You Don't Even Feel It (A Story From the Dark Side)

by Lawrence Block

  “Will he?”

  “He’ll have no choice,” he said. “I’ll insist on it. I’ll tell him I’m quitting him, and he’ll have to quit.”

  “You could do that now.”

  “There’s no reason.”

  “I already told you the reason, Marty. His head’s the reason. All those punches he’s taken, aren’t they enough of a reason?”

  “The man’s never been knocked down.”

  “That Cuban fighter, had all those tattoos—”

  “You didn’t let me finish. The man’s never been down from a blow to the head. The Cuban kid, what the hell was his name, they coulda called him the Human Sketchpad—”

  “Was it Vizcacho?”

  “Vizcacho, yes, and he had a funny first name. Filomeno, something like that. That was a shot to the liver put Darnell down, and that’s a punch’ll floor anybody, it lands right, and what did he do, Darnell? Got up, took an eight count, and hit Vizcacho hard enough to erase half his tattoos. Knocked him out, remember?”

  “I remember.”

  “He’s lost four fights, Darnell, his entire career. One early decision, it was the other kid’s hometown, no way on earth we were gonna get a decision there. You didn’t see that fight, Keisha, it was before you were in the picture, but believe me, we got robbed.” He shrugged. “It happens. It still pisses me off, but that’s the kind of shit that happens. He lost that fight, and he lost a decision to Armando Chaco that could have gone either way, and he was stopped twice. Once was a head butt, the other fighter couldn’t continue, and they went to the scorecards and two judges had the other kid ahead.” He closed his eyes, shook his head. “The other was when he lost the 160-pound title, and you couldn’t argue with it. Darnell was taking way too much punishment, and the ref was right to step in.”

  “That’s not how you felt at the time.”

  “Darnell wanted to go on, and he’s my fighter. I got to want what he wants. But we looked at the films afterward, and we both agreed it was the right thing, stopping it. Look, Keisha, do you have to make it harder for him? He’s gonna have this fight, and one more for the title. He’s got his hands full training for it. Why give him a hard time?”

  “Gee, I don’t know, Marty. Maybe because I love him.”

  “You think I don’t? Keisha, don’t be like that. Sit down, have another Coke, a real drink, whatever. Listen, Darnell’s gonna be fine.”

  She started to say something, but what was there to say? She kept on walking.

  She was seated at ringside when he fought Rubén Molina.

  At first she hadn’t intended to be there. “I can’t watch,” she told him. “I can’t.”

  “But you always there,” he said. “You my good luck, don’t you know that? How’m I gonna get in the ring, my good luck charm ain’t there?”

  She didn’t believe she brought him luck, wasn’t sure she believed in luck at all. But if he believed it...

  She kept opening and closing her eyes. She couldn’t watch, couldn’t not watch. Every time Molina landed to Darnell’s head, she felt the impact in the pit of her stomach. Molina didn’t have much of a jab, he just stuck it out and groped with it, but he had an overhand right that he sometimes led with, and he was able to land it effectively.

  In the third round, one of those righthand leads snapped Darnell’s head back, and he grinned to show it hadn’t hurt. Fighters did that all the time, she knew, and it always indicated the opposite of what they intended.

  Darnell stayed with his fight plan, working the body, punishing Molina relentlessly with hooks to the rib cage. In time, she knew, the body blows would get to Molina, taking the spring out of his legs and the power out of his punches, but meanwhile he kept landing that right, and Keisha winced every time he threw it, whether it landed or not.

  Couldn’t watch, couldn’t not watch...

  Midway through the sixth round, Darnell double jabbed, then missed with a big left hook. Molina hit him with a right hand and put him on the canvas. She gasped—the whole crowd gasped, it seemed like—and he was up almost before the referee started counting, insisting it was a slip. He was off balance, that much was true, but it was a punch that put him down, and he had to take a count of eight, had to meet the ref’s eyes, had to assure the man that yes, he was fine, yes, he wanted to keep fighting. Hell, yes.

  He kept his jab in Molina’s face for the rest of the round, and hurt him with body shots, but Molina landed an uppercut during a rare clinch and it snapped Darnell’s head back. And there was another right hand at the bell, caught Darnell flush, and she saw his eyes right before the ref sprang between the two fighters.

  The doctor came over to the corner between rounds, said something to Darnell and to Marty, shined a flashlight in Darnell’s eyes. The ref came over to listen in. Oh, stop it, she wanted to shout, but she knew they weren’t going to stop it, and the doctor returned to his seat and the bell rang for the seventh round.

  And the seventh round was all Darnell’s. He was determined to make up for the knockdown, and he pressed his attack, throwing three- and four- and five-punch combinations. The bodywork brought Molina’s hands down, and a right cross with thirty seconds left in the round sent the boy to the canvas.

  Stay down, she prayed. But no, he was up at eight, and the bell ended the round before Darnell could get to him.

  The round took a lot out of both fighters, and they both coasted through the eighth. Molina kept his jab in Darnell’s face through most of the round and landed the right once or twice, with no apparent effect.

  At the bell, Darnell stood still for a moment, and she caught a look at his eyes. Then he recovered and loped over to his corner, and she got to her feet and pushed her way through, reaching a hand through the ropes and tugging at the cuff of Marty’s pants. He was busy, talking to Darnell, using the End-Swell to bring down a mouse under his right eye, holding the water bottle for him, holding the spit bucket for him. If he was aware of Keisha he gave no sign, but when the warning buzzer sounded and he came down out of the ring he didn’t look surprised to see her there.

  “You got to stop it,” she told him. “He didn’t know where he was, he couldn’t find his corner.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he told her.

  “Marty, his eyes aren’t right.”

  “They looked fine to the doc. Keisha, he’s winning the fucking fight. The other guy’s got nothing left and Darnell’s prolly gonna take him out this round, and if he doesn’t that’s fine because we’re way ahead on points.”

  “He was knocked down.”

  “He swung and missed, and it was his momentum knocked him down more than anything else. Next round he came back and knocked the other guy down, and came this close to knocking him out. Another thirty seconds in the round and the fight’d be over and we could go home.”

  “Marty, he’s hurt.”

  “I don’t agree with you,” he said. “And if I did, which I don’t, and I tried to stop it? He’d kill me. He’s winning the fight, he’s winning impressively enough to get a title shot, and—Keisha, sit down, will you? I got work to do here, I got to concentrate.”

  Toward the end of the ninth round, Darnell caught Molina with a big left hook and dropped him. Molina got through the round, but in the tenth Darnell got to him early, putting him down with a body shot, then flooring him a second time with a hard right to the temple. The referee didn’t even count but stopped it right there, and the place went wild.

  On his way out of the ring, Darnell told the TV guy Molina was a tough kid, and no, he himself was never hurt, the knockdown was more of a slip than anything else. “He hit me a few shots,” he allowed, “but he never hurt me. Man punches like that, hit me in the head all day long. You don’t even feel it, you know what I’m sayin’?”

  Later, when they replayed the interview, they pointed out that Darnell had slurred his words, that his speech was hard to make out.

  In his dressing room, Darnell was grinning and
laughing and hollering, along with everybody else. Until his eyes went glassy and he mumbled that he didn’t feel so good. He collapsed, and was rushed to the hospital, where he died three hours later without having regained consciousness.

  He was wearing khakis, she noted, and a shirt and tie, but he’d added a navy blazer with brass buttons, and brown loafers instead of his usual sneakers. He said, “Keisha, I don’t know what to say. I tried to see you, I don’t know how many times, but I was told you weren’t seeing anybody.”

  “I had to be by myself.”

  “Believe me,” he said, “I can understand that. I didn’t know whether it was everybody you weren’t seeing or if it was just me, and either way I could understand it. I left messages, I don’t even know if you got them, but I don’t blame you for not calling back.” He looked away. “I was going to write a letter, but what can you say in a letter? Far as that goes, what can you say in person? I’m glad you called me, and here I am, and I still don’t know what to say.”

  “Come in, Marty.”

  “Thank you. Keisha, I just feel so awful about the whole thing. I loved Darnell. It’s no exaggeration to say he was like a son to me.”

  “Let me fix you a drink,” she said. “What can I get you?”

  “Anything, it doesn’t matter. Whatever you’ve got.”

  “Vodka?”

  “Sure, if you’ve got it.”

  She put him in the overstuffed chair in the living room, came back with his vodka and a Coke for herself. And sat down across from him and listened to him talk, or tried to look as though she was listening.

  “Another drink, Marty?”

  “I better not,” he said. “That one hit me kinda hard.” He yawned, covered his mouth with his hand. “Excuse me,” he said. “I feel a little sleepy all of a sudden.”

  “Go ahead and close your eyes.”

  “No, I’ll be fine. ‘Sfunny, vodka never hit me so sudden.”

  He said something else, but she couldn’t make out the words. Then his eyes closed and he sagged in his chair.

  She was sitting across from him when his eyes opened. He blinked a few times, then frowned at her. “Keisha,” he said. “What the hell happened?”

  “You got sleepy.”

  “I had a drink. That’s the last thing I remember.”

  He shifted position, or tried to, and it was only then that he realized he was immobilized, his hands cuffed behind him, his ankles cuffed to the front legs of the chair. She’d wound clothesline around his upper body and the back of the chair, with a last loop around his throat, so that he couldn’t move his head more than an inch or two.

  “Jesus,” he said. “What’s going on?”

  She looked at him and let him work it out.

  “Something in the vodka,” he said. “Tasted all right, but there was something in it, wasn’t there?”

  She nodded.

  “Why, Keisha?”

  “I didn’t figure you’d let me tie you up if you were wide awake.”

  “But why tie me up? What’s this all about?”

  That was a hard question, and she had to think about it. “Payback,” she said. “I guess.”

  “Payback?”

  “For Darnell.”

  “Keisha,” he said, “you want to blame me, go ahead. Or blame boxing, or blame Darnell, or blame the Molina kid, who feels pretty terrible, believe me. Son of a bitch killed a man in the ring and didn’t even win the fight. Keisha, it’s a tragedy, but it’s not anybody’s fault.”

  “You could have stopped it.”

  “And if I had? You think it would have made a difference if I threw in the towel when you told me to? He didn’t get hit more than a couple shots after that, and Molina didn’t have anything left by then. The damage was already done by then. You know what would have happened if I tried to stop it then? Darnell would have had a fit, and he probably would have dropped dead right then and there instead of waiting until he was back in his dressing room.”

  “You could have stopped it after the knockdown.”

  “Was that my job? The ref looked at him and let him go on. The ringside physician looked at him, shined a light in his eyes, and didn’t see any reason to call a halt.”

  He went on, reasoning with her, talking very sensibly, very calmly. She stopped listening to what he was saying, and when she realized that he was waiting for a response, an answer to some question she hadn’t heard, she got up and crossed the room.

  She picked up the newspaper and stood in front of his chair.

  He said, “What’s that? Something in the paper?”

  She rolled up the newspaper. He frowned at her, puzzled, and she drew back her arm and struck him almost gently on the top of the head with the rolled newspaper.

  “Hey,” he said.

  She looked at him, looked at the newspaper, then hit him again.

  “What are you doing, trying to housebreak me?”

  The newspaper was starting to unroll. She left him there, ignoring what he was saying, and went into the other room. When she returned the newspaper was secured with tape so that she wouldn’t have to worry about it unrolling. She approached him again, raised the newspaper, and he tried to dodge the blow but couldn’t.

  He said, “Is this symbolic? Because I’m not sure I should say this, Keisha, but it doesn’t hurt.”

  “In the ring,” she said, “when a fighter tries to indicate that a punch didn’t hurt him, what it means is it did.”

  “Yeah, of course, because otherwise he wouldn’t bother. And they all know that because they notice it in other fighters, but they do it anyhow. It’s automatic. A guy hurts you, you want to make him think he didn’t.”

  She raised the newspaper, struck him with it.

  “Ouch!” he said. “That really hurt!”

  “No, it didn’t.”

  “No, it didn’t,” he agreed. “Why are we doing this? What’s the point?”

  “You don’t even feel it,” she said. “That’s what Darnell always said about blows to the head. Body shots hurt you, when they land and again after the fight’s over, but not head shots. They may knock you out, but they don’t really hurt.”

  She punctuated the speech with taps on the head, hitting him with the rolled newspaper, a little harder than before but not very hard, certainly not hard enough to cause pain.

  “Okay,” he said. “Cut it out, will you?”

  She hit him again.

  “Keisha, what the hell’s the point? What are you trying to prove, anyway?”

  “It’s cumulative,” she said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The same as it is in the ring,” she said. “Rubén Molina didn’t kill Darnell. It was all those punches over all those years, punches he didn’t even feel, punches that added up and added up and added up.”

  “Could you quit hitting me while we’re talking? I can’t concentrate on what you’re saying.”

  “Punch after punch after punch,” she said, continuing to hit him as she talked. “Down all the years, from playground fights to amateur bouts and pro fights. And then there’s training, all those rounds sparring, and yes, you wear headgear, but there’s still impact. The brain gets knocked around, same as your brain’s getting knocked around right now, even if you don’t feel it. Over a period of years, well, you got time to recover, and for a while that’s just what you do, you recover each time, and then there’s a point where you start to show the damage, and from that point on every punch you take leaves its mark on you.”

  “Keisha, will you for Chrissake stop it?”

  She hit him, harder, on the top of the head. She hit him, not quite so hard, on the side of the head. She hit him, hard, right on the top of the head.

  “Keisha!”

  She set down the rolled-up newspaper, fetched the roll of duct tape, taped his mouth shut. “Don’t want to listen to you,” she said. “Not right now.” And, with Marty silent, she was silent herself, and the only sound in the room w
as the impact of the length of newspaper on his head. She fell into an easy rhythm, matching the blows with her own breathing, raising the newspaper as she inhaled, bringing it down as she breathed out.

  She beat him until her arm ached.

  When she took the tape from his mouth he winced but didn’t cry out. He looked at her and she looked at him and neither of them said anything.

  Then he said, “How long are you going to do this?”

  “Long as it takes.”

  “Long as it takes to do what? To kill me?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then what?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Keisha, I didn’t hit him. And I didn’t try to make him do anything he didn’t want to do. Keisha, there was no damage showed up in the MRI, nothing in the brain scan.”

  “I said for you to let an expert examine him. Study his speech and all. But you wouldn’t do it.”

  “And I told you why. You want me to tell you again?”

  “No.”

  “Keisha, he had an aneurysm. A blood vessel in the brain, it just blew out. Maybe it was from the punches he took, but maybe it wasn’t. He could have been a hundred miles away from Rubén Molina, lying in a Jacuzzi and eating a ham sandwich, and the blood vessel coulda popped anyway, right on schedule.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “And you don’t know any different. Keisha, you want to let me up? I gotta go to the bathroom.”

  She shook her head.

  “It’s your chair. You want me to make a mess on it?”

  “If you want.”

  “Keisha—”

  “Some of them,” she said, “the ones who took too many punches, they get so they can’t control their bladders. But that’s a long ways down the line. Slurred speech comes first, and you aren’t even slurring your words yet.”

  He started to say something, but she was pressing the tape in place. He didn’t resist, and this time when she picked up the rolled newspaper he didn’t even attempt to dodge the blows.

  I hope you enjoyed

  ● You Don’t Even Feel It ●