The Manager

by Caroline Stellings

“You’ll do fine,” she said.

  And although it was reassuring to know she trusted that I’d do the right thing, I had a sneaking suspicion that when put to the test, I’d probably be better at cleaning the spit buckets.

  Tina pushed open the dressing room door and found it full of naked and semi-naked men. All the fighters on tap for that night had to share one room, and they let out a big roar when we came in.

  The promoter introduced himself, then escorted us out.

  “I’m Mankiller’s manager,” declared Tina.

  The promoter couldn’t stop himself from laughing; I don’t know if it was because Tina was a young woman, or a dwarf, or both. Either way, he found the whole thing funny.

  Tina did not.

  “We’ll need our own room,” she insisted.

  “Forget about it,” he said.

  “Then we won’t fight.”

  Jesse looked puzzled.

  “Which will be too bad for you,” my sister continued, “because after what happened to my boxer in Halifax, the crowd is waiting to see what he can do.” She put down her bags and folded her arms in front. “Mankiller had that fight. Every sports writer in the province has made that clear. And that’s the only reason you’ve managed to put so many backsides into seats in this crummy place tonight.”

  The promoter said nothing at first, then he took us to our dressing room. It was a lot nicer than the first one.

  Tina spoke to him about some of the details of the event, what Jesse’s share of the gate receipts would be, and then asked to see the ringside physician. They went into a little room someplace, where she had to reveal the contents of her miracle salve – those were the rules. She didn’t have to give the exact proportions – those will go to the grave with her – but she did have to disclose the ingredients.

  While I unloaded our supplies, Jesse went for his weigh-in and returned ready to fight.

  Tina wound gauze over Jesse’s knuckles and gave him the dope on who he had to face in the ring.

  “You’re fighting Thunder Donnelly,” she said matter-of-factly. “I’ve seen him in Sydney. He’s an outside fighter, keeps a big gap and moves fast with long-range punches.”

  “Donnelly’s good,” admitted Jesse.

  “You’re better,” insisted Tina. “Keep out of his way, let him throw some pitty-pat punches, then kill him.”

  She wound tape over the gauze, across his fingers, down his hand and around his wrist. My sister had taped so many hands, she could do it blindfolded.

  “Okay, Ellie,” she hollered, “start rubbing his thighs.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. His thighs.”

  I started to shake and Jesse winked at me playfully, which made me shake even more.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Don’t be such an idiot.” She got down on her hands and knees and kneaded the muscles of his thighs to show me how it was done.

  “Hey,” teased Jesse, in a sexy voice, “this is sweet. Two girls massaging me. Keep it up and I won’t be fighting anytime soon.”

  “Shut up,” growled Tina.

  She forced me to rub his legs, but I stayed much further south than she did; his knees were the best warmed up knees in the history of boxing.

  “Let’s go,” said Tina, putting training mitts on each hand and prompting Jesse to start jabbing. The next ten minutes was an unsettling combination of uppercuts, straight rights and left hooks tossed up with a healthy dose of my sister’s screams, hollers and jeers.

  She told him he was too slow.

  She told him he was too weak.

  She told him he wasn’t working hard enough.

  She told him he was nothing but another bozo on the bus.

  Then she tied back his hair, rinsed off his mouth guard, slammed him in the middle of the back and assured him he had the bout nailed.

  “Thunder’s got a short right uppercut,” Tina told Jesse. “Keep him outside, and when he goes for your jaw, hook to his rib cage, then his chest, and when he drops his arm, go for his chin. And whatever you do, Mankiller, take your time. Stick and move, stick and move.”

  When we headed into the arena, coloured spotlights shot at us from above like we were criminals who’d just scaled the barbed wire, and deafening music blasted from a huge long line of speakers. Unlike at Halifax, there were people cheering for Jesse this time; I could hear them shouting his name.

  He looked fantastic as usual in his white trunks and robe, banging his red gloves together and snapping his long ponytail from side to side. Women were whistling and throwing themselves (not to mention their underthings) at him when he passed their seats.

  Tina walked bravely behind; it was hard for her to have that many eyes staring at her, but thankfully, Jesse was the main attention-grabber that night, and most of the gapes were headed his way. I followed her, carrying the ice bucket, the enswell, the spit bucket and sponges. Tina had the salve and potions. And the knowledge.

  Since everything I knew about boxing could be written on the head of a pin, I felt like I’d joined an exclusive club on forged credentials.

  “Okay, Mankiller,” announced Tina. “It’s time to rock.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The first round was as uneventful as a Sunday in Sydney. Thunder Donnelly threw out an uppercut to Jesse’s groin, but he dodged it. Just as Tina told him to do, he let his opponent waste a good deal of energy with long, slow punches.

  After the bell, while Tina whispered a bunch of stuff into his ear, I sponged Jesse’s neck, tilted up his water bottle and let him spit some out, then rinsed his mouthpiece. Exactly the kind of stuff that made my skin crawl back home, but somehow I didn’t mind looking after Jesse. He always smelled good, even when dripping with sweat.

  The second round was much like the first, and finally, by the third, Tina told him it was time to go for the jugular.

  The two fighters met in the middle of the ring, slugging and going at each other so fast now that I couldn’t tell who was getting hit. One of Donnelly’s rights connected with the bridge of Jesse’s nose. Crack!

  The blood started spurting in every direction.

  The crowd went wild. People were jumping on top of their seats for a better look.

  Tina screamed her guts out.

  “Jab with the right, jab with the right!”

  Jesse hurled Donnelly against the ropes, but the bell rang.

  “Damn!” hollered Tina.

  She threw the salve at me.

  “I can’t get it to stop!” I cried, using the cold enswell and then the ice and then the salve.

  “Not like that! It’s not tanning lotion, for God’s sake.”

  Tina pinched the flesh hard, then fingered her ointment right into it like she was stuffing a deviled egg. And the whole time she was cleaning him up, she was shouting instructions at him.

  Now that Jesse’d been cut, it was going to be a tough fourth round. He started out sharp, pushing Donnelly around the ring, but Thunder knew enough to aim for the wound. Then he rammed his head into Jesse’s face. And even when the referee was in the process of breaking them up, Donnelly took another stab at the cut. The referee warned him, but he didn’t care. He’d do anything to win the match, and Tina knew it.

  We cleaned Jesse up again, and the salve was doing its job wonderfully well. Still, the slams that Jesse was taking from Donnelly kept re-opening the wound, and the blood flow was interfering with his vision. It was Halifax all over again.

  “You’ve got the skill, now go for the kill,” said Tina. “Let him have the first one, and when he’s open, stick him with the best left hook you’ve ever delivered.”

  She tossed him back into the ring, and following her instructions to the letter, he let Donnelly throw the first punch, a hard jab that glanced off his chin and left Donnelly wide open for the belt that crushed
his cheekbone and sent him flying.

  Jesse went at him again, this time with a straight right. Thunder staggered backward, and I figured things were going to end right there, but he came back fiercer than ever. He muscled in on Jesse, dropped his shoulder and threw another uppercut to the groin.

  Jesse writhed in pain.

  The bell rang.

  I sponged him like crazy. And I tried to clean up his cuts. Tina didn’t have time.

  “This is it, Mankiller,” she said. “It’s got to be done in this round or we’re going to lose you. I’ve stopped the worst bleeding, but Donnelly’s opening it up every chance he gets. And now he’s going below the belt.” Tina held up the water bottle for him, and Jesse spat it out in one long stream into the bucket. Then he opened his mouth for her to replace the mouthpiece. She kept hollering stuff at him.

  “He’s stupid, Mankiller, and you’re not. I want you to jab with the right – do you hear me, Mankiller?”

  He was dazed and couldn’t talk, but he nodded.

  “Jab with the right, just to push him back, okay? When his shoulder drops for the uppercut – that’s his style, Mankiller, that’s what’s coming next, I know it – when he goes for that uppercut I need you to hook to the head.”

  The crowd screamed like mad when the boxers came back, rushing together and pumping out punches and banging their heads together.

  Jesse was tired, and I could see it.

  Donnelly circled to the right of him, biding his time, waiting for the chance to try another one of his cheap shots. And then, just like Tina said he would, he dropped his shoulder and prepared for the uppercut, but Jesse throttled him with a left hook to his noggin.

  Thunder Donnelly fell backwards against the ropes.

  The crowd went wild. They screamed for the ref to call the fight.

  “They want him to call it so Jesse doesn’t win,” Tina told me, driving her fist into the stool. “If the ref calls it now, they could be tied with points. The judges could even rule for Donnelly.” She cupped her hands and shouted through them as though her life depended on it. “Take him out now,” Tina screamed, “or they’ll hand it to this jerk on a platter.”

  Jesse heard her. He surged forward like a leopard, then moved on him with a devastating series of short, powerful punches, and Donnelly went down like a colossal stone megalith.

  Thunk!

  The referee gave him the ten count, but he could have counted to five hundred, it wouldn’t have mattered. Thunder wasn’t getting up anytime soon.

  The crowd roared so loud I couldn’t tell if they were for us or against us, but I didn’t really care. We’d won, and Jesse Mankiller was going to Portland, Maine, for his biggest fight yet.

  The referee grabbed Jesse’s right arm and held it high in the air.

  In my opinion, Tina should have been out there with him, sucking up some of the glory.

  She was covered in blood, sprayed with sweat and smelled like an old root cellar from that salve of hers, but I was proud of my sister. Really proud.

  —

  “It was a barnburner!” squealed Tina into the phone. “Did you listen to the fight?” Her voice was so deafening, Paul Holley must have thought he’d mistakenly been connected with the ring announcer.

  “They wouldn’t let me anywhere near a radio,” I heard him say. “Where’s Jesse now?” Paul’s voice was loud too, and Tina held the phone out so I could hear.

  “He’s lying down,” answered my sister. “We’re calling from the motel lobby. Sorry it’s so late, but you said—”

  “I’ve been waiting for your call! I don’t care what time it is!”

  “And I’m sorry we had to call collect, but—”

  “I told you to! Enough with the sorries, okay? I’m so happy I could jump right out of this hospital bed.”

  We could hear Louise in the background, giving Paul hell.

  “Mankiller took a lot of punishment tonight,” said Tina. “He’s got to rest up if we’re going to win in Maine next week. Most fighters wouldn’t attempt three bouts in a row, but he can do it.”

  “Yeah, but if he wins the North American title in Boston, he can write his own ticket. He can decide when and if he wants to fight. Until then, you’ll have to keep him in top shape, Tina. If he takes the U.S. title in Portland, I want to be there in Boston for the big night.”

  Louise started arguing with him. Then we heard Paul say, “If I don’t go and watch, I’ll be dead. From boredom!”

  “How are you doing, anyway?” Tina asked Paul.

  “I’m all right. But they’ve been stickin’ so many needles in me, you’d think they were hooking a rug.” He chuckled. “I’m going home soon, though.”

  “That’s good,” said Tina. “Paul?”

  “What is it?”

  “Jesse wonders if you could ask Louise to ask Bonita to check in on his Mom and sisters. They don’t have a telephone, and he’s worried about them. If she could, it would put his mind at ease.”

  “And I want his mind at ease!” declared Paul. “Tell Jesse not to worry over his family, we’ll look after things. And you keep calling me, will you, Tina? I want to be in the loop, do you hear?”

  Louise hollered at him again, but he kept on talking.

  “Say, did you hear about Flyin’ Ryan Byrne, Tina? I read in the paper that he won in Glace Bay. He’s the Eastern Canadian champ now. Look, I gotta go, but keep in touch, will you?”

  We headed outside and walked around the back of the motel to our room. Even though I didn’t like Ryan very much, I was happy for Dad that he had won; when I admitted it to Tina, she grunted something about it being a fluke. Just as the door to our room came into view, a dark blue Jaguar pulled in slowly past us; the driver parked directly behind Brandy, as if he was trying to make sure she couldn’t be moved.

  Two men eased their way out of the Jag, ambled around Bonita’s car and knocked at our room. One of them was ugly enough to cure hiccups, with deep gullies running from the bridge of his nose to the edges of his mouth. The other one was blond and not ugly, but still looked like he’d kill you for twenty bucks.

  “Oh my God.” I grabbed Tina’s arm. “I know those guys. I’ve seen them in Sydney; they’re mobsters. Dad said so.”

  “There you go with your gangsters again,” mumbled Tina, although by the expression on her face I could tell that she didn’t think they were there to collect money for a new church roof.

  Jesse opened the door.

  “Yeah?” he said, leaning against the door jamb.

  “Mankiller, we wanna talk to you.” The blond sounded like his throat was full of phlegm.

  “Beat it. I don’t want whatever it is.” He tried to shut the door, but the ugly one stuck his foot in it.

  “Oh my God, Tina,” I gasped. “I’m getting out of here.” I went to run, but she grabbed my shirt and yanked me back.

  “Like hell you are.”

  “But—”

  “Come on,” she said, dragging me back to our room. I decided that my future was short and black.

  The two visitors had Jesse pinned against the wall, and he was swearing at them to get the hell out of our room or he’d crack open their heads.

  “Shut up, Jesse,” snapped Tina. “Do you want to get yourself killed?” She guessed they were armed, and I’m sure she was right; guys like that wouldn’t be caught without a revolver any more than their girlfriends would be seen without makeup.

  Jesse didn’t heed Tina’s warning and continued wrangling with the ugly one. “There’s no way in hell that I am going to throw a fight for you or anybody else. I don’t give a damn how much money you’ll pay me, and your threats don’t frighten me.”

  “You’re gonna take a dive, Mankiller. If you don’t, you’ll never fight again. Get my drift?”

  Jesse went to belt him, but Tina gr
abbed his arm.

  “Who’s your man in Portland?” she asked.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  The blond answered. “I’ve seen her someplace. Whitney Pier – that’s it.”

  “Yeah,” agreed the ugly one. “MacKenzie’s gym.”

  Did you have to be a dwarf? I thought. Did you have to be so memorable?

  “We’re from France,” I said quickly.

  “Damn it, Ellie,” barked Tina, “do you have to be so stupid?” She took several steps toward the men. “I am Mankiller’s manager, and I decide if he’s going to take a dive or not.”

  “Like hell,” mumbled Jesse.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” continued Tina. “The promoter hasn’t told me who my boxer is supposed to be fighting in Portland. Cough it up!”

  “Judd Stone.”

  “Stone – oh yeah,” said Tina. “He’s got the American title now.”

  “That’s right, sweetheart, and we don’t want anybody walking off with it,” said the blond. “If he doesn’t get the chance to fight for the North American crown in Boston, we aren’t going to be very happy. And our boss isn’t going to be very happy. And when we’re not happy, we do crazy things.”

  “Who’s your boss?” Tina asked.

  They didn’t answer her.

  “We’ll see you in Portland, Mankiller,” said the ugly one, and the two of them left, smiling.

  Jesse threw himself down on the bed. “I won’t take a dive for anyone.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The only part of me that got any sleep that night was my arm. Tina and I were squeezed together in one of the twin-sized beds, which meant I couldn’t turn over. And I was too hot. Neither one of us had the nerve to wear a nightgown, so we slept in our clothes. The heat was the worst kind – thick and sticky; the motel had no air conditioning, the fan made a whiny metallic grinding sound and the threats made by the two thugs echoed from the dark recesses of my mind.

  Tina slept like a log.

  For her, the combination of a profound feeling of accomplishment for winning her first fight as a professional manager, and extreme exhaustion, led her straight to dreamland without a single detour. I was glad she could sleep; I didn’t want her to start thinking about the Ilizarov procedure, although even it wouldn’t have been as bad as what the two mobsters had in mind for us if Jesse didn’t let their guy win.