by Jeremy Brown
I held my fighter ID by the thick black lanyard and showed it to any security guard who looked at me twice. It would have been easier to just hang it around my neck, but I felt like there wasn’t any room what with all the clamped hands—Carrasco, Rubin, Eddie—I think I even felt a finger or two from Antonio, checking my pulse.
As we went deeper into the cinderblock hallways lined with production equipment and sponsor stockpiles, the arena began to feel like a sanctuary. The hype banners fell away, replaced by framed evacuation diagrams and pieces of paper taped next to bright red prep room doors, fighter names written in black Sharpie. The rooms were big enough for multiple fighters to get ready but each paper held only two names.
This was where my work started.
I wasn’t dumb enough to think we couldn’t be followed. Rubin and his men could flash badges. Carrasco’s could produce something even more effective—cash. I didn’t care. The whole point of agreeing to the Coluna was to keep Eye Patch and the others away from Marcela, so if they wanted to try to keep up with me, fine.
We found my door first. The sheet of paper had three names written on it. The first name was Wallace. Below that Arcoverde had been scribbled out and replaced with Preston.
Jairo’s opponent.
“What the hell?” I said.
Jairo didn’t seem surprised. “My father must have called them.”
“No. You and I are in the same room.”
“He will not allow it.”
“Hold on.” I stalked past the other doors, found Jairo’s name on the last one, as far away from me as Antonio could get him. The other name on the sheet was Aviso.
“You’re shitting me.”
Jairo didn’t say anything.
“I don’t want to seem dramatic here, but do you think your father would talk to Aviso and his trainers, let them know my game plan?”
Jairo paused, gave the question a furrowed brow. “I think, if he believes you will benefit from learning a lesson, he will do what he thinks is necessary for you to learn it.”
So Antonio’s fingers weren’t checking my pulse.
They were looking for pressure points.
Weak spots.
And they were pushing.
I found some poor guy with a marker and made him redo the names. He kept looking at Jairo for confirmation that I wasn’t trying to get him fired.
Inside our prep room, Jairo said, “He will move me again.”
“That’s up to you, not him. No matter what, you’re stepping into that cage with a new strategy.”
“Woody. I can’t fill my head with new things the day before the fight.” He shook spread fingers around his shaved scalp, still waxy under the fluorescents. “It’s already crazy in here, everything scattered and bouncing around.”
“I know, brother.”
The room was a forty-by-forty square of painted concrete with thin carpet and exposed steel beams twenty feet above our heads. The front left and back right corners were set up like conversation pits with short black leather couches arranged in a square around tables covered in water bottles and fruit. An open doorway in the back left corner led to a three-stall bathroom with two showers.
The floor along opposite walls was lined with a double run of sparring mats, plenty of room for both fighters to get warm and work on strategies, use the wall to simulate the cage. That left a swath of no-man’s-land about twenty feet wide down the middle, more than enough for the pacing, celebrations, and consolations when the show was over.
Tables along the back wall were stocked with sponsor equipment—shorts, shirts, gloves, headgear—for fight teams to take home.
I found the right sizes for Jairo and shoved them into his arms, told him, “You’ve taught me so much about grappling, jiu jitsu, submissions, escapes. Worked with Gil to make sure I didn’t do anything too stupid, and told me how to survive when I did. Saved my ass against Burbank and Zombi. I’ve tried to repay you by helping with your striking. The right distance. How to use your knees, elbows.”
He nodded.
“Now I’m going to teach you the most important aspect of my fighting. The thing that gets my hand raised while the other guy’s gets tapped for an IV.”
He looked worried. “What?”
“How to forget all that shit and just fight.”
“I am Preston,” I announced.
We were on the mats along the left wall, both of us suited up in the sponsor gear and clothing like we were filming a how-to video on selling out. I threw a slow right jab and shot in, wrapped my arms behind Jairo’s knees and got ready to drive him backward for a double-leg takedown.
“Now what?” I said.
Jairo sprawled, dropped his hips onto my shoulder and shimmied to his left, got his back against the wall and stopped. I still had his legs and was staring at the mats, waiting.
Nothing happened.
“What’s going on up there?”
Jairo said, “This is the plan. You saw it at the academy.”
“Yeah, and I still don’t know what you’re doing.”
“If Preston goes for a takedown, I get my back against the cage and stay upright. I wait to hear what my father is saying.”
I swore into my headgear. “And what’s he going to say?”
“I don’t know. It changes.”
“It changes?” I let go and stood up. “What’s that mean?”
Jairo wouldn’t look at me. “He wants to spend the first round watching how Preston is trying to fight me. The second round, we will try different things, see how he responds. The third round is for picking one strategy we think will work and executing it.”
I took a deep breath. “I’ve seen Preston fight. The first round, his way of fighting you will be trying his damnedest to knock you stiff with that right hand. That fails, he’ll dump you on your ass and pound your face into the canvas. Rounds two and three, rinse and repeat.”
“I won’t let him do that.”
“How?”
He spent way too long adjusting his gloves. “That is for my father to decide.”
“Jesus, I’m starting to get depressed. This is like watching a lion at the zoo—every fiber of his body wanting to stalk, chase, tackle, devour—but the handler keeps saying, no, you just lie there. I’ll tell you when you can eat.”
Jairo didn’t respond.
“Then another lion comes into the cage and attacks. The handler says, wait, let’s see if he uses his teeth or his claws. Jairo, I’ve never seen you get in a bad position. No matter what random shit happens, you always end up in a spot where you know what you should do. You get side mount, work to get a knee on his chest. From there you get the mount. Then a submission. You did it to me hundreds of times when you came to Vegas. Hell, I knew it was coming and still couldn’t do a damn thing.”
He nodded.
“So why, all of a sudden, should it change?”
“Because this is different than jiu jitsu. You said it yourself.”
“No, I said this isn’t a jiu jitsu tournament. This is fighting. You don’t worry about points or progressing to the next match. You pack yourself like a cannon and fire into your opponent’s face. I’ve seen what you can do when you’re pacing yourself for a long day of training. What happens when you know you only have fifteen minutes to live or die?”
“Okay.”
“No, scratch that. Not fifteen minutes. Preston doesn’t deserve three rounds with you. He’s a lamb in a lion’s cage. He gets one round. Five minutes. How much damage can you do in five minutes?”
Jairo smiled. “A lot.”
“Says who? Your father?”
“Says me.”
“Well let’s see it.”
We stepped away from the wall and I shot in for another takedown.
The ceiling looked very interesting as it passed.
Gil stood in the doorway to the prep room, looking between his phone and me and Jairo sprawled on the couches in the front left corner.
He c
hucked the giant duffel with our gear into the room. “Huh. The text you sent me says, ‘At the arena. See you before presser.’”
I emptied my sixth water bottle and cracked another, tossed one to Jairo.
Gil said, “I don’t see anything here about you and Jairo beating the shit out of each other. What’s that on your forehead?”
“Wall burn.”
He accepted this. “Either of you seriously hurt? Anything that’ll make the doc pull you from the fights?”
Jairo and I looked at each other. He had a little goose egg under one eye from a stray elbow and was rubbing one of his knuckles, which had found the top of my head in a scramble. I had my forehead patch and tired arms from slapping the mats to absorb takedown impacts. All in all, a damn fine day.
“We’re good,” I said.
“You’re idiots. You think Antonio was pissed before, you should see him now.”
Jairo stopped massaging his hand. “You spoke to him?”
“I listened. He’s not interested in conversation right now.” Gil pulled a smaller bag from the duffel and tossed it at Jairo. “You’d better get cleaned up. The press is starting to roll in, and Eddie has half the room set up for you.”
Jairo rose from the couch and stood over me. He held his fist out. I bumped it with mine. He carried the bag into the bathrooms. A shower kicked on.
I said, “Where’d you get that bag for him?”
“Told you. I talked to Antonio.”
“You went to the academy?”
“Somebody has to try to make peace, Woody.”
“You see Marcela?”
“She’s fine. And no, I was not able to make peace, in case you’re interested.”
I shrugged against the leather couch. “If he wants to apologize, I’ll accept.”
“He does not feel the same way.”
“I’m not sorry for trying to help Jairo. He and I made a lot of progress in here, but I can’t say we undid all the damage. Antonio fucked his head up, man.”
“Yeah, well, Antonio says he was fine before you showed up.”
“He wasn’t. He just didn’t know how to tell his father he was doing it wrong.”
Gil hesitated.
“What?” I said.
“He also told me Jairo was fine before you took him to that place. The Axila da Serpente.”
“Are you serious? He’s still talking about curses?”
“Whatever it is—doubt, fear, a damn curse—he’s different. You can’t deny that.”
“The past few hours, in this room, the Jairo we know came back. It was like when he was in Vegas, strutting down the Strip and blowing the walls out of the gym. Untouchable. Antonio should have been here watching instead of bitching to you.”
“If he was here, I don’t think it would have happened. He told me he switched rooms.” Gil stepped into the hallway and checked the names next to the door, came back in massaging his temples, mumbling to himself. “Well, that’s going to be interesting.”
“No way am I sharing space with Preston,” I said. “And if Antonio wants to whisper in Aviso’s ear, he can walk his ass down the hall to do it.”
“Careful,” Gil said. “Things are dicey right now, but that’s still Jairo’s father. My mentor.”
“He’s acting like a spoiled brat.”
“No, he’s acting like a man who has spent decades earning respect and the right to do things the way he sees fit.”
“Jairo’s earned that right too. So have you.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Sure it is.”
Gil cocked his head, leaned into the hallway again. “Fuck, here he comes.”
I stood up in case of attack.
Antonio stopped in the doorway. He wore black pants and a white button-down shirt, crisp lines head to toe, and carried a small white canvas bag that might have been green when it was made during one of the World Wars.
He nodded at Gil, took his time staring to the left, where the sheet with our names was.
One eyebrow twitched.
Without looking at me, he said, “You are no longer allowed to see Marcela. I will tell her good-bye for you.”
He walked away.
Simple.
12
I tried calling Marcela twelve times after showering and before getting dressed for the press conference. Each time it went to voicemail.
I texted her: Call now.
When five seconds passed and she didn’t call, I told myself it was because she was teaching a class.
Not obeying her uncle and on her way to forgetting about me.
Not stuffed into the trunk of a car and on her way to Carrasco.
Teaching a class.
I paced the prep room and started sweating again.
Gil watched me from the couch, his head turning like an oscillating fan. “Take it all and put it toward Aviso. That’s all you care about over the next twenty-four hours.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“I find the truth easy to say. And your fight is the only thing you can control, so why waste energy on anything else?”
“Antonio wants me to lose this fight.”
“Maybe. Take it out on Aviso.”
“Telling me I can’t see Marcela.”
“Hey, maybe so Aviso can date her.”
I stopped pacing. “Did he say that?”
“No, but did it work?”
I thought about it. “Yes.”
“Good! Picture that—the two of them, laughing about you. Your jiu jitsu, your gross scars.”
“Gross?”
“You ever write her love letters, anything really sappy?”
“They aren’t sappy.”
“Sure.” Gil tugged at his chin. “Okay, they’re laughing about the way you kiss.”
“Jesus.”
“And they’re laughing about it while they’re kissing.”
“I’m starting to get miserable here.”
“You fight better when you’re miserable. You’re a beast. Hey, you think Aviso would put Marcela up on the billboards with him?”
“You’re gonna get this guy killed.”
Gil checked his watch. “Time for the press conference. You get close enough to Aviso, maybe you can smell her.”
It worked.
I forgot about Antonio, Rubin, Carrasco.
Until I saw all three of them about five minutes later.
I stalked out of the prep room and followed the waving arms of men in red blazers through a door that led to the backstage side of a giant black curtain.
The noise from a large crowd buzzed on the other side.
A short woman wearing a headset and Warrior Staff shirt grabbed my arm. Her laminated photo ID badge told me her name was Carol. She pulled me into the line of fighters waiting to go onstage, arranged according to where we would sit.
I was in front of Preston and behind a Japanese kid named Okari, who was challenging a water bug Brazilian named Leandro for the featherweight title. Aviso was somewhere in front of all of us. I caught a glimpse of him talking to Jairo, rubbing my brother’s shaved head.
Preston nudged me. “Hey, no hard feelings when I put it on your boy tomorrow, huh?”
He was three inches taller than me and built like a power-lifter—thick torso, slaughterhouse slabs of lats and traps. He had deep-set eyes and little cauliflowered ears stuck onto his flat-topped head like an afterthought.
“Not now,” I said.
Carol pulled the curtain aside and let us out. We filed onto the platform below a dizzying, floor-to-ceiling Warrior backdrop. There was a pit of reporters and cameramen in folding chairs in front of the stage. Behind them, stadium seating rose into the darkness below the roof, at least four stories high.
The crowd roared and jumped right into Portuguese chants. Eddie waited at the podium, centered between two long tables. All the Brazilian fighters were seated on his left, foreigners on his right. So it was Okari, Eddie, and Leandro between me an
d Aviso. I could trip over the bantams on my way and Eddie might get stuck in my teeth, but that wouldn’t stop me.
I leaned forward and back to get a good look at Aviso. He smiled and waved at the crowd, slapped the Brazilian guys on the shoulders and posed for photos. He was loose, having a good time.
The balls on this guy, yukking it up when he was about to get locked in a cage with me. I turned away before my feet carried my fists across the dais. The curtain was still pulled aside and I locked eyes with Antonio Arcoverde, standing at the edge of the shadows, hands clasped behind his back. His expression was flat, dead.
Behind him, Gil was talking to Detective Rubin. Three men stood off to the side in civilian clothes, watching everything. Rubin glanced at me. He didn’t smile or wave.
Shit. He’d said he’d be around during the pre-fight circus, but why was he talking to Gil? And what was he telling him? If Rubin told him I’d been lying, that not only was I still planning to run the Coluna but that I was also working with Rubin to bring Carrasco down, I’d know it when Gil’s hands clamped around my neck.
Eddie leaned into the microphone and started rolling hype. “All right guys, take a seat. How you doing, Rio?”
The response ruffled my shirt. Each fighter had a wired earpiece for the various interpreters and a pair of water bottles. You could tell who was still cutting weight—they shoved their water aside or under the table so they wouldn’t stare at it.
I checked Gil and Rubin again. Rubin was explaining something, his hands pressing and squeezing the air. The other three guys were gone.
Eddie said, “Whoa, you’re gonna blow the color out of my hair. This crowd knows what’s up.”
They cheered louder, stomping and singing and waving giant Brazilian flags that slapped five rows of people who didn’t seem to care. My eyes were drawn to a gap in the frenzy, in the first row of seats above the reporters’ pit. Two seats in that row held the only people in the crowd sitting down.