by JJ Zep
Joe pushed me aside as a Z came charging up behind us between the rows of cars. He waited till the Z was almost on us then opened a car door. The man crashed into the door and Joe instantly grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, pushed him inside and closed the door after him. “Get out of that, dumb ass,” Joe said as the Z vented his fury at the inside of the car window.
I’ve never seen anyone move as quickly as Joe Thursday, except maybe for Virgil Pratt drawing his silver plated six-shooter.
twenty two
“Where was I?” Joe said. “Oh yeah, Dr. Gish. She was a highly respected child psychologist before all this went down, you know. And she has a special bond with Ruby. You’ll understand that when you see them together.”
“I’m glad that Ruby has someone who cares for her,” I said, but I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of jealousy, that someone else had a bond with my daughter that I would likely never have.
“It goes beyond caring, amigo. Dr. Gish is the only one who can see past these kid’s special abilities. She relates to them as kids, not as assets, which is how the likes of Rolly Pendragon view them.”
“What are these special abilities, Joe? Does anyone know?”
“We’re not sure. We think it may have something to do with the frequency that Zs transmit when they’re in a group, you know that crazy humming…”
“You hear that too, I thought it was just me.”
“No, it’s very real. We think these kids somehow have the ability to disrupt the frequency and turn the Zs on each other.”
“But where does that ability come from? Does it have anything to do with Ruby’s…with the conditions of her birth?
“We don’t know Chris. We know very little of Justin or Fiona’s medical history, so we have nothing to draw any conclusions from.”
“But...”
“Aw Christ, here we go.”
For a moment I thought Joe was talking to me, but then I saw the black helicopter come into view at the side of the highway. It hovered for a while and then swung around so that its guns were trained directly on us.
“Mr. Thursday,” a voice boomed out from the chopper, “I’ve been instructed by Mr. Pendragon to bring you to Pendleton immediately. I’m going to have to ask you to put down you weapons and lay down on the ground.”
I looked around for an escape route and there was none. The section of highway we were on had a steep embankment to one side and an equally steep drop to the other. There were cars and trucks for us to hide behind, but if the chopper decided to open up with its guns, let alone its rockets, we had no chance. I looked towards Joe and he shook his head and averted his eyes.
“Mr. Thursday,” a voice repeated, “I’ve been instructed by Mr. Pendragon to bring you to Pendleton immediately. On the other hand, Mr. Pendragon can go and fuck himself. Give ‘em hell, Joe!” The chopper ascended and then banked and accelerated away from us. Joe obviously still had friends on the inside.
“Somebody up there must like us a lot,” Joe said. “And I don’t mean just that chopper pilot.”
We continued east and by the time we crossed the L.A. River it was almost dark. The highway did a split here and we veered right. “This is where we pick up some wheels,“ Joe said. “How you feeling sport?”
“I’m good,”
“Not too tired? You look bushed.”
“I’m ready to push on if that’s what you mean.”
“Good, good.”
“Why the sudden concern about my well being?”
“You look a little piqued, that’s all. We haven’t eaten all day.”
“I’m fine.”
We walked a bit further in silence with the dark gathering around us. We hadn’t seen a Z in some time and when I mentioned this to Joe he shrugged and muttered something under his breath. We’d now reached the off ramp and before we descended, Joe stopped me with a hand to my chest.
“When was your last fight again, Chris?
“What, you mean pro fight?”
“Yeah.”
“That would have been Casey “Kid” Cohen at the Paradise Ballroom.”
“You win?”
“Forth round TKO. Why all the sudden interest in my boxing career now?
Joe ignored the question, “And you’re still in pretty good shape right?” He said, shuffling his feet and throwing a few shadow punches at my abdomen.
“I guess. What’s this about Joe?”
“Let’s walk and talk,” he said, pushing me towards the off ramp.
“So what’s it we need to talk about, Joe?”
Joe was silent for a while then he said, “Remember how I said, I could get us some wheels? Well…”
“Take another step and I’ll ice you motherfucker,” a voice barked from the darkness.
“Oh boy,” Joe said.
twenty three
“Don’t shoot man, we’re here to see Julio.”
“And who the fuck say’s Julio wants to see you, white meat?”
“Just tell him it’s Joe Thursday.”
“Joe fucking Thursday. What kind of a name’s that, homes?”
“Tell him, I got a fighter for him.”
Suddenly, all of Joe’s questions about my state of health and boxing prowess made sense. “Joe, what the hell is this?” I said.
“Shh,” Joe whispered, “You want to get Ruby, we’re going to need some wheels. Don’t worry, they’re a bunch of Saturday night sluggers. You’ll take them easily.”
“What you guys whispering about back there?”
“You going to get Julio or what?”
“I don’t think I will, homes. We got a full card tonight anyway, so take off ‘fore I start shootin’”.
“Fine,” Joe said, “and next time I swing by this way. I’ll be sure to let Julio know I found him a former world middleweight champion and you wouldn’t let us through.”
It was quiet for a while and then the voice spoke again from the darkness, “Who you got back there?”
Joe elbowed me and I shouted out, “This is Chris Collins.”
“Chris “Cruisin’ Collins,” Joe added.
“Well, I never heard of you.”
“You heard of Julio Cesar Chavez?” Joe said.
“Yeah.”
“Well this guy beat him.”
“No shit,” the man said, and then after awhile, “Wait there.”
“Joe, what the fuck’s going on?” I asked.
“Relax,” Joe said, “These gangbangers run this fight club, kind of a friendly rivalry now that they have to work together to keep the Zs out of their neighborhood. This guy Julio is leader of the Zoots. He’s a bit of a sports nut, loves his golf, loves the fights and collects all kinds of sporting memorabilia.
“The rival gang is called the 38 Specials. Each gang puts up a couple of fighters and they run a little tournament. You know how it is with these guys, lot of prestige riding on the outcome. So I figure we slip you in as a ringer in exchange for a couple of motorcycles. You bang some heads and we ride out of here to Yorba Linda by sunup.”
Joe really did have it all figured out. The only problem was, I was underweight, out of condition, nursing several injuries that hadn’t fully healed and hadn’t boxed or sparred in over three years. Oh and I’d also been walking all day in the blazing sun and hadn’t eaten hardly anything in twenty-four hours. Other than that I was in peak condition.
“Hey, Joe Thursday, how you doing you cocksucker?” a voice called from the darkness.
“Pretty damn good you spick motherfucker.”
“Ramon tells me you got me a championship boxer back there.”
“Chris “Cruisin’ Collins, in the flesh.”
“How come I never heard of this guy?”
“Are you kidding me? This guy whipped Oscar de la Hoya’s ass.”
“Thought you said it was Chavez.”
“Yeah well, what do I know? You spicks all look the same to me.”
After a while Julio said, “Come on do
wn you white putana.”
“Fuck you very much you bean dip greaser.”
twenty four
“I ain’t givin’ you two bikes for this pimp ass, white motherfucker, homes,” Julio said. “He won’t last two minutes in there with them .38’s. They’ll give him an ass-whipping like he ain’t had since his mama caught him playing with his self.”
“Trust me on this compadre, Chris here’s the one going to be handing out the ass-whipping.” Joe said, then to me, “Show him your moves.”
I was stripped to the waist, standing in Julio’s living room with a few of his lieutenants, plus his wife and several kids looking on. I did a half-hearted shuffle and threw a few hooks and jabs.
“See what I mean,” Joe said, “I’m telling you, this guy’s the shit.”
“I don’t know about this,” Julio said.
“Okay, okay,” Joe said. “How about I sweeten the deal?” He picked up the putter he’d taken from the golf course and presented it to Julio like it was a royal scepter.
“What the fuck is this?”
“This, my friend, is a putter that used to belong to Tiger Woods.”
Julio took the club and inspected it suspiciously. “This here’s a Callaway,” he said. “Everyone knows Tiger uses Nike.”
“This is from earlier in his career,” Joe said, “Which makes it even more valuable.”
“It’s all fucking bent, man.”
“What can I say, even the Tiger has his off days.”
“And it’s got blood on it.”
“Yeah sorry about that, had to use it on a Z.”
Julio thought about it for a while then passed the club to one of his lieutenants. “Okay.” he said, “I’m gonna stake you on this, homes, but only cause we friends. But don’t come cryin’ to me your boy gets himself dead.”
“But I still get the bikes right, Even if he gets killed?” Joe said, then grinned at me. I wasn’t sure I appreciated the humor.
We left Julio’s house in a convoy that consisted of three Porsche Cayman SUVs escorted by about twenty off-road motorcycles. The streets of East L.A. were alive and buzzing with people. There were fires burning in drums on every corner, and many of the street cafes and food stalls were open. There were also armed patrols out on the streets and occasional gunshots could be heard.
“Zs know not to fuck with our barrio,” Julio said from the front seat.
After a short drive we arrived at a large building with a domed roof, set in a park with a football field, a soccer pitch and a baseball diamond. Unlike the rest of the neighborhood this building was lit up and there was a crowd outside, a big crowd.
“When you said fight club,” I said to Joe, “I was expecting a punch up in some parking lot, not Madison Square Garden.”
“You’ll be fine,” he said, sounding a whole lot more confident than I felt. I’ve never been a nervous fighter, but that’s because I have always worked hard on my preparation. Right now I was not only in no condition for a boxing match, I was probably not even in great condition to mow the lawn. Plus I had a sneaky feeling that the guys I was going to be facing were not going to exactly be in my weight division.
This was confirmed when we entered the dressing room and I saw three guys that had to be heavyweights. Not quite up there with Big George Foreman in size, but close.
Now, I should explain something about myself as a boxer. I am essentially a counter puncher, which means I like my opponent to bring the fight to me. I’m quick on my feet so I generally do well against sluggers, drawing them in and evading their bombs, then scoring with jabs and combinations. I’ve scored a couple of knockouts and TKO’s in my career, but that’s not really my game.
As a right-hander I also fight in an orthodox stance, meaning left foot forward, left-handed jabs, setting up the opponent for harder shots with the right. In the last year of my career, my manager Blaze had brought in a trainer who’d tried to convert me to a southpaw. It felt unnatural and I’d hated it at first, but being able to switch stances had won me a couple of fights, including that TKO against Kid Cohen I’d told Joe about earlier.
Today, I said a silent thank-you to Blaze and that trainer whose name had been Sully Seymour. My right wrist had not yet fully recovered from my run-in with Zelda back in Pagan. There was no more pain, but it wasn’t yet strong enough for me to be throwing big punches.
I changed into a pair of green shorts, similar to those I’d worn as a pro fighter. When I asked Joe about boots and gloves he casually mentioned that there weren’t any because the fights were “freestyle”, meaning that kicking, head-butting, kidney punching and shots below the belt were all allowed.
“Fantastic, Joe” I said, “You’ve just got me into a brawl with some hardcore brawlers.”
“I have faith in you, amigo,” Joe said.
“You’ve never even seen me fight. How can you be so sure?”
“One loss in twelve as a pro, how bad can you be?”
“Two in twelve,” I corrected him, “And that was boxing, with rules and a referee, not some free-for–all.”
“Quit pissing,” Joe said, “You can whip these gorillas with one hand tied behind your back.” The three ‘gorillas’ he was referring to looked over at us with murder in their eyes.
“Thanks Joe,” I said. “Now you’ve gone and made them angry.”
twenty five
By the time I got into the ring it was standing room only in the hall. The rules of the contest had been explained to us back in the dressing room. Each gang put up three fighters and the winner of each fight held the ring. So if I won the first fight I’d immediately have to take on the second fighter, if I won that, the third. If I lost, one of the other Zoot fighters would take my place. The rules of combat were equally simple, no biting, eye-gouging or hitting a man on the ground. Otherwise, pretty much anything goes.
The ring announcer had now stepped in and was doing the intros, sounding like a Hispanic Michael Buffer. All I could make out was Chris Cruisin’ Collins, New York City, Julio Cesar Chavez and Oscar De La Hoya. Boos rang out from the crowd.
“What’s he saying?” I asked Joe.
“He said you whipped Chavez and de la Hoya’s asses.”
“You know that’s not true, right?”
“I don’t think the crowd does.”
My first opponent was making his way to the ring. Half of the crowd, those from the .38 Specials, were cheering, the other half, the Zoots, jeered.
The guy facing me was the biggest of the three goons I’d seen in the dressing room, they obviously wanted to finish this quickly. The big guy was bald and flabby and covered in tattoos. He stood flatfooted in the ring and threw a couple of haymakers then shuffled into his corner and stood glaring at me.
“Right Chris,” Joe said. “I want you to get inside, soften him up with body shots, no head-hunting, you hear.”
“Joe,” I said, “Do you know anything about boxing?”
“No.”
“Then shut the fuck up and let me do my job.”
The ring announcer was just finishing his introduction of my opponent, and I thought I caught the name, Mano. The crowd jeered and cheered in equal measure.
The bell was sounded and Mano came charging out of his corner as I’d expected him to. I easily avoided his initial swing and danced passed him, tapping him in the kidneys for good measure. While he blundered into the ropes, I switched to southpaw, right foot leading. The switch confuses many fighters, but not Mano, he charged forward swinging a wild roundhouse punch that I got under. I landed a big left below the belt and Mano folded like origami, opening himself up. I drove the top of my head into his jaw and I knew he wasn’t getting up.
Of course, in a normal boxing match, I’d never have gotten away with it, but they’d called the rules and I was just playing by them. I didn’t think that I had enough in my damaged right hand to finish a fight anyway, so I was just playing the odds.
Mano was carted from the ring to cheers from t
he Zoots and jeers and curses from the Specials. The next fighter was ushered in, a black guy, with a much better physique than Mano but with a similar, charge and swing, technique. I finished him off quickly, this time foxing him into a corner, getting inside, putting the top of my head against his chest and working his lower abdomen with a flurry of punches. This time even some of the Specials cheered my win.
But the victory came at a price and I could feel my right wrist throbbing under the bandages. I got Joe to unravel and re-wrap them more tightly while my next opponent made his way to the ring.
If I’d got some of the Specials on my side with my last victory, that support soon evaporated now. The man stepping into the ring was obviously a crowd favorite and a cheer of “Arturo! Arturo!” went up amidst jeers from the Zoots.
Arturo was smaller than my two previous opponents but still bigger than me, maybe a cruiserweight. He looked in good shape and as he went through his paces I could see he’d boxed a bit. I could also see that he was a leftie, which meant I’d have to switch to my natural orthodox style and rely on my damaged right hand. As a converted southpaw, going up against someone who fights that way naturally, would have been stupid. I did however have one trick up my sleeve courtesy of Sully Seymour.
The bell sounded and Arturo moved confidently into the center of the ring, not charging, but flat-footed nonetheless. I stayed back, wanting him to come to me and he took the bait, pushing out a couple of right jabs then feinting with the left trying to get me to open up my abdomen. I danced away again and let him come to me, slipped a couple of right jabs, then dropped under the obvious left hook he tried.
And so it continued him chasing me and me ducking and diving. The crowd started getting impatient and giving us the slow handclap and Arturo started getting impatient and careless. He caught me a couple of glancing blows and opened my lip with a head butt when he managed to clinch me. But he wasn’t landing the big meaty blows that a brawler like him lives off and it was frustrating him. His shots were becoming wilder and he had stopped jabbing and was relying solely on roundhouse swings.