12 Rounds

by Lauren Hammond

  Cleveland Rocks!

  Cleveland Rocks!

  Okay, okay.

  I get it. Enough with the bullshit.

  Moonlight drips down from the star-filled sky and coats the street with a soft light. The light of the moon combined with the street lamp makes the darkened road seem brighter. Gun shots ring out in the distance and the sound is welcoming, familiar. It's almost like music for someone like me. Someone who spends most of their nights on street corners in the bad part of town.

  I know what most people think of guys like me.

  They think that I’m a scumbag.

  A bottom feeder.

  They think I’m the lowest form of a man.

  A good for nothing ex-drug runner mixed up in a ring of corruption, blow, (yes the white powder) , and illegal activity.

  What I’d really like to tell them is to fuck off. Well, that and that I’m none of the things they think I am. Fuckin’ hypocrites. All they want to do is judge.

  I’ll tell you what I’d ask them if I had the chance. I’d ask them what they wouldn’t do for the people they cared about. I’d ask them if they wouldn’t get down on their knees to grovel before Lucifer himself if it meant you could save who you loved most in the world. I don’t know why I think about asking because I know exactly what they’d say…

  Anything.

  They’d do anything.

  I like to think most people would.

  I’m no different. With both parents gone, I did what I had to do for my sister and myself, and I hate it when pretentious assholes judge me for that. I used to see it all the time. I’d walk in to a restaurant or a store, and people would take one look at my tatted up arms, facial piercing, and cold distant eyes and assume I was a punk. Their eyes would sweep over me, disgusted scowls on their lips, then they’d turn their heads.

  That’s right, I’d think. Turn your fucking heads before I knock your damn teeth out.

  I know.

  I have anger issues.

  I’m working on it.

  Truth is, I’m just a guy who fights for what matters most to him and what matters most to me—is family.

  Or what’s left of mine anyway.

  When I was about seventeen, Connor Doyle, my boss took me under his wing. He showed me the ropes of hustling drugs and making a profit. He told me, “Son,” then swept his arm out in front of him, “Some day you'll be running these streets.”

  At the time, I'd gazed out at the abandoned buildings, empty streets, and junkies living in cardboard boxes in a nearby alley, and thought to myself; Who the hell would want this?

  Seven years have gone by and I still think that.

  I don’t run the blow anymore, but I am the one who picks up the cash from a new runner. I’m sitting in an old, beat up navy Chevy Mini Van, parked underneath one of the flickering street lamps. Complete with a My kid is on the honor roll at Shaker High bumper sticker.

  Yes. I’m a God damned genius.

  The five-o never suspect a mom with an honor roll student.

  This drop is taking longer than I expected it to. I’ve been parked on this street corner for thirty minutes waiting.

  Watching.

  Waiting.

  Impatiently tapping my fingers on the dashboard.

  I watch the cars that slowly drift by, their puttering mufflers spitting out clouds of gray smog. Watching the hookers stroll across the corner a half a block down, hoping that the car that just pulled up next to them isn’t an undercover. And last but not least, hoping that this transaction with Murph, the drug runner Connie has working this part of town, comes up with correct amount of cash, and I don’t have to explain to Connie where his missing money is. Also, so I don’t have to punish Murph for the missing money.

  And by punish I mean put a bullet in his fat head.

  Trust me, that’s not something I want to do. I like to think most people would rather not shoot another human being, let alone their best friend.

  But sadly, when you pledge your loyalty to the brotherhood, your ability to make choices like that fly out your car window as you coast down I-80.

  Murphy O’ Fallon is a huge mother fucker. At six feet six inches and three hundred pounds, he stands out in a crowd and moves pretty damn slow too. We’ve been best friends since the second grade when I first moved here from Ireland. A couple boys in my class thought it would be funny to pick on the new kid. Until Murph came along, grabbed two of them by the collar, and asked me if I was all right. Even as an eight year old Murph towered over the other second graders and nearly doubled them in girth.

  Hell, I was terrified of him at first.

  He’d sit in the back of Miss Pierson’s second grade class and crack his knuckles, way too big for his desk, looking like he stuffed himself into the seat and it was going to break beneath his weight at any second. I automatically assumed he was the one who’d be picking on the smaller kids.

  But I couldn’t have been more wrong about Murph.

  He’s tough when he has to be, but other than that most people would call him a gentle giant. And after the moment he came to my rescue in the second grade, well, we’ve been best friends ever since.

  The sound of jingling change cuts into my thoughts and I avert my attention across the street. Murph waddles toward me, the dim light from the street lamp flickering off his round, bald head and he’s yanking on his over-sized jeans, trying to secure them around his hips. He’s got a brown paper bag shoved in his right pocket and something gleaming and silver fills my gaze. God damn it.

  Murph props himself up against my window and I can’t seem to stop looking at the shining aluminum foil wrapped around the half-eaten burrito in his right hand. “A burrito, Murph. Really, a fucking burrito, now? You do know that Connie hates when his money is delivered late, right? You were supposed to be here thirty minutes ago.”

  He takes a huge bite of the burrito and a dollap of sour cream gets stuck in the corner of his mouth. He flicks his tounge out, licks his lips and the says, “I was hungry man.”

  I groan and shake my head. “You’re always fucking hungry.” Murph shrugs nonchalantly because he knows it’s the truth. Then he glances around warily before sliding the brown bag through the window. I eye him cautiously. “Did you count it?”

  He takes another bite of his burrito. “No, man.”

  “Jesus Christ,” I huff and spill the contents from the paper bag into my lap. “For future reference, my friend, always count the money.” I gather up the bills and sift through the cash, counting hundred after hundred. You never know when a junkie is going to try and stiff you. And I know Connie better than Murph does. I’ve seen the man put a bullet into someone’s skull over a missing fifty. The man is very particular about his money.

  Murph is new at this. Which is why he’s running drugs. That’s how all the members of the brotherhood start out. You start as a runner and work your way up with experience and age. I used to do what Murph does. Until he came along and replaced me.

  I could have killed him when he went to Connie and told him he wanted into the brotherhood. “You don’t know what you’re fucking asking,” I shouted at him. “You don’t want this kind of life!”

  “I do!” He shouted back and gave me a shove. “What else is out there for me? Huh, Sean? I’m not college material and you’ve got to be fucking high if you think I’m working a lame ass nine to five just so I can live paycheck to paycheck!”

  I lowered my voice and shook my head, then stared at him deadpan. “Murph, you don’t know what you’re fucking asking.”

  He insisted he did and I dropped the subject after that.

  I wish I could have told him if I had a chance to take it all back I would. I would have found another way to keep me and my kid sister together without taking Connie up on his offer. After all, my Ma, God rest her soul, never wanted this life for me. She’d always say, “You’re so bright, Seany. I can’t wait to see what you make of your life.”

  I’m a shitty son.
r />   And I’ve let Ma down.

  I’m sorry, Ma.

  So, so Sorry.

  Sometimes I wonder what she’d think of me now. And if she’d hate what I’ve become. I wonder what she’d say if she ever saw my mug-shot that hangs on the wall at the brotherhood’s meeting spot. To them, mug-shots are like trophies in glass cases. If you’ve earned one, you should be proud.

  You’re a criminal.

  A God damned felon.

  How many arrests?

  Two?

  Wow.

  Cue the applause.

  Congratulations.

  Here’s a bundt cake and a certificate, accompanied by a pat on the fucking back.

  There were plenty of times where I would have liked to voice my opinion. The first time I was released from prison to Connie’s smiling face and outstretched arms, I wanted to ask him what the hell he was so happy about, but I didn’t. I swallowed the question, guzzled it down like a frothy Guinness and let it sit in my stomach to intoxicate me.

  You don’t ask those kind of questions to the king pin of the brotherhood.

  Unless you have a death wish and want to find yourself at the bottom of the Ohio River with a rope tied around your ankle and a brick tied to the end of that rope.

  And in the future I know I won’t ever ask.

  I like living and breathing.

  I’m not interested in dying anytime soon.

  I come to the last bill in the wad Murph gave me and pinch the bridge of my nose with a frustrated sigh. “Damn it. Murph, you’re a hundred bucks short.”

  His eyes widen. “What?” Then under his breath he mutters, “Shit.”

  “There should be five large here.” I narrow my eyes and stare up at him, trying to read him. Sometimes runners think they can get away with pinching some cash. They blame it on the customers. They say they got shorted. The runners who’ve done it in the past are now the dearly departed.

  Murph is sweating bullets. He drops his burrito and begins touching himself frantically, emptying his pockets and by his reaction I know he didn’t take the cash. For one thing, the massive mother fucker dropped his burrito. And I know Murph has never wasted a miniscule morsel of anything edible. “I don’t know, man!” He continues patting down his pockets. Secondly, I’ve known him long enough to know he’s trustworthy.

  “Relax,” I tell him and reach into my wallet. I pull out a crisp, new hundred dollar bill and add it to the stack. “Just remember next time. You got it?”

  Murph swallows and wipes his forehead. “Yeah, man.”

  “And be on time too,” I mention as I start the engine to the minivan. “I’ll cover for you this time, but you’ve got to remember this shit.” If he wants to live to see the next day.

  And the day after that.

  And the day after that.

  He nods.

  “Plus,” I add, “now I’m late for training. And when Joe starts bitching at me, I’m gonna blame you.”

  Murph chuckles and waves me off. “Shut the fuck up, bro. Joe will never believe you. That old fart fucking loves me.”

  He does too. He tells me all the time, “That big friend of yours worries about you. I think it’s nice that he cares enough to look out for you.”

  Sometimes I’d like to tell Joe that I don’t need Murph looking out for me. I’m twenty four years old for Christ sake, and I’ve been on my own taking care of my sister and myself since I was seventeen. But I never say anything. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I feel loyal to Joe and respect him in a way.

  Joe used to be a boxer in the 1970’s. He never really got anywhere as a boxer, but as a trainer he was pretty damn amazing. I heard a couple of people around the city talking about how he trained some of the greats.

  I remember the day he recruited me. Well, if you want to call plucking a young scrapper off the street recruiting.

  It was about two years ago. I’d been running some blow for Connie and on my way back, I saw some prick trying to rape and assualt a girl.

  During my drug-running years, I’d seen a lot of shit go down and never got involved. I’d seen hookers getting beat up by their pimps. Junkies overdosing on the sidewalk. Runners holding other runners at gun-point. But this situation was different. The girl involved was different.

  She was young, couldn’t have been more than nineteen and innocent looking. She vaguely reminded me of an angel, with platinum blonde hair, pink rosy cheeks, and she wore a frilly white blouse. As I walked past the darkened alley where the fucking pervert had her pinned against a brick wall, I watched her slump over when the burly man slammed her head into the brick barrier. And I’m not sure what made me react, but I knew I had to do something.

  “Hey!” I yelled and took a step into the alley. My deep voice echoed and bounced off the bricks. “Back the fuck off!”

  A grizzly voice shouted back at me, “Mind your own fucking business!”

  I was stunned. I figured that maybe this guy would back off and possibly run away.

  But he didn’t.

  He went even further.

  The moment he pulled the poor girls’ jeans down to her ankles, something inside of me snapped.

  I lost the logical part of me.

  Blind fury took over.

  I snarled, charged toward him, yanked him back by the collar, and started wailing on him. I punched him so hard teeth flew out of his perverted mouth and skittered along the pavement. I kept glancing at the girl and thought that she could have been Teagan, my kid sister, or my Ma if she was alive. Then I pounded the guy harder. Every ounce of rage in my body pumped through my fists, and for a second, I thought I might kill the guy.

  Insert Joe.

  He saw me pummeling the fucking rapist and stopped me. Yeah, that’s right. He stopped me with two sentences.

  The first one was; “Do you know what they do to rapists in prison?”

  I eased up off the unconscious guy and held back a laugh. Why a laugh? I’m not quite sure now that I think of it, but I assume it was because I felt like he stole the question right out of my brain. My guess was a whole lot of anal research.

  Second was; “That girl needs a hospital.”

  Shit. I let my anger get the best of me. I completely forgot why I was punching the prick in the first place.

  At first I was pissed, you know? Pissed that Joe decided to butt in and make me stop. I kept thinking if I kill this guy, so what? That’s one less rapist and pervert that the women in this area have to worry about. With the drug cartels and branches of the mob, this area has enough problems as it is.

  Subtract a rapist.

  Then add in me, a criminal, I mean hero.

  I think the citizens would appreciate my random act of nobility.

  But when I scooped the limp girl up in my arms and her head rolled into the crook of my neck, I knew Joe was right.

  She needed a hospital.

  And she needed one fast.

  I drove her in silence, but she started to regain her consciouness. I stared at her face, now complete with a bloody lip, bruised cheeks, and a black eye. She stirred in my passenger seat and I gripped her hand. I massaged my thumb over the area between her thumb and forefinger and murmured, “Don’t worry. You’re safe now. Everything is going to be all right.”

  She passed out on me again a second later.

  At the hospital, I carried her through the emergency room doors and a heavy set nurse with short black hair greeted me.

  A team of doctors and nurses came together to work on the angel girl, and the nurse stopped me at the double doors, a stern look in her steely gray eyes. “Are you family?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then you can’t come back here,” she snapped and rushed toward the doors.

  “But I found her!” I screamed.

  “Sorry, kid. Family only!”

  Then the nurse disappeared through the double doors.

  After I left the hospital, I went back to the scene of the crime to find Joe, pr
opped up against the side of one of the buildings. The rapist was gone. “What did you do with him?”

  Joe pushed off the building and walked toward me. “What do you think? I called the cops. They came and got him and I covered for ya.”

  I laughed. “You told them you beat the shit out of him?” If I was a cop I wouldn’t believe Joe could cause that kind of physical damage to a man. Whether he used to be a boxer or not. The man wasn’t an inch over 5’3. And he’d aged quite a bit since his boxing days. He told me this after the fact. Plus, I’d seen pictures and newspaper clippings.

  “No kid, I told them what I saw. I told them I saw him trying to rape the girl and that the kid who knocked him out took her to the hospital.”

  When I thought about the whole situation, I realized I could have called an ambulance, but at the time that thought had slipped my mind. “And my guess is that they’re going to want me to come down for questioning.”

  “You got it kid.”

  I kicked a rock across the alley and muttered, “Great. Just fucking great.”

  I liked to avoid the cops at all costs.

  And I’ll never forget what Joe said after that. He said, “You’ve got a hell of a right hook, kid.” He stood next to me and patted my shoulder. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen someone throw a punch like that.”

  Those two sentences changed my entire life.

  Murph shoves his hands in his pocket and rocks on his heels. A vibration in my pocket pulls me from my thoughts and I whip out my cell, thinking it’s either Joe or Connie. It’s neither. It’s my sister Teagan. I hit the silence button. I’ll call her back in the morning.

  Tee has this weird notion that if she talks to me before bed sometimes it helps her sleep. I don’t know why she thinks so. My voice is deep. Thick. Harsh, with a slight Irish lilt. I assume maybe she likes hearing me because my voice is familiar to her. Or could remind her of happier times.