and back copies of boxing trade journals and some pulp mags. I don’t know where he found the time to read all that stuff.

  “Sit down,” he said, motioning to the fold-out chair across from him.

  I sat, but he didn’t. He stood there looking down at me until I said, “Something you wanted, boss?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, Tom, something I wanted. Tell me something. How long you been a fighter?”

  I shook my head. “I’m no fighter. I’m just a lowly janitor, boss.”

  “Don’t feed me that line. I saw the way you handled the bag out there. You know what you’re doing.”

  I really should’ve known better than to pound the bag when Big Earl was around, but common sense had never been my strong point. Shrugging, I said, “Oh, you know, I just sorta… watch the fighters, is all. I picked up some stuff from them.”

  He frowned, finally sitting down. For a moment, I couldn’t see him behind the towering mound of papers and orange juice bottles, until he shoved them aside. He looked at me intently, so intently that I started to get uncomfortable.

  “Tom,” he said, his voice lower. “Since I hired you on here, I’ve reckoned that there’s more to you than just some drifter. From the moment you stepped in this gym, I could tell from the way you moved. You’re a fighter.”

  “Earl, I—“

  “Shut up, will you? I’m not askin’ for your life story. I don’t care nothin’ about that. All I’m saying is, I know a fighter when I see one. I’ve been around them for, what, going on twenty-five years now. You can’t fool me.”

  I thought about saying something else, making another denial, but the look on his face stopped me cold. I just sat there.

  “Now, whatever reason you got for not being in the ring anymore, that’s your business. But I tell you something. You ain’t half-bad with that bag. And you’re quick on your toes. I think you got potential, is what I’m saying.”

  “You got me all wrong, boss.”

  He growled, “You take me for a jackass, Runyon? You telling me I don’t know what I’m talking about?”

  I didn’t say anything. That’s not the sort of statement that comes with a good answer.

  He grabbed up the half-full bottle of juice and slugged some down his throat. Wiping his chin, he said, “I train a lotta pugs here, Tom. Some of ‘em have talent. Most of ‘em don’t. I’m telling you, I think you have talent. I’d like to take you on, see what you got.”

  I looked away from him. All the fights I’d ever had in my Detroit years came back to me, all the victories and all the losses too. Truth was, I felt alive in the ring, like it was my calling or something. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss it. In the ring was the only time I felt like I was worth something, even if I didn’t have the chops to be big-time.

  But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t be a fighter again. Even if it was just on a local level, strictly small-time, the risk of coming to the attention of Kardinsky was too great. I could just see him up there in his Bloomfield mansion, reading some trade paper, stumbling across a bit about some up-and-comer in Memphis. Next thing, he’d send some boys down to check it out. And I’d be sunk.

  And I liked Big Earl. He was a good guy. We didn’t have the sort of father-son relationship I had with Hugh, but we were friends—well, as close to friends as you can actually be with your boss.

  But as close as we were, I couldn’t tell him anything about Detroit.

  Sighing, I said, “Earl… I appreciate it. But I can’t do it.”

  “Runyon—“

  “I just can’t. I’m not saying you’re wrong, I’m just saying… I can’t get in the ring. Please, take my word for it, okay?”

  He sat there scowling at me for a long few seconds, before huffing air out of his nose and shaking his head. “Fine. Be a janitor your whole life. Makes no never mind to me.”

  I started to stand up. “Thanks, boss. I really do appreciate it.”

  He said, “As long as you ain’t doing nothing important, then, here.” He grabbed a battered briefcase from beside the desk, handed it to me. “Take this over to Lucy’s place. I know you wanna see her anyway. And tell her I need the figures by tomorrow noon. Can you handle that, Mr. Janitor?”

  I took the case, grinning. The thought of seeing Lucy perked me up a bit. “Can do, boss.”

  “Get the hell outta here, then.”

  I got the hell out of there.

  ROUND 9

  So not everything Big Earl had a hand in was what you’d call strictly legal.

  To make ends meet, he did a little numbers running on the side. Very small-time, only a few joints in the immediate area. Once in a while, he’d send me out to collect tickets, which worried me at first—the last thing I wanted was to get nabbed by the cops. But it turned out the local uniforms were some of Big Earl’s best customers, so I had nothing to worry about.

  Less often, maybe once a week or so, he’d send me up to Lucy’s apartment to deliver the books. Lucy was Big Earl’s informal accountant, the daughter of an old friend of his who’d died from heart failure a few years ago, and Big Earl had sort of taken her under his wing.

  She was a peach.

  I left the gym on Marshall and strolled up the three blocks to Union Avenue, headed east. I could’ve taken Big Earl’s DeSoto, but it was a warm, clear morning and I felt like a walk. There were a lot of guys in suits, headed briskly toward the downtown business area. There were even more housewives, pushing strollers and pulling toddlers, shopping or doing whatever housewives did. Later on, there would be teenagers, prowling the long summer days, but right now it was too early for them.

  Up where Union runs into Marshall, I passed this little hole-in-the-wall studio called Memphis Recording Service. Lucy had told me they made race records there, and even some country music. The place seemed to be hopping every time I passed by.

  Lucy’s apartment building was on South Manassas, across from a park. Not a bad place, really. Just as I was approaching, a wiry guy in frame glasses and a nice tan suit was coming out. He held the door for me, nodded all friendly-like. I nodded back, and as I passed him he said, “Hey. Aren’t you… man, I can’t remember your name, but I know you from somewhere, don’t I?”

  I frowned at him. “I don’t think so, buddy. Sorry.”

  He shook his head. “No, I’m sure of it. It’s… Tom, right? Tom something?”

  A cold chill stabbed through me. My brain raced, tr
ying to place him, praying that his face wouldn’t slot up with anyone I knew in Detroit. I stammered, “No, not Tom. Sorry. I’m Jim.”

  He pushed his glasses up on a thin nose, and drawled in a distinct Memphis drawl, “Well, you don’t say. That’s my name.” He stuck out a hand and I automatically shook it, surprised a little at how strong his grip was. “Jim Coley.”

  “Runyon,” I said. “But sorry, I’m pretty sure we’ve never met.”

  I was a little relieved at his Memphis accent—that meant he most likely wasn’t someone from Detroit, come to fetch. Maybe he’d seen me at the gym or something, or wandering around.

  He said, “My mistake, then, I reckon. Sorry.”

  “I guess I just have one of those faces.”

  He chuckled, said, “Could be,” and I turned away from him and headed up the stairs.

  I felt his eyes on my back the whole time.

  ***

  Lucy was waiting in her doorway.

  “Hiya, handsome,” she said, smiling her crooked little smile. Her lilting Tennessee accent lit me right up. She was a tiny little bundle of dynamite, about five foot three, with auburn hair cut short that curved under her ears. She had these big brown eyes that just sort of sparkled and smiled all on their own, and the smoothest, creamiest skin I’d ever seen outside of a china doll.

  I was pretty over the moon about her, that’s no lie. And she liked me, too.

  I put my arms around her, and her lips met mine in a long, slow kiss that made my heart and my stomach do weird things. Immediately, I forgot my uneasiness about the guy downstairs who’d called himself Jim Coley. I’d been taking Lucy out for a couple months now, and her kiss still made me feel like a goofy kid.

  After Lucy’s dad died, Big Earl had sprung for her schooling, sent her to Memphis State. She came out with a degree in accounting, and even though she didn’t have what you’d call a steady job now, she kept busy doing the books for several businesses, busy enough to keep a nice apartment in a decent block. So despite a Southern accent I would’ve thought sounded hick only a year earlier, she was no backwoods trash.

  In her spare time, she painted. And she was really good at it. After we spent another minute or so saying hello in her doorway, she led me inside, where some of her best work hung on the walls. Really colorful stuff that was probably deeper than someone like me could understand, but it didn’t matter. I liked looking at them.

  “Hey,” I said, noticing a new one hanging over the sofa. “When did you do that?”

  She grinned, pleased I spotted it right away. “I’ve been working on it for about a week. Finished it last night after you dropped me off. You like it?”

  “I love it.” And I did. It was a portrait, done in impressionistic strokes of tan, red, and a gentle blue. A guy with messy light hair and dark eyes, sort of half-smiling. He looked familiar, and, not being the smartest guy in town it took me a moment to realize who it was.

  I looked at Lucy. “Well,” I said. “I’ll be damned. That’s me.”

  She grinned from ear to ear, and I took her in my arms and we said hello for a little while longer.

  Finally, she broke away from me, rumpled my already messy hair, and said, “Okay, mister. You didn’t come for art appreciation, did you?”

  “Maybe I did.”

  “You have Earl’s books?”

  I handed over the briefcase. She opened it up, ruffled through the ledgers inside, and then tossed it on the coffee table next to a calculating machine and a bunch of pencils and other ledgers. “Okay, just let him know I’ll have everything back to him by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Good, that’s when he needs it by, he says. Maybe with any luck he’ll send me to pick them up and you can teach me more about art.”

  She kissed me lightly on the nose and skipped off toward the kitchen. “Have you had lunch yet? You have time for some lemonade?”

  “Not hungry enough for lunch, but I’ll take the lemonade.”

  ***

  We sat in the kitchen for about half an hour, just shooting the breeze. The thing I liked most about Lucy, she could carry on a conversation and never be boring. We didn’t talk about the weather, or politics or any of that stuff. We didn’t gossip about people we knew. She’d tell me about art history, names I’d always heard of but didn’t really know anything about, like Van Gogh, or that Jackson Pollack guy. She really liked Jackson Pollack.

  And she always wanted me to tell her about boxing. I had to pretend to know less than I did—just like everyone else in Memphis, Lucy didn’t know I was actually a fighter once. The more I knew her, the more I hated not coming clean about my past. In a way, it was like lying. But I didn’t have much choice.

  I had taught her a few moves, though, mostly for self-defense. If they ever allowed women to get in the ring, I’d have bet money she’d be a champ.

  So Lucy was an awful pretty girl, but let’s face it, pretty girls are a dime a dozen. The thing that really sent me about her was that she was smart and interesting and clever. If I didn’t watch it, I could fall right in love with her.

  Sipping her lemonade, she said, “Tom, I’ve been thinking.”

  “Don’t do that,” I said. “You start thinking, you’ll realize you can do a lot better than me.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t start that again. Listen, I was thinking… you think Earl would give you a week off next month?”

  “He probably would. Why?”

  “Well… every summer, I take a trip to Chicago to visit my auntie. I told you about her, right?”

  “Your Aunt Claire, yeah.”

  “Right. Well…”

  She was being uncharacteristically nervous. I said, “What? You want me to go with you?”

  Relief flooded across her face. “Oh, would you, Tom? It would mean so much to me. And… well, since my dad died, Aunt Claire is my only living relative. I mean, Earl is wonderful, don’t get me wrong. He’s been like an uncle to me, or even a father in some ways, but, well, you know…”

  “Sure, I get it. But why would you want me to go with you?”

  She frowned. “Really, Tom? You have to ask that?” She looked a little disappointed in me.

  I felt a weird hitch in my chest that was completely foreign to anything I’d ever experienced before. I even felt a little short of breath. I said, “You… um. You like me that much, Lucy? You want me to meet your aunt?”

  “Yes, Tom, you clueless man. I like you that much.”

  I smiled. “And I like you enough to go with you. I’ll get the week off. No problem.”

  We didn’t say anything for a few minutes after, just sat there and drank our lemonade and made goo-goo eyes at each other.

  I was about to take the next big step with Lucy. Meeting her extended family. Sitting there, I thought back on the girls I’d known before, the ones I’d taken out steady in Chicago and Detroit. None of them had ever lasted more than a few weeks. And certainly none of them had ever invited me to meet the family. Even if they had, I wouldn’t have wanted to do it.

  But none of them had made me feel this way. All loopy and grinning, like a big dope. I actually wanted to meet her Aunt Claire. I really did.

  After a while, Lucy said, “So tonight, what say we go walking in Overton Park and you show me a few more moves?” Her eyebrows arched coyly when she said that, like she was being naughty or something, even though she was only talking about boxing.

  “You got it, champ. Although if I show you much more, I don’t think I’ll be able to keep you in line.”

  “Oh, is that right? Afraid I’ll get too big for my britches?”

  “No, too big for mine. You’re already a handful.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t hurt a fly. I’m just too much of a girl, you know.”

  “You’re too much, all right,” I said, finishing off my lemonade. Standing up, I said, “I’ll pick you up at six. Sound good?”

  “I’ll be waiting, with bells on.” She came around the table, and we spent as
long saying goodbye as we’d spent saying hello.

  It was all so corny and sappy, but I didn’t care. If you’d told me a year earlier I’d be such a sap over a dame, I’d have said you were nuts. Lucy brought something out in me I’d never known existed.

  It felt great.

  I left Lucy’s and made my way back to the gym, feeling like Fred Astaire in one of those dopey romantic musicals. My life here in Memphis was good. All my sins had been washed away, and a clean new life full of hope and happiness lay before me. That was the sort of thing I was thinking, strolling along the street.

  It would take less than twenty-four hours to realize how wrong I was.

  My past was about to catch up to me, in spades.

  ROUND 10

  “Big Earl is on to you, you know,” Clarence said. “And so am I.”

  I was in my bed, staring at the ceiling and thinking about nothing, and Clarence was in his bed on the other side of the room. He’d been reading the latest issue of Manhunt, and had only yawned and flipped off the light switch a few minutes earlier. I thought he was asleep before he spoke.

  Knowing the answer, I said, “What are you talking about?”

  From out of the darkness on his side of the room, he said, “You’re a fighter. Ain’t no denying it. But something happened to you and now you feel like you gotta pretend other-ways.”

  “Clarence,” I said. “I’m tired. I don’t feel like getting into it.”

  “Ain’t no getting into anything. I’m just saying, there’s some things you can’t hide. And some things you can’t hide from, if you get my meaning.”

  “I get your meaning.”

  “I don’t know what happened to you, and it ain’t none of my business—“

  “Exactly. None of your business.”