The Fix

by Steve Lowe

  Mitch offered him the water bottle and he swished some in his mouth, spat pink into his bucket. Buster looked around for Sonny Porter while Mitch smeared Vaseline on his cheeks. The old man didn’t say a word because he knew there was no point. Buster could beat this bum with his eyes closed. Mitch didn’t need to tell him that, so he didn’t. Just grabbed the bucket and the stool and slipped back between the ropes.

  Buster looked at Sonny just as the bell rang for the second round. Sonny cocked his head and put up his dukes, threw a couple shadow punches at Buster. Telling him to do something out there, make it look good. Sonny didn’t understand that the only way to make this look good was for Buster to flatten Ronnie right then. Anything less and everybody in the state of Illinois would know the fix was in. And that wouldn’t just be Sonny’s problem, but Buster’s, too.

  He split Ronnie’s lip with two fast left jabs but kept the right put away like it was belted down to his side. Ronnie was already getting tired, dropping his hands and not on purpose anymore. Buster burned with embarrassment because he did nothing about it. Just danced and jabbed and locked up with the flabby breadstick until the bell rang.

  This time, Mitch did talk to him.

  “Ain’t you got no pride?”

  Buster didn’t answer. He watched Ronnie, but Ronnie looked down at the mat while his man worked on his busted lip. He already looked beat and they had one more round to get through.

  “Ain’t you embarrassed?”

  Buster looked at Sonny Porter, who smiled and golf-clapped for him.

  Mitch grabbed Buster’s chin and pulled his face around, got nose to nose with him.

  “Godammit, Tyrone, don’t you disrespect me like that. When I speak to you son, you damn well better look me in the eyes.”

  Buster nodded, said, “Yessir.”

  “Well? What you got to say to me?”

  Buster had nothing to say to his uncle. The bell rang and he slid past the old man. He spent the third round in Ronnie’s ear.

  “Come on, bitch,” he said. “Show the folks something. They expecting you to put on a show. Ain’t you got nothing for them? Bet if this was the shower in Stateville you be fighting for me. You put up a fight for that ass, wouldn’t ya?”

  Ronnie gave him a flurry and Buster absorbed it, stored it, saved it for later. When Ronnie slowed, Buster shoved him back and caught him with a straight right that detonated Ronnie’s nose. He staggered back but stayed on his feet. The crowd jumped to its feet at the sight of blood and clamored for more, for Buster to finish it.

  Buster just bounced in place and waited for him. Ronnie wiped at his face, looked at the blood smeared across his glove. He didn’t get any closer than he had to until the bell rang. Boos from the crowd. Round three over. Round four up next. Somebody chucked a water bottle into the ring that burst and sprayed the judges. The announcer hollered at the crowd to settle down. The crowd hollered back that they didn’t come to see this shit. They weren’t mad at Ronnie, either. Something heavy like a D battery struck Buster in the back, but he didn’t look around or give it back to the crowd. He knew he deserved it.

  Buster watched Sonny as he stood in his corner. Sonny held four fingers to his chest and looked from Buster to Ronnie, both of them watching him. Buster dropped onto his stool and looked across at Ronnie. Surprised as hell. Prick wasn’t expecting to have his nose bent over like that. He looked scared. Buster grinned and winked at him.

  He said to Mitch, “Promise me something.”

  Mitch stopped sponging water on his head and looked at him.

  “What?”

  “Don’t go back for your stuff. Leave it. Just head up that east tunnel and go out the back, by the dumpsters. Go out the emergency exit. Catch a cab and leave out. Don’t wait for me or nothin’ because I won’t be there, and you don’t want to be neither.”

  Mitch watched him for a second then looked around the arena until he spotted Sonny and Ricky. Sonny waved at them with four fingers.

  “Son, you gonna get yourself killed.”

  “Ain’t nobody getting killed ‘cept that piece of shit across the way. You just do what I told you and light out of here with the quickness. Don’t hang around to see. They’ll follow me, you just go the other way.”

  The bell rang for round four and Buster sprang up, stalked to the center of the ring. Ronnie shuffled forward, unsure. He gave Sonny one more look and moved in with an overhand right. Buster turned away from it, let the blow bounce off his shoulder. Brought his right arm back, like packing ball and powder down the barrel of a cannon, loaded up and set his feet in the same motion. He threw his first real right hand of the fight and blew Ronnie Piccolo to pieces. The hook caught Ronnie flush on the left temple and snapped his head nearly all the way around so he could look back at his corner. The last thing he would see.

  The fist, the right hand of Buster Grant, was a thing of beauty. What every person in that building save two were waiting to see. What brought them out to the south side of Chicago that night and brought them to their feet right then. The building exploded, the sound of Buster’s right fist connecting, the crack of bone snapping, the slap of Ronnie’s face slamming into the canvas.

  The ref didn’t bother to count. He waved the doctor into the ring because he heard it just as well as everyone else. The ring instantly filled with people. Buster lost sight of Sonny and Ricky in the chaos, a sea of madness inside the ring and out. The crowd gone out of their minds over what they just saw. Fights broke out among the seats, maybe for no other reason than the pure, visceral energy of watching one man destroy another. It was too much to process, just trigger the collective bloodlust.

  Buster lost sight of his uncle as well. The ref barely got his right hand up in the air to signal him the winner than Buster shoved through the bodies and the ropes and fought his way through the throng for the west exit. Congratulatory slaps but also a few angry fists pounded him, bettors probably aware of the fix and unhappy with a result counter to what they had been promised. Buster smiled at these, gave a couple shots back for the fun of it. The place was devolving into an all-out riot and Buster had to punch his way out. One shot that burst open a fat white guy’s face did the trick. The false warriors, showered by a friend’s blood, created a bubble around Buster, allowing him to pass to the exit.

  Buster shoved through the doors amid a horde of people streaming for safe haven from the chaos. He moved up Halsey Street and cut down an alley, crossed over four blocks to Carter where the cab was waiting for him. He tapped the back window with his glove and waited for the driver to unlock the door.

  The driver looked back at Buster, took in his getup and seemed to figure out the situation pretty quick.

  “Hey, brother, I ain’t looking to get into nothing here.”

  “Too late, you already in something. And I ain’t your brother.”

  “No way man, this wasn’t part of the deal.”

  Buster grabbed the front seat with his right glove, slick with the fat man’s blood. “You don’t get your ass moving right now, you’re gonna get a whole lot more than you bargained for, you feel me?”

  He looked at the bloody boxing glove, Buster’s wild, bloodshot eyes, turned and grabbed the wheel. While he drove, Buster worked at the laces of his left glove with his teeth.

  “You never said where I was taking you.”

  “Don’t worry about it yet, you’re already heading in the right direction.”

  They drove several minutes in silence, Buster chewing at his glove, the driver watching him in the mirror.

  “Take a right up here,” Buster said.

  The driver did as he was told. Buster finally worked the left glove off, tossed it out the window. He reached into his trunks and said, “Up on the right, the body shop.”

  The driver stopped at the curb. Buster peeled the sweaty bill from his crotch and handed it across the seat. The driver took it between the tips of two fingers, made a face.

  “What the hell is this?”
r />   “That’s one hundred dollars like we agreed.”

  “Man, I’m not taking this. It was down your drawers.”

  Buster opened the door, stepped out. “Then don’t take it. Up to you.”

  The driver shook his head and laid the sodden bill on the seat next to him. Squealed his tires a bit as he took off. Buster stood in darkness under the metal awning over the front door to the shop. He watched the street for several minutes, picked at the laces of his right glove. Satisfied no one was around, he bent and lifted a broken corner of the sidewalk in front of the shop, dug out the key hidden there, let the concrete fall back in place.

  Buster stuck his right glove under his left arm, pulled it from his hand, yanked the padlock and chain from the door handles and shoved inside. He shut the door behind him and noticed a light on in the back office. He knew he hadn’t left it on. Didn’t bother to investigate, just turned and pushed back out the front door, but ran face first into something heavy, swung out from the shadows.

  Buster opened his eyes and saw the ceiling of the shop above him. Coughed and turned his head to spit out a mouthful of hot soup. It was thick and red and filled with cracked teeth. Laid his pounding head back on the floor and looked up at the ceiling again. Heard the front door latch close. Overhead lights flickered on, buzzed like flies. A face loomed over his. Two faces. Ricky, hefting a pipe wrench in his hand, slapping it in his palm. And Sonny, bent over and smiling. His lips moved but Buster couldn’t hear anything at first. Began to fade. He jerked awake when Sonny squeezed his shattered mouth.

  “Hey, there you are. Thought we were losing you.”

  Buster tried to speak, choked on the blood pooling in the back of his throat.

  Sonny said, “I was telling you that I’m impressed. You guys had a pretty good plan. But you had one problem. I saw that movie, too.”

  Buster blacked out after that.

  When Buster woke up, it took a few minutes to gain his bearings. He was in a chair, strapped down with duct tape. From his ankles to his knees, broad spans of it across his thighs. Stuck to the bare skin of his belly and chest, looping around the chair, him, his left arm pinned to his side. The only thing not covered with broad bands of silver tape was his head and right arm. His head bowed forward as far as his taped-down torso would allow. A thick rope of red drool hung from his wrecked mouth, all the way to the floor between his boots. A bloody tether, the only thing still holding him to the earth.

  Metallic snap of a lighter cover, spin of a wheel rubbed against flint, snick of ignition. With great effort, Buster nudged his head up enough that he might look at the source of that sound. He was careful not to snap the drool lest he spin flying off into hell. But probably, he was already there.

  “Hey, Buster.” Sonny Porter sat across from him, on the other side of a battered metal desk. It was the desk in the back office at the body shop. Buster glanced around and confirmed his location. On the desk between them, Sonny had laid out Buster’s works, lined up and uniform, like a priest’s baptismal implements.

  The Zippo lighter stood in the center, the flame wobbling. Sonny picked up the spoon, slow and reverent, giving the ceremony its deserving respect. He tapped out half a gram of brown granules into the spoon. Big hit, much more than Buster would normally bang. Enough to last him a whole week. He admitted his addiction, but he still retained the frugal nature his Uncle Mitch had tried to instill in him. Maybe the only thing he had left.

  Buster didn’t move, just watched Sonny cook. He placed the spoon over the flame and waited for it to boil. Set it on the desk and blotted it with a cotton ball. Stuck the end of a fresh needle into the cotton, drew up the dirty liquid. Held it up for both of them to stare in wonder at the slow-swirling mixture inside. Buster tracked the needle with his eyes and snapped his tether. He didn’t notice.

  Sonny looked around the syringe so Buster could see his eyes. “What happens from here on out depends on how this goes.”

  He raised his eyebrows expectantly. Buster nodded, more blood and slobber spilling out between his battered, swollen lips. He saw a flashback of the pipe wrench streaking out of the shadows, felt it bite into his face, mash his teeth into the back of his mouth. He flinched and looked around for Ricky. The big man wasn’t there.

  “Just you and me for the moment,” Sonny said. He got up and walked around the desk, plucked the yellow tubing up in his hand as he moved behind Buster. He watched and waited a moment. Buster flopped his right arm up on the desk, turned his palm toward the ceiling. He had no intention of fighting Sonny. He was smart enough to know when he was beat. And at this point, he wanted that hit. Wanted it bad.

  Sonny saw this and moved closer. Wrapped the tubing around Buster’s right arm just above the elbow, cinched it down tight. The veins leapt up under his skin. The sight of them made his heart skip. Perfect, untouched vessels that he’d had actual dreams about, stabbing that needle into something other than his goddamn foot. He was ready for it now. Anything to take away the banjo-strum ache in his mouth. The shame of this night. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

  Sonny picked up the rig and held it to the light, flicked the air bubbles to the top, gave the plunger a squeeze until a bead of liquid dribbled from the needle.

  “Hey, you know what you doing, man?” A gush of stringy blood spilled down Buster’s front with each word.

  Sonny said nothing as he leaned over the desk, slapped at Buster’s skin, rubbed the bulging veins snaking up his forearm. Plenty to choose from. Sonny picked out a fat one just inside the elbow. Buster tilted his arm to accommodate him. Sonny opened an alcohol wipe with his teeth and rubbed it over the vein. He held the rig between his thumb and forefinger, poked it into the vein at an angle, smooth and gentle. It popped right in on the first try. They both smiled reflexively, happy with the result. Sonny drew back the plunger, sucked in some thick blood. They both watched it for a second, mesmerized by the suspended red glob. Sonny didn’t push it in right away.

  “You’re going to tell me who set up your bet.”

  Buster’s eyes flicked up from the rig in his arm to Sonny. He nodded quick, flopping strings of drool from his lips. Sonny’s gaze remained locked into Buster’s as he banged the hit home. The effect was much faster and much harder than shooting into his foot. Near instantaneous. He couldn’t keep his eyelids up. Sonny withdrew the empty rig but Buster barely noticed, hardly heard him say, “You enjoy that for a bit and I’ll be back later to talk.”

  Buster sat in the chair, his slack arm still extended across the metal desk, for what could have been minutes or hours. He didn’t know and he didn’t give a shit.

  Sonny came back later. Buster was in and out of reality until a bucket of icy water hit his face.

  “Whew!” Sonny pinched his nose. “Buster, did you shit yourself? I think you did.”

  Buster didn’t know but believed it. His face felt like it was filled with lead but the pain was mostly gone. Not entirely, but receded, crawled up deep into his brain like a dead appendage. Coiled away like a rattlesnake.

  His arm was still on the table, limp, palm turned up, but Buster noted with something approaching amusement that his boxing glove was on again. The laces remained loose, like somebody just shoved it on and kept about their business. He was certain he had taken it off when he got to the shop.

  Sonny snapped his fingers in Buster’s face. They blurred as they floated through the air. “Buster, yo. Can you hear me, homeboy?”

  Buster spit between his feet. “I can hear ya. I ain’t your homeboy.”

  “I’m sorry. That was a little racist, wasn’t it? I’ll try to do better.”

  Sonny walked around the desk, sat down in the other metal chair. Propped his hand on something, looked to Buster like a wood handle. Smell of smoke somewhere, something burning. He didn’t know if it was real.

  “Congratulations on the fight tonight,” Sonny said. “The right hook of yours, boy.” Sonny shook his head, grinning. “Goddamn, son. Best right hook I think I’
ve ever seen in person. It’s too bad.”

  “What’s too bad?” Sonny wobbled in Buster’s vision and he moved his arm back, tried to sit straight.

  “Do me a favor and just keep your arm on top of the desk where I can see it, OK?”

  Buster slid his hand back, propped his unstable head against his shoulder. Too high to realize it had gone to sleep and would be useless to him anyway.

  “Too bad because of what has to happen next. You know what has to happen next, don’t you?”

  Buster did and bobbed his head.

  “Buster, raw talent-wise, you might be the best boxer for whom I have ever had the pleasure of promoting a fight. I sincerely mean that. You should have been fighting for a belt by now, and probably should be wearing at least one of them. But you’ve wasted that talent.”

  Sonny picked Buster’s bag up off the floor, pulled all his works out again and laid it on the desktop. “You wasted it on this stuff. And now your career is over. A damn shame.”

  Buster tried to say, Fuck you, drooled over his arm instead.

  “You’re sick,” Sonny said. “You are unwell. That’s the only reason why I’m going to give you an option here.”

  He concentrated, forced the words out this time. “Just kill me and go fuck yourself.”

  “I’m not going to kill you, Buster. Do you prefer Tyrone or Buster? All this time I’ve never even thought to ask you that. I assumed since everyone called you Buster, that’s what you liked best, but Tyrone is a good name as well.”

  Buster didn’t answer, just mumbled into his shoulder, tried to look around the room. Everything spun, the world a pinwheel. He vomited into his lap.

  “No, I’m not going to kill you, though you are going to have to make a choice. But I’ll tell you about that in a bit, after it gets here. First, I wanted to thank you.”