Anaconda Choke: Round 3 in the Woodshed Wallace Series

by Jeremy Brown

  She frowned. “So I have to worry all day today. We will go from here back to my home. We will stay there until he comes tomorrow, and I will tell him not to leave until you are on the plane.”

  “If Carrasco comes to the house—”

  “You will do nothing. You told my uncle you would not. And now you will tell me.”

  I stayed quiet.

  “So you lied to him.”

  “I told him what he wanted to hear. And if Carrasco never shows his scrawny face again, I’m the guy who shooed him away.”

  “And when he does show his face? Because he will, Woody.”

  I looked into her tan eyes and didn’t say anything. Watched the hurt cloud them over, the anger roll in.

  She pulled her hands loose and walked away.

  Eddie waited at the top of the stairs like I was late for his dirty look.

  “You really throw my banners away?”

  “They’re down there somewhere.”

  Kevin and Philip were moving cameras and lights around. Antonio stood with his hands behind his back, staring at the marks being made on his green mats. Jairo, Javier, and Edson were halfway through their warm-up.

  Eddie said, “That cost is coming out of your fight purse.”

  “I did you a favor. You want to connect Warrior with the tradition here, you have to show the tradition. Not some vinyl you got printed this morning.”

  “I’ll let you make it up to me. I need ambient gym noise. Like there’s a shitload of people here training while we shoot Jairo.”

  “You want the class from downstairs?”

  “The girls?” Eddie said. “Yeah, let’s have giggling and squealing while my new prospect for the heavyweight belt makes his debut.”

  I wanted to make sure I heard that right. “Your what?”

  “Hey man, I don’t bring a fighter on unless I think he has a chance to wear the strap. Especially a heavyweight, and especially a guy who’s almost thirty. This is rare air you guys are breathing. Jairo does well on Saturday, he might get fast-tracked to a shot. A Brazilian champ would bring in millions of eyeballs down here and overseas. The look on your face, I bet you’re thinking, Where’s that leave me?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “That leaves you in a spot where you shouldn’t have torn my banners down. And you better show me something amazing against Aviso, you want that number-one contender tag. Now get with Gil and do some pad work and rolling in the background so I can wrap this up and get out of here.”

  I ground my teeth together so they wouldn’t sink into his face.

  “And no swearing,” Eddie said. “It’ll be good practice for your gig at the WarriorDome.”

  “Hey. You might want a Rubin of your own around full-time, make sure I don’t throw you out on top of the banners.”

  Eddie frowned. “Who the hell’s Rubin?”

  “We’re ready over here,” Kevin said.

  Eddie pointed at me while he walked away. “Don’t fuck this up more than you already have.”

  Gil stepped up with my training gloves and the focus mitts. “Was Eddie’s face on any of those banners?”

  I took the gloves. “No, why?”

  “Figured we could cut it out, tape it to one of the mitts for you.”

  He held up the mitt on his right hand.

  “Eddie.”

  The left.

  “Aviso.”

  “Switch ’em.”

  “My my. Eddie gets the left hook today?”

  “Aviso will get it enough on Saturday.”

  I got to work. Carrasco’s face wasn’t on either of the mitts.

  Add it to my list of mistakes.

  We went through jab, jab-cross, jab-cross-hook, threw in some slipping and bobbing. When I was warm we added low kicks and knees, focusing on speed and accuracy.

  Gil made sure the cameras weren’t on us—no reason Aviso’s camp should get a free preview. He ditched the mitts and took a stance similar to the Brazilian’s. Left leg out in front, body leaning back with his hands low, just above his waistline.

  When Aviso did it, he looked like a statue of a Greek god.

  Gil’s version was closer to a drunk gorilla.

  He recited the mantra he’d developed for this fight: “Do not attack the head.”

  “But it’s right there, man.”

  Didn’t matter how many times he said it or made me pay for ignoring it. My instincts and muscle memory howled to go after that pumpkin, seemingly unprotected.

  “You know what happens,” Gil said.

  “Yeah yeah.”

  “Alright, let’s skip right to the part where you ignore me and do something stupid. I’d like to think we don’t need to address it, but let’s be honest.”

  I didn’t have an argument, so I leaned forward and took a slow swipe at his face, floating there like an exposed balloon begging to get popped.

  At half-speed he ducked underneath and wrapped me in a neat double-leg, hooked an ankle and planted me on my back. He dug a knee into my belly—unnecessary, but noted—slid it off and settled into a full mount, his thighs clamped against my ribcage and the crown of his head wedged under my chin.

  He ground his head against mine while he moved his knees into my armpits, straightened up and planted his heels against my hip bones.

  Again, his face was right there, begging to get smacked. Aviso was taller and his face would be farther away, but I doubted that would diminish my desire to cave it in.

  “If this happens,” Gil said, “the laws of physics and the history of all things from the beginning of time dictate Aviso will armbar you. It’s just a matter of time. And if he armbars you, he will break your arm.”

  I tried to squirm out the back door, toward his heels. No good.

  I bridged and bucked and tried to roll him off without using my arms, but he was too high up on my chest.

  “Worst case,” he said, and started slapping me in the face.

  I chomped my mouthguard. I hated this part.

  Not the slapping—I barely felt that.

  What came next.

  I covered my face with my forearms, as if Aviso was raining down the punches and I couldn’t take it.

  Gil didn’t waste any time. He hooked his left arm through my right so the insides of our elbows were touching, pulled my arm straight and clamped it against his ribs. His left foot landed next to my right ear and that knee compressed my head against the mat.

  His right foot came into my left armpit. His left foot stepped over my face and met his right. He kept my arm pinched between his thighs and my thumb pointed toward the ceiling as he fell back, lifted his hips and pulled my arm down toward his chest like a slot machine lever.

  I tapped.

  Gil released the pressure but kept my arm. “Faster, Woody.”

  He didn’t mean the drill.

  “He gets your arm and starts to fall back, you tap. Don’t wait for his hips to rise, and if he pulls your arm down it’s too late. Snap. You’re in a cast for two months.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “I know you don’t, and I don’t care. I’ve let you get away with a lot of dumb shit, getting your face blasted apart too many times to count, but I won’t budge on this. He gets your arm, you tap. Say it.”

  I growled something that would have made Philip vomit if his mic had picked it up.

  “Woody,” Gil said.

  “He gets my arm, I tap.”

  “Good.” He let go of my arm and rolled to his feet, pulled me up. “Let’s go through Plan A: Don’t get taken down in the first place, because you listened to your trainer and did not attack the head.”

  “That’s a terrible name.”

  “I came up with a short version. Plan A: Unlikely, but I can hope.”

  “Accurate.”

  Gil checked the cameras again and lowered his voice. “Then we’ll do Plan B: Woody didn’t listen, now what?”

  “I keep telling you, we should just skip to that on
e.”

  “Plan A,” Gil said. “Go.”

  We ran through it a dozen times and took a break to stand behind the cameras while Jairo sparred with Edson. Antonio wove around them like a matador, calling out encouragement and small adjustments.

  That’s what I thought he was doing, anyway.

  Jairo dropped into a low stance, his fingertips brushing the mat as he circled Edson, who seemed to be attempting an impersonation of Tim Preston by puffing his chest out. Jairo moved like a panther sliding through the brush. Antonio said something in Portuguese and Jairo leapt up, threw a front kick at Edson’s face and shot in for a perfect single-leg takedown.

  From there he flowed into side-mount and dropped his full weight onto Edson’s ribcage. He froze, waiting for Antonio to step around so he could see what was happening.

  I shared a frown with Gil.

  Antonio crouched near Jairo’s head, his eyes darting over the situation. He issued a command.

  Jairo patted Edson’s face with a few hammerfists and locked in a kimura that earned an immediate tap. Jairo released the arm and hauled Edson to his feet, everybody smiling.

  “Good,” Eddie said.

  Kevin stopped filming. He joined Eddie at a laptop and they watched what they’d just shot. Javier and Edson trotted downstairs.

  I asked Gil, “Are they putting this out as misinformation?”

  He winced. “I don’t think so.”

  Jairo saw our faces. “What’s wrong?”

  Antonio was already scowling. I didn’t know the rules about second-guessing a grandmaster’s plan in his dojo, but I was likely about to break a few.

  “Is that how you’re going to fight on Saturday?”

  “Yes,” Jairo said. “I am going to make him scared to engage, then I am going to take him down and submit him. Most likely by choking, but arm, leg, whatever he gives up, I will take.”

  I could have left it there and slept fine. “What about the coaching part?”

  “Coaching?”

  “Yeah, with Antonio.”

  The patriarch’s chin lifted an inch. He waited for me to continue dancing through the minefield.

  I said, “Are you going to wait for him to tell you what to do during the fight?”

  “He knows what to do, all times. You listen to Gil when you fight.”

  “Eh,” Gil said.

  I nodded. “But I don’t stop and listen. For one thing, you aren’t going to be able to hear anything. And if you freeze up and wait, Preston will demolish you. He throws that right hand as a reflex.”

  Antonio exhaled through his nose. It took about an hour.

  Jairo said, “We know what we are doing.”

  “That’s just it. You absolutely know what you’re doing—you don’t need to wait for instructions. Just fight, man.”

  Antonio finally spoke. “He should not listen to me?”

  “I didn’t say that. He shouldn’t hesitate so he can listen to you. And if you want him to listen, you better make sure he doesn’t have to wait for it.”

  His eyes widened. “You are telling me how to fight? You are telling Jairo how to fight?”

  “I’m trying to—”

  “The Arcoverdes have won hundreds of tournaments.”

  “Right. Jiu jitsu tournaments.”

  He waited for me to make my point, which I already had. I didn’t want to pull Gil into it. This was my grave, and I’d dig myself out. Eddie, Kevin, and Philip were all watching now, Eddie grinning like a hyena.

  I told Antonio, “This is going to be much different than your tournaments.”

  “Yes. Our opponent knows nothing about Arcoverde jiu jitsu. He has no idea what is waiting for him.”

  Eddie nudged Kevin and whispered something. They both waited, arms crossed, eager to find out if I was as stupid as they thought.

  I said, “Jairo may be your son, but he’s my brother. I can’t let you send him out there to get killed.”

  “You’re going to let me?” Antonio’s hands came from behind his back and pressed together in front of his stomach. “It is up to you?”

  “It should be. I know a helluva lot more about it than you do.”

  Gil said, “Okay, time to go.”

  He grabbed my arm and tried to tug me around.

  I stayed. “We can’t let them go into the cage with this plan.”

  Gil stepped close and spoke through his teeth. “We are going to leave and get some fresh air, maybe some food, because you have obviously lost your goddam mind.”

  “I’m the crazy one? Antonio wants Jairo to call time-out so he can check the fight like a chessboard. Meanwhile, Jairo’s face is getting pushed through the back of his head by Preston’s right. That’s if he doesn’t get knocked out with one shot.”

  “From what I saw yesterday,” Antonio said, “what you call jiu jitsu, you should not be telling anyone a single thing about fighting.”

  Gil said, “I trained him to use jiu jitsu for MMA. It’s different.”

  “It’s disgraceful.”

  I’d seen Gil take some serious shots over the years. Most of them from me. This one hit him square in the chest and knocked the soul right out of him. Now in addition to sending my brother to the gallows, Antonio had slapped my chosen father across the face.

  Grandmaster or not, he’d pay for it.

  I stepped forward.

  Antonio knew what it was. He smiled and dropped into a rigid stance.

  Jairo tried to get between us.

  Antonio barked something that made him jump back.

  “Woody,” Gil said. “Don’t do this.”

  I took a deep breath. Let my hands drop.

  Antonio’s mouth twisted in disdain. “You are not good enough for Marcela.”

  My hands came up again on their own.

  “Shit this is good,” Eddie said.

  I glanced over, realized Kevin had the camera running the whole time on the tripod. I was in profile on the laptop screen, squaring up with Antonio Arcoverde. Behind me, Gil had his hands pressed to his temples.

  I stepped back.

  Antonio looked me up and down. He spat something in Portuguese at Jairo.

  My brother told me, “You find somewhere else to sleep tonight.”

  10

  I’d been in Brazil less than twenty-four hours, and already I’d infuriated the woman I loved, accepted a challenge to fight an entire slum of drug-fueled murderous zealots, and insulted the grandmaster of Brazilian jiu jitsu in his dojo.

  I was beginning to suspect some of it was my fault.

  Marcela was taking a shower when I came downstairs, so she didn’t get to see my thundercloud face when I stomped across the first-floor mats. I stood on the sidewalk outside the Arcoverde Academy, the debris of my actions churning in my wake, and dreaded what I had to do next.

  Ask Eddie for help.

  He came out behind Philip and Kevin, carrying his phone like a tray of champagne while they waddled with cases and bags of equipment.

  Eddie’s cheeks were flushed, eyes bright. “That was intense, brah.”

  “It was a disaster.”

  “Oh, absolutely.”

  “Don’t be happy about it.”

  “Hey, my juices are flowing. Thought it was gonna go down right there. Then they kick you out, man. That’s rough.”

  He shook his head and watched his guys load the rental SUV. He was going to make me ask.

  “I need a place to stay,” I said. “Gil too.”

  He sucked air in through his teeth. “Might be tough. We had to book the rooms for the other fighters months ago, before we announced the event. We knew everything was going to fill up fast. You remember me asking if you needed a room?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You said no.”

  “That’s changed.”

  “I’m not sure the world cares, buddy.”

  I said, “You remember what happened right before you asked me?”

  He dropped the crooked grin. Maybe h
e’d flashed back to the room deep below the Golden Pantheon arena where Shuko had made his nest. Where he’d drugged Eddie, Burch, and Vanessa and prepped them for a marathon torture session before I showed up. I hadn’t walked into that room, Eddie would have been flayed and turned into bone-in steaks.

  “I’m just teasing you,” Eddie said. “You don’t have to go full asshole about it. I got extra rooms at the Promenade, about fifteen minutes from the arena. Where you should have stayed to begin with, by the way. You guys can have one.”

  “Thank you.” I needed something to replace the bitter aftertaste. Fruit juice, gum, gasoline.

  He said, “Hey, least I can do after the footage you just gave me.”

  “Eddie, I’m not in the mood.”

  “I’m not teasing anymore.”

  He climbed onto the backseat of the SUV before I could tell if he was joking.

  I forgot about him as soon as the vehicle pulled away.

  I was looking across the road at Eye Patch and his duffel bag.

  I don’t remember looking both ways before crossing the street. But I did check the sidewalk for more guys with bags, or Malhar, or Carrasco with his scars and cane.

  Eye Patch was alone.

  I got close enough to smell his face.

  He tried to step back but hit the cinderblock wall behind him. “Hello, American friend.”

  “Is it time?”

  “Time for what?”

  “Are we going? Let’s go. You picked a great time.”

  “Is time for you to step back, is what I think.”

  I stuck my hand into the duffel bag. Whatever I grabbed was going into his mouth. Gun barrel or grenade, I wasn’t picky.

  I pulled out an orange.

  We both looked at it.

  Eye Patch said, “You want half?”

  I dropped it into the bag and ripped the flaps open. He had assorted produce and a sack of coffee beans.

  “Are you robbing me?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Shopping for food.” His head tilted toward the bag. “See?”

  “Bullshit. Who are you watching, me or her? And there is a wrong answer.”

  “We just want to make sure you still around, you know? We getting ready, would be a shame for you to run away before.”