by Jack Tunney
Hernando washed my face tenderly, then I got to my feet and managed to stand without embarrassing myself. Every now and again, the floor felt like it tilted and slid sideways.
The referee walked over to us. “Lemme see your fighter.” Hernando backed away and the referee stood there in front of me. “He looks like hamburger.”
I glared at both of those referees. “Don’t you worry about it, baldy. Falcone is paying you for the privilege of seeing me get tore up. You gotta earn your money, right?”
The referee scowled and muttered some curses, but he knew I was right. He took my gloves, shook my arms and tested my stability, and then stepped back.
The bell rang again.
ROUND 28
I musta spooked Simbari, or maybe he was feeling some pain. Either way, he came out in the third really aggressive instead of hanging back. He figured he had himself an advantage and he was gonna press it. I defended, bobbed, weaved, and watched his footwork.
A fighter gets built from the ground up. Father Tim taught me that. You work on the feet because everything goes from there. The way you moved, the way you hit, the way you defended, all of that came from how much time you spent on your footwork.
Endurance was a big part of a fighter, too. You had to be able to go the distance, had to be able to take the punishment. I’d seen more of that than Simbari had. For all of them fights he’d been having, the man plain and simple hadn’t been living as hard as I had. I put in long days, worked hard, and learned how to pace myself over hours.
That said, all that hard work didn’t take away from the skill and the time Simbari had put in learning his craft. And fighting was a craft. Father Tim had taught me to respect that as well.
When we was boys in St. Vincent’s, Father Tim used the boxing ring for two thing. For one, it was a training arena, a place where us orphans could go and learn how to be men and to respect ourselves.
But the other was a punishment. If you lipped off at the nuns, if you beat on a kid smaller than you, if you started fights just because you was sure you could win, then Father Tim had put you in the ring as well. Only then he humbled you, beat on you and made it look easy, till you was embarrassed and mad at yourself.
Everything that Father Tim could give you, he could take away. He’d let us know that, and he’d also let us know that it was our choice which we got in that ring. By the time I aged out of the orphanage, I could take Father Tim two times outta three, but I always knew I’d been in a fight. But I was younger, faster, and I’d had a great teacher that gave me good skills and taught me heart too.
So that was what I eased back into while I was facing Simbari. This time, I let him come at me. And he did because he was a little scared of me now and he didn’t want the fight to last any longer than it had to because he knew I could hurt him.
We went at it every time, and I gave as good as I got. I hit him when he left openings, I took a hard shot every now and again so I could get off one of my own. He threw a vicious right, following up a left jab that had snapped my head back, but I had his rhythm now and I had known what he was gonna do. I stepped forward, taking away the distance he needed to land that right, let it glance off the left side of my head above the cut over my eye, and followed up with a hard right of my own that I put all my shoulder, hip, and leg behind.
Simbari’s mouthpiece exploded from between his lips in a spray of bloody spit. He staggered back, windmilling his arms and shuffling his feet to stay upright, only he didn’t. He went down hard and smacked against the concrete.
The referee was johnny-on-the-spot then, stepping between me and Simbari and pushing me back with both hands. I taunted Simbari, waving a glove at him as I let the referee push me back.
“Get up, you big mook. Get up and take some more of that. I got plenty more.”
Simbari got to his feet like a big cat, a lot faster than I thought he would. I’d hit him hard too, as hard as I’d ever hit any man. Seeing him get up like that, I felt the fear come back into me a little. No matter what I did, the man just wouldn’t go down.
The referee went over to check Simbari, but Simbari just shoved him out of the way and came at me. He was a madman, a whirlwind of punches and flurries and jabs that beat me backward. There weren’t any openings then. Every time I saw one, the next thing I saw was a glove in my face.
Then I got the rhythm again, moved with the cadence he’d settled into, and lit him up with two more quick rights to the ribcage in the same spot I’d hit before. The pain lanced through him and I saw him stiffen with it, then I feinted with my left, slammed him with a right that died against his gloves, and popped him with a left that landed flush on his chin.
For a second, the lights went outta Simbari’s eyes. He went down and backward, and I thought for a moment that it might be over, that I might have won just like that because that was how it usually happened. I stood there breathing as he hit the floor, just sucking in air because that was just about all I felt I could do.
Sandbag and the others started screaming in victory.
Then, incredibly, Simbari got to his feet again, and he was grinning, but I saw from the hard muscles bunched in his jaws that the expression was fake. He wasn’t so cocky now. At least I’d knocked that out of him.
While the referee was giving Simbari a standing eight count, the bell rang. I went back to my corner, but I watched Simbari the whole time.
The referee had to manhandle Simbari to get him back to his corner. Simbari made a show of trying to climb over the referee and come after me. “I’m gonna kill you, Irish! I’m gonna kill you!”
If Simbari got the chance, I knew he’d do just that.
ROUND 29
“You got him scared, Mick.” The cap’n sponged me down while Hernando worked on my face. “You could see it in Simbari’s eyes.”
I felt foggy, but he snapped a capsule of smelling salts under my nose and perked me up. I waved it away. “Yeah, but since he’s scared, he’s gonna come at me harder.”
“Just stick to the game plan.”
I focused on the cap’n. “What about the Chinese? They get their bets down?”
The cap’n shook his head. “Not yet. The line’s six to one now.”
“Don’t have a lot of believers in the crowd, huh?” I tried to laugh, but it hurt.
“You still got me, Sandbag, and the crew, Mick. You got us.” The cap’n kept sponging. “And you got your girl.”
“Estefania?”
“Yeah.” The cap’n nodded behind him and I saw Estefania standing there looking worried.
I was surprised to see her there. When we’d talked about the fight, we’d agreed that she would stay away. She looked tense and worried. I got angry. “What are Chinese waiting on?”
“Tu Li says they want the line to go to eight to one.”
“Greedy so-and-sos.”
“Nah. Eight’s kind of a magic number for them. When they get that eight-to-one line, they’re gonna bet the bank. When you pull this fight out, you’re gonna bust Falcone financially. He’s been laying down the cash heavily, and he ain’t gonna be able to stop himself from taking the money the Chinese got too. He figures it’s easy money.”
“What gave him that impression?”
“Because, senor, I have been given the signal to spike your water.” Hernando smiled at me.
“What?” I looked at the cap’n and backed away from the bottle Hernando was pushing at me. It was different than the one he’d used before. This one had a line of tape running down the side.
“Yeah.” The cap’n grinned. “Falcone fixed the fight. Couldn’t help himself, I guess. Didn’t want to look bad in front of Luciano, who’s been spreading around some cash himself. Anyway, he hired Hernando here to spike your water, only Hernando’s been looking for a way to get out of Havana. I told him Wide Bertha had room for a passenger.”
Hernando grinned slightly. “Si. So you should drink up. Senor Falcone is watching.”
The cap’n pat
ted my shoulder. “Do it, Mick. Just remember when you go back in this time, you’re gonna have to take a beating until I tell you otherwise.”
I drank, but I didn’t bother telling the cap’n I didn’t think I could take much more of a beating than I already had. Then he took my stool away as I stood up and got ready for the next round.
ROUND 30
I wasn’t no actor, but the role didn’t call for much effort on my part. All I had to do was play hurt and groggy. I was already doing that without any acting. But just to add a little to it, I stumbled every now and again like I couldn’t quite get balanced on my pins, and I wiped an arm over my face and eyes.
Simbari smiled around his mouthpiece and he closed in for the kill. He pounded me unmercifully, hitting me so hard it felt like he was working me over with a baseball bat. I embraced the pain. There was nothing else I could do. I had to become part of it.
And I did. I remembered how much it hurt seeing my mom dead in front of me and Pat. I remembered how much it hurt knowing our old man wasn’t gonna take care of us and we was gonna go to the orphanage. I remembered how much it hurt to leave Pat and Father Tim when I signed on for the Marines and went to Korea.
All that was pain that I kept rolled up inside me. Me and pain was old friends, road companions and shipmates through back alley brawls and front line action in Chosin, across the far-reaching seas and tough port cities. I knew how to take a beating and stay alive.
Staying conscious, though, was another thing. Simbari got through my defenses and clocked me a good one right on the button. My arms turned to anchors and my legs became jelly. I went down fighting, but that only allowed Simbari to land two more punches to my face before I ended up on my back on the concrete.
I saw a couple of referees waving Simbari away, then they started counting me down in tandem. I flailed twice before I got myself rolled over and to my knees. Then I started on my way up. The referee stopped counting at eight when I was standing, then came over and took my gloves.
He looked at me and spoke quietly. “I’m gonna stop this fight.”
I focused on him till there was only one of him. “You stop this fight, Falcone will kill you. And if he don’t, I’ll come after you and put what’s left of you in traction.”
He scowled at me and cursed me. “You got a death wish, Irish?”
“No more than the next guy.”
“It’s your funeral.” The referee stepped back, then waved to me and Simbari to mix it up again.
Simbari came on strong this time too, hammering and punching and using his body to knock me around the ring because he thought I was affected by whatever was supposed to be in my water. I staggered like I wasn’t all there, tried to stay covered up, but I took some hard shots that left me scattered. I ended up in the corner, the last place I wanted to be, and covered up as best I could while Simbari rained fists on me.
Then the cap’n stood just outside the ring. “Okay, Mick. The bets are in. Put this mook on his back.”
I reached back for everything I had left in the tank. I knew there wasn’t much. I hoped there would be enough. That’s all I wanted, just enough to see me on the other side of this fight and leave me the strength to stand. It didn’t have to be pretty, just done.
Getting the rhythm again, I slipped one of Simbari’s punches, stepped in close so that my face was pressed up against his sweat-covered chest, then hooked my arms in his and spun us around. Simbari pushed his gloves up between us and shoved, but that was fine because I’d wanted some distance once I’d gotten us turned around.
He hit me with a fast left, coming at me quick as a hummingbird, and even if I’d tried to block that punch, I’d have never gotten to it in time. I rolled with the punch, staggered for just a minute, then I stepped into him and went to work on his mid-section. I hit him with everything I had, powering lefts and rights into his ribcage and stomach, feeling stronger with every blow I landed.
There wasn’t no place for Simbari to go when he tried to escape. I caught him on my left shoulder, then pushed him back into the ropes again and continued pounding away like I was chopping wood. He bent over my shoulder and slammed his gloves against my back, but I didn’t let off. Finally him and the referee both grabbed hold of me and shoved me back.
I backpedaled, light on my feet again, and claimed the center of the ring. I looked at Simbari wobbling there, staring at me in disbelief. I just grinned at him.
Outside the ring, the crowd froze. They knew something had happened, but they wasn’t sure what. Chinese faces were mixed in with the others now, and I spotted Tu Li standing close to Falcone and Luciano. Neither of them Italian gangsters was looking happy, and Falcone was looking a little scared.
Any bravado I might have felt wasn’t gonna win me the fight, though. I concentrated on Simbari as he came at me. I blocked and defended, and gave him just enough punches back to keep him wary. Him knowing that something was wrong, that I wasn’t as looped as I’d pretended to be, had put him off his feed. He was more careful now, and that kinda worked against me. While he was careful, he was gonna fight smarter.
“What’s the matter?” I taunted him, barely able to spare the breath to get it done. “Surprised I can still fight?”
Simbari growled curses at me and tagged me with another left I couldn’t get out of the way of. I stepped into him again, ducked, and worked the ribcage, crushing him with blow after blow. He pounded down on me, trying to knock me down, then he stepped back, trying to get down there with me. I hit him as he was moving and caught him between steps, throwing him off and causing him to stumble back.
I didn’t let up on him. I kept my punches short and tight, hitting him each time with everything I had. His whole body shivered under the impacts, and so did mine. I drove him like a sixteen penny nail, one bit at a time, taking satisfaction with every step I forced him to go back.
A minute later, I had him on the ropes again, and I pounded him good. The referee stepped in between us and forced me back. I returned to the center of the ring and waited for Simbari like I had all day.
The crowd stayed quiet, but Sandbag and the crew was cheering to beat the band. I listened to them and it was music to my ears.
Simbari took a little longer to come back at me this time, and Falcone was up outta his seat yelling at his fighter. Tu Li stood nearby and showed no expression at all, just smoking calmly on his cigarette.
I knew there couldn’t be much of the round left, and I didn’t want Simbari to have time to rest, or to make a mental adjustment so maybe he wouldn’t be second-guessing himself. I’d worked hard to beat that fear into him. I was determined to keep it there.
I went after him, and when I reached him, I laid into him with combinations, with short jabs and punches that kept him on his toes. He was still fast enough to hit me, and strong enough to hurt me, but I gave back what I was getting. A lot of the defense was forgotten, we was just slugging it out, and one of us had to go down.
He caught me with an uppercut that sent my head reeling. My legs didn’t move as quick as I needed them to and I almost went down. Smelling blood, Simbari came at me. But I had Father Tim and Patrick in my head, and I knew I had what I needed to beat him.
I stood there and took another shot to the face that broke my nose. But I went at him too, hitting him with two left jabs that popped his head back and left his chin hanging in the breeze.
That was when I closed the show. I stepped into him and delivered a straight right to his jaw that twisted his jaw around and then corkscrewed his knees into the floor. Simbari’s eyes glassed over before he fell, and I knew he wasn’t getting back up.
I looked down at him a second, then walked on trembling legs back to my corner. The referee was slow about counting Simbari down, but it didn’t matter. Simbari wasn’t coming outta that for a while.
Finally, when the referee counted ten reluctantly, I walked back out into the ring. The referee wasn’t happy about lifting my hand, but he did it. As he held it the
re, I pointed my other glove at Falcone, letting him know I saw him.
I knew Havana wasn’t gonna be a safe place for me to hang around.
Epilogue
A couple days later, Wide Bertha was loaded and ready to set sail. The cap’n made sure I didn’t have too much work to do because I was still healing up. I still couldn’t breathe through one side of my nose and it hurt to move, but I knew that would pass.
I wished I could have taken Estefania out to breakfast before we left, but the cap’n said that probably wouldn’t be safe, for me or her, and I didn’t want her to get hurt.
So we gathered on the ship’s deck, seated on crates, and eating the breakfast Estefania had brought from one of the Greek restaurants. It hurt to chew, but she’d brought pastries so that made things a little easier.
“Are you sure you and your father are gonna be okay here?”
She smiled at me and nodded. “Yes, we will be fine. From what I have heard at the club, Falcone has more problems than just trying to get back at you. Or me, for that matter. Luciano bet heavily against the Chinese on the fight. Falcone is having to pay off those losses.”
That made me feel better. “You and your father could come with us.”
“No. This is our home, Mick. My father loves this place. He would be lost anywhere else.” She looked at me sadly. “And this is my home too.” She patted my bruised hand. “You are not ready to settle down anywhere. I see that in you. You need to follow that big heart of yours until you are at peace with yourself.”
I didn’t know if that would ever be the case, but I didn’t tell her that. Some days it just felt like whatever was broke in me, that piece of me that was designed for permanence and roots, would never be fixed. Maybe as permanent as I would ever get would be Wide Bertha and her crew.
But that was okay with me. That small world inside the bigger one made me happy. Right now, with all the winnings we had from Falcone and all the side bets Sandbag and the others had placed on the fight, we was flush, setting high, wide, and handsome.