by F. X. Toole
Sykes didn’t like it, but he went to the beaten boy, whose eyes were still half goofy. The most Sykes would allow was to pound one of the other boy’s gloves.
“Yeah,” Sykes said. But under his breath he muttered, “Cracker, I get you dawg-mess momma, too.”
Mr. George heard the last part, and said, “Ain’t this a bitch.”
He would be glad when the tournament was over, so he could quit Sykes’s common ass altogether, and get back to his real fighters. By now, the only reason he stuck was because he’d given his word to the lawyers to see Sykes through the tournament.
Farrell had a tough fight with a left-hander like himself, but won by unanimous decision. Chicky went to Farrell’s dressing room to congratulate him.
“You did good, pods.”
“You, too,” said Farrell, and added, “Who’s this Sykes dirtball?”
“Some jailbird hails from Houston.”
“He’s built like a brick shithouse, awright,” Farrell said, “but can he handle sout’paws?”
“He’d best.”
The next day, Saturday, the second round of the tournament followed weekend procedures. Weigh-ins were at eight a.m., and included a physical exam. That gave boys time to eat and rest before the first fight at noon. Out-of-towners would return to their motels and cheap hotels. Some stayed with relatives. Eloy and Chicky had gone home the night before, and at dawn the old man had used the last of his morphine. He had a pocketful of money and would see Trini later that day for more painkiller. He was calm as he drove into town, but after the weigh-in that morning, his habit began to jitter through him. He’d wanted to make a buy, but Trini had taken off.
Trini said, “Later.”
“But what about my you-know?”
“Later, damn! What don’t you understand about wait?”
Eloy began to fret as he drove Chicky to the Cattle Drive Hotel. He fed the kid what was billed as the “Longhorn Breakfast” at Crockett’s All-Nite Barbecue Palace downstairs. Fear of pain and his growing need for the Lullaby Lady had him talking to himself, had him picking at dried-up gum stuck underneath his side of the booth.
“Eat,” Eloy told the boy, though he couldn’t even think of food. “Put some meat on your ribs.”
He checked Chicky into a room upstairs after breakfast, and had to sit down. Chicky would drink iced tea with lemon and rest until eleven-thirty. Eloy had grown sicker over the last year, but had stayed away from Doc Ocampo—there was no way he’d cop a plea about being strung out to the old man. He knew that what ailed him could not be cured. Son cosas de la vida, fate, destiny, whatever. As he sat in a brown overstuffed chair, the view of his beloved San Anto through the hotel room’s window was blocked by a newer, taller building. He felt sick as a gut-shot buck, but tried to remain calm.
Afraid that he’d vomit, Eloy left. “Rest,” he told Chicky. “I’m walkin down to the cathedral, light us some candles.”
That was a lie. He tried to phone Trini as soon as he was out the door, but there was no answer. He drove over to the tournament, but no dope dealer. He went to his truck and drank Popov vodka from a paper cup, and hoped no one would smell it on his breath. He chewed a handful of Rolaids, hoping to make sure, then swallowed half a tin of Mexican aspirina.
The tournament was packed. At one forty-five p.m., Sykes overwhelmed a boy who had come all the way from Texarkana. He had a good record, but he’d had easy fights. Unprepared for Sykes’s onslaught, he was first put on his heels, then flat on his back. The ref didn’t bother to count. Mr. George urged Sykes to go say something sportsmanlike to the beaten boy. Sykes went over, but when he didn’t look at the boy as he banged his glove, the audience saw Sykes’s bad manners and hooted him. He started shouting back, but the ref stepped in front of him, and, shaking his head, ushered Sykes back to Mr. George.
In the dressing room, Mr. George took Sykes aside. “Didn’t you mamma teach you nothin?”
“I won—what you want?”
“Yeah, you did, but you lose sometime and you watch you lawyer money dry up like a dead skunk in the Pecos sun.”
Sykes held his taped hands up and boasted, “I’ont worry about it, I got these.”
Mr. George said, “Don’t never leave ‘em home.”
Following Sykes’s fight, Farrell also had it easy. His opponent had the chinky-shaped blue eyes the Poles had brought into Texas, eyes donated way back by Genghis Khan and his golden horde. He was a farm boy from Bandera, and had worn his dusty black cowboy hat outside the ring while standing by. He was proud of it, and of everything it represented, but because of Farrell’s two left shots to the liver, he was unable to meet the bell for the second round. The boy’s daddy was his coach, and stomped on the black hat when his son could not continue.
“I tried, Daddy.”
The boy’s daddy had immediately realized the hurt he’d unintentionally caused, and cursed himself for one dumb redneck sumbitch. He quickly hugged his boy to him, kissed his neck, and said that he was proud the boy had made it this far. It was hard for him to talk, but he gritted it out. “What say we head for Paris Hatters, and after we git you a new Stetson, we could get us a few thousand Pearl roadies for the ride back home and some of Momma’s venison steaks?”
“I’d like that a lot, Daddy.”
Chicky was next to fight. He had a tough opponent, a typical fast-moving Eastside black fighter who made Chicky miss more than he was used to. Chicky stood in the center of the ring after the last bell, and worried a ton while waiting for the decision. He got the win by a slim margin, and said a silent prayer of gratitude. He hadn’t been rocked at any time, and was never worried about the other boy’s power, but Chicky’s dug-in, stiff, wide stance had limited his ability to navigate the cardinal points of the squared circle, and he was unable to corner his slippery target and explode on him. He knew he wouldn’t have to go looking for Farrell or Sykes, and was grateful for that. Dissatisfied with his showing, he was nonetheless grateful for his power, and felt he had more pure juice than Sykes. Farrell was another thing. He had power to burn, plus experience. Being a left-hander like Chicky would make it tough for both of them. A short, stocky boy named Sal Torres from Eagle Pass would be included in the final four opponents going to the Semi. Torres’s left hooks to the body had separated ribs and temporarily paralyzed his first two opponents. He was considered the dark horse to win.
Chicky took a shower and weighed himself. He was down to 141, but still in the 147 -pound classification. He needed carbohydrates and potassium. While he was dressing, Eloy sought out Trini. Trini knew what Eloy was after.
“When can we have a sit-down?” Eloy asked.
“I’ll wait around here. Go take care of our boy.”
Chicky walked the half mile to Crockett’s barbecue with Eloy. He skipped a meat dish, and ordered two glasses of grapefruit juice. After that, he had double servings of corn bread, beans, and bread pudding that was made with cinnamon and raisins and served in a lemon sauce that reminded him of his granny’s lemon meringue pie.
“You still miss her?” Chicky asked. He didn’t have to explain who her was.
Eloy picked at his uneaten fried chicken, and slurped up his sugar-laden coffee.
“All the time ever’ day, ‘n more n more. She’s what kept me honest.”
Eloy’s transactions with Trini humiliated him, but without them he couldn’t get through the days or the nights. He’d croak if Chicky ever learned what he was up to, so he seldom spoke to Trini when Chicky was around. Just as he thought of Dolores daily, he constantly thought of ways to aid and protect Chicky. One of those ways was to keep Chicky from knowing how little time he had left to live, and his nasty ritual with a needle. Shame, he thought, shame was what his Lola had told him he’d lost. But if he’d lost it, why did he still feel it? A sinvergüenza was someone who was without shame. In Spanish, being called shameless was worse than being called a whoreson, a motherfucker, and a puto cocksucker to boot. S-s-sinvergüenza made Eloy
stutter, but once he had Chicky resting safely in bed, he went searching for Trini at the San Nacho.
Eloy didn’t see Trini’s bust-out ‘78 Monte Carlo lowrider in the parking lot. Hoping for a note from Trini, Eloy checked under Fresita’s windshield wipers, then went inside the arena.
“He better come through, he’s gotta come through.”
The tournament was winding down for the afternoon, and the cleanup crew was already preparing for the Semi scheduled for that night at seven o’clock. Eloy had the all-overs and started to sweat. He checked everywhere for Trini, and when he didn’t see him, the all-overs got worse. He went back to the parking lot and found Trini sitting in Fresita. Eloy was sure he had locked the truck.
Eloy said, “What the fuck’s this?”
Trini smiled. “What’s what?”
“How’d you get in?”
“Tricks of the trade, ése.”
“Don’t fuck around. You got my arrullo, my lullaby?”
Trini shook his head. “I made calls all over town. Looks like things is dried up for two more weeks, ése.”
“Things never dried up before,” Eloy protested.
“Things is tight, my nigga. When it opens up, the price’ll be jacked way up and there’s no tellin when it’ll cap out.”
Eloy stayed as calm as he could. “You got to have one pinche frasco, one fuckin vial.”
“Not even for myself, baby, just that rank, dark shit from Mexico, that’s what I’m sayin, my brother. I’m sick, too.”
“Who else got some?” Eloy asked, a note of desperation in his voice.
“Nobody, nadie, nadie, fuckin nadie,” Trini replied. “Go see your croaker to write you a scrip.”
“He wants me to go to detox and eat fuckin green vegetables.”
“These fuckin doctors is cold.”
Trini loved these scenes. He’d been on the wrong end of enough of them to know how Eloy felt. So fuck Eloy, the cholo prick. Trini hadn’t made any scratch off of Chicky yet, so he had to get paid somewhere, right? Bidness was bidness. Besides, he could see from Eloy’s yellowing eyes that the sick puke wouldn’t be around for long. Trini was just joking about raising the price. He had to have some fun; that was only reasonable. The more Trini thought about it, the more righteous he felt.
Eloy said, “How ‘bout I see you later?”
Trini said, “I’ll keep my feelers out, but only because we go way back, you and me. But things is hot, okay, mi Lobo Tejano?”
Eloy said, “See you at the fight. Take care of my boy.”
“Be cool,” said Trini.
“Yeah,” Eloy muttered. Something inside his liver was blinking on and off, and breathing got hard, and puke stung the back of his throat.
Trini got into his car and drove off, the muffler hanging loose. Once he was around the corner, he began to laugh. “Dumb fuckin Messkin.”
Passbooks had been turned in, the weigh-in was over, names had been drawn, procedures had been strictly adhered to. The most important thing was to protect the fighter, and Lamar Steuke was there to guarantee it. Chicky and Sykes would fight the Semi from the red corner, but in different rings, and both would share the red dressing room with a score of other fighters. Sykes drew Farrell from the blue corner, and would go first. Chicky, going second, got Torres from the blue, and the Cavazos got busy with Chicky on how he could nullify Torres’s body shots.
Mr. George and the Cavazos kept Sykes and Chicky occupied to prevent any sudden ignition between them that could disqualify one or both before the Semi began. Sykes was the kind who could find something wrong with moonlight, and was deep into being poor little Cyrus.
“Why it be me gets that wrong-handed white boy?”
Mr. George had been trying to explain the proper way to move on a southpaw, but Sykes was unreachable.
“It the luck a the draw,” Mr. George explained.
Sykes snarled, “Fuck a draw, nigga, I suppose to have that right-hand beaner boy.”
Mr. George tried one more time to get through to him. “Listen at what I’m sayin ‘bout feets.”
“Fuck you feets, I been set up!” Sykes looked like he was on the edge of a meltdown.
Mr. George decided that Sykes just didn’t get it, never would.
Sykes and Farrell were the first of the welterweights, and it soon became obvious that Sykes had trouble with the left-hander. Sykes tried to make a street fight out of it, but Farrell kept his right foot outside Sykes’s left foot, controlling him. Farrell pasted him with jabs and wasn’t there when Sykes came blasting in with both hands. Farrell was ahead on points with all the judges after the first round.
In the corner, Sykes was breathing hard. Mr. George tried to calm him first, then tried to get him to think. Sykes first had to establish who was boss of the canvas, and then throw right-hand leads, and come back with his hook. It was too much for Sykes, who had only one way to go— reverting to the streets and attacking more like a gangbanger than a boxer.
“I’ma kill that honky and his dawg.”
The bell rang, and he charged from the corner like a mini Mike Tyson, but Farrell pivoted out of the way. When Sykes came around, Farrell hit him with a quick right-left-right combination that knocked Sykes down, his first trip to the canvas ever. He tasted blood from a cut lip and began to shake. Mortified that a white boy had knocked him down, he let loose a high, keening wail that bounced off the hard walls. The crowd keened back. He took the mandatory eight count on his feet, and roared back at Farrell, who continued to pepper him with jabs. Sykes tried to wrestle him down at one point, and the ref was there to step in and penalize Sykes with a one-point deduction. The crowd hooted at Sykes and went into a frenzy of whistles and spit. They hated the mayate black shit-bug for the crappy sportsmanship he’d shown in all his fights.
“Hipócrita!” a stooped old Southside farmworker shouted. “Hypocrite!”
Sykes didn’t know what it meant, but knew it was bad. “What?” he shouted back.
Sykes went into his pout, and Farrell knocked him down again, hard this time, hard enough to ring his bell. He looked to Mr. George, who tried to signal to him, but the signals were too complicated for Sykes, who got up cursing. The crowd cheered Farrell. Near the end of the round, Sykes briefly trapped Farrell on the ropes, but Farrell spun free and won the round going away.
Chicky, already gloved and warmed up, watched the action from his stand-by position near the dressing room, and saw how Farrell outclassed Sykes. It appeared that Chicky would be fighting Farrell—good, thought Chicky. Sykes and his temper would have been the easier of the two to beat, but Chicky liked going against Farrell again. It would decide who was boss between them.
In the third round, with one eye starting to swell shut, Sykes came out firing to the head. He suddenly dropped down, and with Farrell’s body blocking the ref’s view, intentionally came up full power with a head butt to Farrell’s chin that knocked his head back. Sykes, during the same lifting motion, came up with the heel of his glove, which caught Farrell at the base of the nose, breaking it. Sykes’s fouls happened so quickly that the ref and most of the crowd missed them, but not Chicky, who wanted to squash Sykes like a bug. To Farrell, the nose shot sounded like a bat breaking at Yankee Stadium. Water flooded his eyes, and blood spurted down the front of his white top. He couldn’t see except for smears of light and dark. He didn’t care about the blood, but his face was on fire from the broken bone and he could barely keep his eyes open. He was punching at blurs and shadows, but still managed to whack Sykes so hard that the brother’s eyes fluttered and his mouthpiece cartwheeled across the ring. Sykes grabbed and held, and the ref crossed to separate them. When he saw how heavy the flow of blood was, he understood it meant a broken nose, and right then stopped the fight.
Farrell cut loose, “Nooooo, I had ‘im, I had ‘im!”
Chicky caught up to Farrell on his way to the dressing room. “Sykes beat you dirty, pods.”
Farrell squeezed blood from his nose. �
��Yeah, he did, and the ref missed it. But now you got a shot. Bust up that fuckin dinge for me, okay?”
Chicky touched Farrell’s bare fist with his glove. “I’m gonna tear him a new asshole.”
Before Chicky’s fight, Eloy had motioned Trini down a hallway and around a corner.
Trini looked over his shoulder, whispered, “I been callin my guys.”
Eloy asked, “You got some, right?”
“No way,” Trini said, but gave Eloy eight hard, sixty-milligram number four white codeine tablets. “It’s like from my own stash because I know you’re hurtin, homes. You can gag ‘em, or you can cook up, but your face might swell.”
Eloy left Trini standing there, went at a half run to Fresita, where he chewed four of the pills and downed the bitter paste with cheap vodka.
It was five minutes later, and Chicky was in the ring. He looked nervously for his grandpa. Eloy entered and waved from the main entrance. Chicky nodded, felt safe again, and went to the center of the ring for instructions from the ref. Moments later, he returned to his corner, dropped to one knee to make the sign of the cross. He banged gloves with Trini and Paco as the bell rang. Eloy was feeling better already.
Torres came out and quickly tried to go to Chicky’s liver and ribs with his wide left hook, but Chicky’s jab and foot position took it away from him. Torres saw he couldn’t get the hook off, and tried with a straight right behind three stiff jabs. He was a good and quick fighter, and Chicky saw that he must watch his every move, slip or block Torres’s every shot.
Chicky was winning the first round on jabs to the body as well as to the head. Halfway through the round, Chicky unloaded with a left-hand lead, then came back with his right hook. The simple but crushing combination cold-cocked Torres, who lay on his face, his lips twisting involuntarily up from his teeth, his eyes twittering. The ref called the fight immediately, and the doctor sailed into the ring. It was several minutes before Torres revived and Chicky went to him as he slumped on a stool in his corner.