Bluff City Brawler (Fight Card)

by Heath Lowrance

  He mopped my brow, squirted some water down my throat. I rinsed and spit, saw the water was bloody. “You got a nice cut along your jaw, Tommy,” he said. “But it ain’t bleeding much. But your eye ain’t looking so good. It’s gonna be swole up something awful, pretty soon. You won’t be able to see nothing out of it.”

  “I guess I better hurry up here, then.”

  He squatted on his considerable haunches in front of me, looked closely at my swollen eye, then at the other. He looked grim. He said, “You think you can go on? I mean… well, you’re—“

  “I can go on. I have to.”

  But I was horribly aware I’d been, quite literally, saved by the bell. I’d put everything I had into the first round, every little bit of will and stamina I had, and it hadn’t been enough. If not for the bell, I would’ve been done.

  The realization shook me to the core.

  Despite his tendency to play dirty, Titus had still been fighting the last year, had stayed in shape. And me? Even in my best days, I was a card-filler. And now, with my last pro fight over a year past, what chance did I have?

  I looked across the ring, watched as Al gave water to his brother, talked to him in low, urgent tones. Titus looked fine. Even the solid blow I’d delivered to his temple didn’t seem to have left a mark. And that nose of his, that perfect Greek nose that had never been broken in his entire career… I longed to smash it, to obliterate that smug look on his face.

  That would do him in, I bet. That do him right in.

  Bob and weave and wait for your opening. Yeah. And bust that nose wide open.

  Clarence rang the bell.

  ROUND 20

  Titus came charging out of his corner, just like before, fully expecting me to do the same thing. But I didn’t. Instead I let him come to me.

  From two feet away, he swung. I sidestepped, kept myself from countering and leaving my midsection open. I hopped to his left, keeping my gloves up, forcing him to turn and face me.

  He did, shoulders forward, head down. I circled him, staying on my toes, always looking like I was about to throw a punch but holding back. He jabbed twice with his right, both of them bouncing off my gloves. I moved to his right, forcing him around again. He tried to step in closer to block me off—I moved faster.

  His lips began to move, to turn into a snarl. I circled around him, looking, waiting, dodged another combo meant for my ribs. I faked a left hook and his head jerked back but I only stepped around to his left again.

  If there had been an audience, it was the sort of bout that would have sent them into a fury. Fight fans want to see fists fly. They want action. Blood. They didn’t want to see a ballet. But I didn’t have an audience to impress with my skills this time. I could afford to be patient. I had to be patient.

  I knew Titus’s favorite trick. He liked to swing or jab, fully expecting his opponent to dodge and then move in with a counter. And it was during the counter, when the opponent dropped a glove or left himself open, that Titus would deliver a combo or a hook that devastated.

  So I didn’t counter. He would swing and I would move, and he would line up to exploit whatever he could in the wake—but I didn’t give him anything to exploit. I kept moving.

  It went on like that for over a full minute, with Titus chasing me around and me bouncing away and he hadn’t landed a single blow and I hadn’t even tried to. And the whole time, my head was clearing. Each second that passed, I was getting my strength and my senses back.

  I heard Al saying, “What the hell is this? Are you two going to fight or what?” and his words apparently angered his brother, because Titus spoke when he should’ve been concentrating.

  He had that old nasty-crazy gleam in his eyes again, just like that last time I’d gone toe-to-toe with him. The gleam I’d been waiting for. He said, “Come on, Riley. What the hell are you—“

  I moved in and aimed a solid jab right at his face.

  My glove smashed into his nose. I heard the crunch, saw the blood spatter, and something inside me went mad for a moment.

  That perfect Greek nose of his. I’d smashed it. Nobody, ever, had been able to do that to him.

  He went, “Guh—“ and tottered back, his gloves moving up. I pressed in and pounded his ribs five times, quick, bounced back again when he took a wild swing.

  And then I stepped in again, planted my right directly into his smashed nose.

  He didn’t make a sound this time, only staggered on his feet, tried to get away from me. I weaved over to his left, popped two jabs into his neck and ear. He came around with his heavy right, tried to nail me blind, but I ducked under it, came up with a left upper-cut that bounced against his chin and snapped his head back.

  He fell into the ropes, tried to clinch, but I moved away from him.

  He barreled forward then, raging, blood all over his face. It was a wrestling move, just like on Sunday afternoon television—he was trying to tackle me. I jumped out of the way, landed a solid blow against the back of his neck as he went by.

  It wasn’t my blow so much as his own faulty footing that made him fall. But he fell nonetheless.

  On hands and knees, he glanced over his shoulder to glare at me. Blood poured from his nose. “Ri-wey,” he snarled, his broken nose making his voice sound muffled. “I’m go-wing to kiw you!”

  I believed him. If he got up now, I suspected I’d have a hell of a time getting him to fall down again. So I didn’t give him a chance.

  He made it up to one knee, was just about to stand fully, when I swooped in faster than I’d moved the entire round and put everything I had into my left.

  Right into his nose again. A dull, stupid expression blanked out his face.

  I gave him a right hook then, practically a carbon copy of the one he was so well-known for.

  His head snapped sharp with the blow, and blood flew across the ring. On his one knee, he swayed like a wounded bison, slurred, “Ri-wey…” and I hit him again, in the temple.

  He fell over on his back and didn’t move.

  I stepped back, away from him, and into the ropes and hoped to God he didn’t get up again.

  Al wasn’t counting. He only stood there in the corner, staring at his brother as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

  I said, “You gonna count him out or what, ref?”

  Al tore his eyes away from Titus and looked at me. “Well,” he said. “That was unexpected.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t see much point in counting. He’s out cold.”

  Clarence and Big Earl started to make their way into the ring, but Al said, “Hold it. Don’t either of you move.”

  They stopped, and Al reached into his coat pocket. I knew what he was going for, but even if I’d had the strength at that moment to try to stop him, I wouldn’t have made it in time. I rested against the ropes and Al pulled out a gun.

  “You didn’t think,” he said, “that I only carried one weapon on me, did you?”

  I sighed. “No, I guess not. It would take two guns for you, wouldn’t it? To feel like a real man, I mean.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not as easy to anger as my brother, Riley, so don’t bother. So you proved you’re a better fighter than Titus. Big deal. It changes nothing. We’re going to see Mr. Kardinsky now, just you and me.”

  “You’re going to leave your brother here?”

  “I’ll come back for him. He’ll understand.”

  “And what about my friends?”

  Al smiled. “Oh, them? I wouldn’t worry about them too much.”

  He raised the gun, aimed at Big Earl, and shot him in the chest.

  ROUND 21

  The gunshot roared through the gym, rattling my eardrums. Earl looked down at the blood blossoming over the front of his shirt, looked at Al, and dropped to his knees.

  Stupidly, ineffectually, I said, “No!” and from the corner of my eye I saw Clarence rushing to Earl and without thinking I threw myself toward Al. His gun swung around in my
direction and the sound of it firing was like thunder in my ears. I felt a sharp jerk on my right glove, like someone slapping it down, but I didn’t stop to look at it.

  I swung for Al’s jaw and he lucked out by backing up into the ropes, got another shot off, one that pounded into the nearest post.

  That would be the last time he pulled that trigger, I decided. I knocked the gun out of his hand with my left, nailed him in the chin with my right. The punch hurt my hand and I noticed the hole that had punctured the glove then.

  Al didn’t have what his brother had. The single punch made his eyes roll back in his head and laid him out flat.

  I turned to Clarence and Earl. Clarence had the big man up, was cradling him and saying, “I got you, Earl, you’re gonna be okay, I got you.” Earl’s eyes were half-open, fluttering, and he’d gone pale as chalk.

  Hunkering down next to them, I carefully ripped open Earl’s shirt, found the bullet wound just below his left collarbone. The blood was pouring out of him. “Hang on, boss,” I said. “Just hang on, okay? We’re gonna get you help.”

  I was fighting panic and it was throwing me for more of a loop than Titus had. I’d never seen someone get shot before and didn’t really know what to do. I looked around almost frantically for something to stanch the flow of blood, spotted Titus’ shirt where he’d cast it off at the side of the ring.

  I scrambled to grab it in my cumbersome gloves, came back and pressed it against the gaping hole in Earl’s chest. Weakly, he said, “I… I can’t die. I’m just gettin’ healthy, damnit.”

  Clarence said, “You’ll make it, Earl. You’ll make it to get back down to fighting trim again, I promise,” and to me, “Ambulance. Call an ambulance.”

  I nodded, and Clarence eased Earl down long enough to help me get my gloves off. There was blood—Al’s bullet had cut a trough along the edge of my right hand, but it wasn’t too deep. I ran to Earl’s office, shoved all the orange juice bottles and trade papers to the floor, grabbed the telephone, bleeding all over the place.

  A minute later, I was back in the ring with them. Clarence had him sitting up again and was holding the now blood-soaked shirt to his chest. Big Earl’s eyes were closed, but he opened them again, very slightly, when I knelt down next to him.

  I said, “Help is on the way.”

  Earl said, “Lucy. Lucy, Tom…”

  Christ. Lucy. I had to find out where she was. I couldn’t stay with Earl and Clarence.

  “I’ll find her, boss. Don’t worry.”

  “I… I ain’t dyin’. Not until I know Lucy is… okay…”

  I looked over my shoulder at the Stavros brothers, both of them still slumped on the mat and out cold.

  “I’ll find her,” I said again. “You can count on it, Earl.”

  Clarence said, “And you ain’t dying one way or another, no-how. Ambulance is coming.”

  I stood up, went to the corner where Earl had had a pail of water for me. I picked it up, crossed the ring to where Al sprawled out, and dumped the water in his face.

  He came awake, sputtering and spitting, and started to sit up.

  I swung the pail at his head, just hard enough to get his attention. It clanged loudly and he cursed, his hands going to his head.

  I dropped the pail, bent over and grabbed him by the labels, getting my blood all over his expensive suit. Yanking him up, I shoved him up against the post, hit him two or three times, just enough to see some blood in his mouth.

  I snarled, “Where? Where are you keeping Lucy?”

  And I only had to hit him two or three more times before he told me.

  ROUND 22

  The Gayoso Hotel had been an institution in Memphis for just about forever, from what I’d been told. The place had been built originally before the Civil War, burned down at the turn of the century, and rebuilt in the same spot. Once upon a time, it had been a stately, elegant kind of place, a place that felt heavy with history.

  These days, though, it was going to seed. Little by little, the building was being sucked into the domain of Goldsmith’s department store located next door. In the grayness of the early evening, it didn’t look like much.

  And any place that let someone like Kardinksy rent a suite was no better than a cheap hovel, far as I was concerned.

  I parked the DeSoto out front, took a second to tuck my shirt in and straighten my collar and try to look presentable. My right hand was bandaged up and felt heavy and useless.

  I felt the weight of Al’s gun in my pocket, but it didn’t instill me with the confidence you might think.

  In the lobby, which still bore some slight resemblance to the elegance of the hotel’s history, the clerk at the desk looked up from a racing form, but looked down again when he saw I wasn’t coming to the desk. I’d half-expected someone to accost me there, keep me from heading for the lift, but no one did.

  The Negro teenager in the lift said, “Floor, sir?” and I told him, “Top.”

  He hit the button, the gate clanged shut, and up we went.

  “You look like you been in a fight, sir,” the kid said. “You don’t mind me sayin’.”

  “It ain’t over yet.”

  “Oh, yeah? You gonna go another round or two?”

  “I’ll go as many rounds as it takes, kid.”

  He nodded, said, “Top floor, sir,” and the gate opened.

  I stepped out into the corridor, headed for the suite at the far end. It was cool and dark after the blazing heat outside, and smelled vaguely of creeping rot in the walls. But the carpet was still good, and muffled the sound of my footsteps.

  The closer I got to the suite door, the less certain I felt about what I was doing. Not that I was certain before; I was running now on sheer desperate bravado. But the ‘what-if’ questions were starting to plague me. What if there were more muscle-heads in there than I could handle? What if I forced my way in and was met by a hail of gunfire? What if I actually had to shoot someone?

  What if… what if Lucy was already dead?

  That last thought horrified me, made my heart ache and my feet move faster.

  She was the only thing that mattered now. This had happened to her because of me.

  In front of the door, I stopped and pulled out Al’s gun. I don’t know the first thing about firearms, so I couldn’t say what caliber it was or anything like that. It was a revolver, that’s all I knew. My ignorance made me a little sorry my number had never come up for the draft. If I’d been one of those guys they sent to Korea, I might know a thing or two about killing people.

  No, I was no expert. The only killing I did was by accident.

  I tried the knob and found the door unlocked.

  I went in.

  ***

  It was a roomy suite, with dark wainscoting, plush green carpet, and a set of wide windows opening up onto a gray view of the Mississippi River. Lounge furniture was scattered around the room, with a plush red sofa right in the middle. Cigar smoke hung blue over everything. It smelled awful.

  Abe Kardinsky sat there on the sofa, puffing away on the cigar, and more plumes of smoke hovered around his head. He looked up from a magazine when I came in, then frowned.

  I’d never actually seen him before, except in newspaper photos. This man, a prominent boss in Detroit’s Jewish Mob, a man who ran numbers, drugs, prostitution—just about every vice you could think of—had taken on a larger-than-life persona in my head. But here, close-up and in-person, he didn’t look like much of anything.

  He was sort of dumpy-looking, even in an expensive double-breasted suit. A flabby barrel of a body, short, stumpy legs that dangled over the sofa and barely reached the carpet. A sharp, predatory nose, no chin, receding hairline. Ostentatious rings on every fat finger.

  This was the man half of Detroit lived in fear of?

  And he was alone.

  He chuckled when he saw me, shook his head, and set the magazine aside. “Riley,” he said. “Well, I’d be lying if I said I expected to see you alone.”
>
  I pointed the gun at him. “The Stavros boys send their regards. They couldn’t make it.”

  He nodded, hefted himself up off the sofa. Another puff on the cigar, and then he tossed it across the room. It bounced against the wall under the windows and lay there smoldering.

  “So,” he said. “You got a gun, I see. You plan on shooting me?”

  That was a good question. This whole thing was so beyond me, I didn’t really know what to do. Shoot him? No, not if I could help it. The thought of pulling the trigger, of taking a life, just like that, made me feel sick to my stomach.

  But he had Lucy.

  I said, “I will if I have to, Kardinsky. That’s up to you.”

  He seemed remarkably unconcerned about it, which made me even more nervous. “Ah, I see. Let me guess, then. You just want the girl, yeah? I turn her over to you, and you make your hasty exit and our business here is done. Right?”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  He chuckled again, and my hand felt sweaty on the gun’s grip.

  He said, “I understand where you’re coming from, Riley. But, you know, I don’t want to mislead you about this. See, what you should have done, if you managed to give Al and Titus the slip? You should’ve just beaten it. You should’ve taken off, pronto. No dame is worth losing your life for. But you came right to me. That was pretty stupid.”

  “Maybe not,” I said. “I have a gun, Kardinsky, and you? You’re all alone.”

  “I’m never alone, boy.”

  He snapped his fat fingers, and the bedroom door to my right opened.

  Two men came in, both of them with guns drawn and leveled at me. One of the men had Lucy, dragging her by the arm into the room.

  Her hands were bound in front of her with twine, and there was a purple bruise above her right eye. Her makeup was smeared and her dress torn along the arm. Her eyes widened when she saw me.

  “Tom!” she said. “Tom, please, what’s going on here?”

  “Shut it, sister,” the man gripping her arm said. I recognized him, and the other one as well. Darden and Schmidt, the two thugs who’d tried to take me that night in Detroit, at Hugh’s gym.