“No? Ok. Well, then I guess our sweet Danilo will have to get into the cage again. There is a Dark Fights night coming up.”
The image of my brother in the ER appears before my eyes. I recall so vividly him sitting there with his broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, his bruises and cuts.
“Let’s just hope our dear Danilo does not end up like that unfortunate boy. You know the one I mean? They call him Dav. He had his spine broken and will never walk again.” Sergey looks me in the eyes and holds my gaze for a few intense seconds. “You know what I am talking about, don’t you?”
Well, now I know. Dav. The fourth uchi-deshi. Now I know what really happened to him. I try to breathe in and out deeply to keep myself in check, turn away from Sergey, and fix my gaze at one of the silvery bright spots on the Christmas tree.
“Yes,” Sergey pronounces with significance, “yes, that boy had talent, but he was not a true fighter. It just was not in his blood. You should have seen what he looked like when they carried him out of the cage that night. You don’t want the same fate for your brother, now, do you?” He waits for me to say something, to ask questions, but I keep quiet. So he continues, “Yet, I wonder how our sweet Danilo will fare if he gets into the cage again. When was the last time he even trained? Hmm, I guess he’s just too busy partying and drinking. Here, take a look.” And he shows me a few pictures of my brother slumped on a couch next to a couple of girls in party dresses, a drink in his hand and that stupid drunken smile on his face. “Do you think he is in a fight-ready shape? Yet fight he will, for the debt must be paid off.”
Damn it. How I wish I could by some miracle have that money in my hands right now so that I could throw it in this bastard’s face. Twenty-five grand. All I have left in my savings is a couple thousand.
“What if I lose the fight?” I ask after a rather long pause.
“No matter. You get the money, win or lose. I am being very generous with this offer, beauty. And I always keep my word. So, what do you say? Do we have a deal?”
I nod without looking at him.
“I will need you to actually say it out loud.”
“Fine. We have a deal. I will do one fight.”
“Good. We will not have anything in writing of course, but historically verbal agreements are binding in New York, and you may rest assured, I am an honest businessman.” He offers me his hand.
A “businessman” he calls himself. A fucking “honest businessman.” I believe he is a mobster. Perhaps that word is not even used these days anymore. They all call themselves “businessmen” now. Well, they were mobsters, all right, in the nineties and in the years before. From the few words Grandpa mentioned here and there, I put the picture together more or less. The Russian Mafia was huge in NYC back then. And now? Well, maybe just the terminology’s changed.
“I will never shake your hand, Sergey.”
Chapter 9
“The car is waiting on the corner of 7th and 16th. Hurry up.”
This comes late in the evening, two weeks after my last conversation with Sergey. He told me to be prepared to receive the “invitation” at any moment within the next month, as the exact date and place of the Dark Fights are never fixed in advance and might be arranged at the very last minute.
I am rather glad that the waiting is over. It hasn’t been easy. The last few days have been especially nerve-racking, the tension building up and not letting go of me. I tried to make myself not think about what was coming, to focus instead on my everyday activities, but the pressure was building within me all the time, and I couldn’t relax for a moment. Exhausted after hours of training, I would then lie in my bed unable to fall asleep, or I would fall asleep for a few minutes and then wake with a start. I even had half a mind to ask Martine to bring me some pot, but decided against it.
Now I feel a strange sort of relief to find out that within a few hours it will all be over. I have no idea how the night will end for me, but just knowing that it will end makes me feel better.
I put on a pair of vale tudo shorts, made of nylon and spandex with grip lining on the leg openings to prevent them from riding up, and a sports bra. While getting dressed I notice that my armpits have a tiny bit of a stubble and I pause for a moment unsure whether I should shave them or not, but then decide that I really could not care less if my armpits do not look quite perfect tonight—it’s not like I’m going on a date.
I have already planned and tested a sneaking-out strategy that does not involve going through the living room where Liam is firmly installed on his red couch. I zip up my warm hooded coat, open wide the window in my room, and hook the fire escape ladder that I bought on Amazon to the window lip. True to the online description, the ladder has a tangle-free design, anti-slip rungs and, nylon strap rails and it’s fast and easy to deploy. And what’s most important, it does seem pretty sturdy. It’s supposed to be able to hold the weight of up to one thousand pounds, so I should be all right. It would have been easier and more secure of course if there were a real, permanent fire escape outside my window, but historically buildings in NYC that had fewer than five stories did not have fire escapes installed. I never quite understood that—in case of a fire you are not expected to jump down from a fifth floor, but from a fourth or third you’ll be just fine?
I climb down my makeshift fire escape ladder and land in the backyard of the parking garage that rents the first floor of the dojo building. I go in through the garage’s back entrance and out the front, waving on my way to the friendly nighttime attendant. Turning the corner of 7th Avenue, I don’t immediately know which car is the one waiting for me. The driver of a metallic gray BMW sedan gets my attention by blinking his headlights, and so I approach the car and get in.
The period of inactivity during the ride is difficult to bear. I feel the tension starting to build up inside me again. My lips are dry and peeling. With my teeth I catch a bit of the dry skin and rip it off leaving behind a small patch of raw flesh. Damn, I wish the car would just get to wherever it is going already. This ride seems interminable, even though I know it hasn’t really been more than ten minutes or so. I try to calm myself down by doing some breathing exercises. I also crack my knuckles and stretch my neck muscles.
The chauffer lets me out at Wolf Flannigan’s pub on Molten Lane in lower Manhattan. “Just go in. You are expected,” is all he says. I walk into the pub and immediately, from a table near the entrance, a brawny bald-headed man in a dark suit and white shirt gets up and gestures for me to follow him. As we walk past the counter the bartender looks at me and I can see that he recognizes me. I nod to him and he smiles and is about to nod back but then he glances at my companion and the expression on his face changes right away. He lowers his eyes, pretending not to know me.
We go into the back room, then down a staircase to the basement, where we walk for quite a while along a narrow cement-floored hallway. We are both wearing rubber-soled footwear that doesn’t make a sound. The only words the bald-headed man says are “the party girl number two has arrived,” and he speaks them into his lapel mic. We reach a metal door, which opens into a wider hallway. I think we have crossed into a different building and wonder if perhaps we might be under 2 Gild Street now.
After walking for some time in the wide hallway we stop in front of another metal door and my taciturn companion says something very brief into his mic again. The door opens and he hands me over to a second man in a dark suit and white shirt. They are both of pretty much the same height and shoulder span, the only difference being the second one is not bald but has a military-style buzzed haircut. The door closes behind me and the second white-shirted man gestures for me to stay put for a moment and speaks into his mic.
A third man, strikingly similar to the first two, a tattoo on the nape of his neck, stretching up over the back of his head, setting him somewhat apart, arrives and leads me through a smallish chamber that connects to a much bigger one, a
t the other end of which I can discern an entrance to yet another. The ambience and the decor is absolutely not what I expected to see in an underground fights locale. I think, in my mind I pictured some sort of a bare space with nothing but a fighting cage and maybe some naked light bulbs for illumination. Around me I see comfortable elegant sofas and armchairs, low coffee tables, bar counters, waiters with bowties. A large number of men in dinner jackets and women in evening dresses and high heels walk around and sit in elegant chairs, drinking, eating, conversing, and clinking glasses. Some are dancing. The music is loud but not as deafening as in a regular nightclub.
In the middle of the second chamber there is indeed a fighting cage, its platform elevated a few feet above the floor level. It’s empty now and I can see very visible blood stains on the light canvas.
*****
I am led to a round booth where Sergey sits in the company of several men and two very pretty blond women in sparkly dresses, their lips painted bright red. Sergey invites me to take a seat on the couch next to him and everyone stares at me with great curiosity.
“Would you like something to drink?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“Here is some water.” He pushes a glass toward me, but I ignore it.
“Nervous?”
I do not answer. Sergey smirks and looks away and does not pay attention to me for a few minutes, talking to the two blondes.
“Take a good look around,” he then whispers into my ear. “See how many fine people have come to see you fight. I have high expectations of you. You won’t disappoint me tonight, now will you?”
“I need to use the bathroom,” I say and get up.
Sergey beckons the guy with the tattooed head, who is standing nearby and tells him to accompany me. He leads me to a small bathroom near the backdoor that we originally came through.
When I am washing my hands, a guy in very tight pants and with an elaborate hairstyle comes in and stares at me, his eyes squinted and his head inclined sideways.
“The boss sent me,” he declares.
“Who are you?”
“I am Ricardo the Stylist.”
He sits me down on a bench.
“We’ll start with makeup,” he says. “Not too much. The boss wants you to look fresh and bright. We’ll just accentuate these gorgeous eyes of yours.”
Finished with the makeup, he lifts up a few strands of my hair, a pensive expression on his face.
“I was going to put it up in a tight topknot,” I say.
“N-no, I don’t think so. That won’t hold. We need to braid it first.”
He separates my hair into several parts, braids it rather tightly—at one point I even have to ask him to stop pulling so hard—and then gathers the braids up, using only soft elastics without any metal parts.
“Ok, good. That should be it. Oh, wait,” he exclaims and all of a sudden reaches in and feels my breasts.
“What the hell?” I protest and hit his wrist with the blade of my hand.
“Ouch! That really hurts!” He makes a grimace and is shaking his hand.
I am sure he is exaggerating the pain level, since I didn’t hit him hard at all.
“You are so jumpy! What are you hitting me for? I am not interested in your lady parts. I was just checking if you had the boob guards in. And you don’t, ha!” He pouts and looks away blowing on his wrist. “How are you gonna go into the cage without the boob plates?”
Damn, he is right. I haven’t thought of that. I did bring my mouth guard, but the breast protector completely slipped my mind.
“Ricardo, can you help me out, please?”
“Ha, first you beat me up, and now you ask for my help.”
“Nobody beat you up.”
He is still pouting.
“Look. I’m sorry.”
Immediately he cheers up.
“Don’t move. Wait here.” And he rushes out of the bathroom.
Through the open door I catch the announcer’s words, “Ladies and gentlemen, the second fight of the night will begin shortly.”
Ricardo the Stylist brings me a sports bra with the breast guards inserted securely into the cups. I take my bra off and put the new one on. It feels uncomfortable with my breasts squished in, but I know that during the fight I might be quite grateful to have this protection.
“I do hope you won’t get too badly damaged tonight,” Ricardo the Stylist says and starts sniffling. Is he about to cry? I wonder what he might have seen go down in that fighting cage that makes him feel so sorry for me now. Well, I guess I can imagine.
Still sniffling, he gives me a hug and a kiss on a cheek and takes his leave.
*****
The door opens again, and a man in a black shirt and black pants comes in and introduces himself as the referee.
“It’s your first time, right? Ok, listen up. Here it goes.” The words come out very fast. “There are no rules except for no eye gauging, biting, or groin strikes. There are no rounds, no time limit, no weight category, no gloves, no cutman to treat wounds during the fight, and there are no judges. Bout will only come to an end by either a knockout or submission. In case of a submission you can tap out—if you are still able to move your hand, that is—or you can yell ‘tap out.’ Questions?”
I shake my head.
After the referee leaves, the door opens once more and this time the big tattooed guy steps in. He frowns, scratches his chin, and generally looks uncomfortable.
“Eh, the boss wants to know if you need anything,” he says.
Despite his large muscular stature and overall tough appearance, something tells me this guy is not unfriendly. Right now I could use some help, even if it comes from one of Sergey’s men.
“What’s my fight strategy?” I ask.
“What? I am not your fight coach.”
“Ok, but maybe you got some tips?”
“Your strategy is to stay alive and to try not to get too badly damaged yourself—and to inflict bad injuries on your opponent.”
“Oh, ok, thanks. Very helpful.”
“I’ll give you one tip.” He takes my hand and makes a fist with it and hits it against his jaw. “In a no-gloves bout, bone against bone will break your hand before causing your opponent any serious damage. So you better go bone against soft.” He touches my fist to his solar plexus. Go palm-heel under the nose and such. And don’t forget to use elbows and knees and—” but before he has a chance to finish his words, the bathroom door opens yet again, and in comes Sergey himself.
He tells the tattooed guy to go and wait outside and looks at me for a few moments, no doubt appraising the stylist’s work. I believe he is satisfied with what he sees.
“So, listen, beauty,” he then says. “It is almost time now. The fight is about to start. Here’s the final instruction for you. People out there did not pay a lot of money to watch a boring monotonous exchange of punches. They want to see something spectacular. So do those wild takedowns, joint breaks, choke holds that you are so good at. All those impressive techniques. Yes? That’s what the audience wants to see.”
I look him in the eye but do not say anything.
“I hope we understand each other. And one more thing. You do get paid win or lose, but if by any chance you are planning to tap out too quickly to end the fight, just know that that’s not going to work. In such case, the referee has been instructed to have the fight go on. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Let’s go then.”
*****
The announcer’s voice comes on. “Ladies and gentlemen, for the second fight of the night, welcome the Formidable Frightening Freya.”
While being patted down hurriedly, and with obvious lack of attention, for foreign objects, greasy substances, long nails, open wounds, and such, I steal a glance at my opponent who is alread
y inside the cage. Formidable Freya is only a bit taller than me and probably stands at five feet eight inches, but is much bigger-boned, and I’d say is around a hundred and forty pounds against my current weight of one hundred and eight.
“And presenting the newcomer,” the announcer continues, “the Little Samurai Princess!”
“What?” I turn to my tattooed friend, who has escorted me to the cage and is now holding my coat.
“What? That’s you.”
“Little Samurai Princess—that doesn’t make any sense.”
“Got a good ring to it.” And he nods with what seems like genuine encouragement. Then he tells me to stay still for a moment while he is putting petroleum jelly on my face, to prevent punches from splitting the skin. Before a sanctioned bout an official cutman would usually perform this service. But this is a Dark Fight—no rules, no rounds, no time limit, no weight category, no gloves, no cutman. Most likely nobody here gives a damn if I get cuts on my face. The audience probably would even prefer to see more blood. I realize that, given the circumstances, I am lucky to at least have some assistance.
Stepping into the cage, I have a strange feeling as if time has altered its pace and I am caught inside one second that stretches like some sticky, viscous substance. I look at the crowd, which has gotten quite dense as most people have left their couches and armchairs and gathered around to watch the upcoming spectacle. They are all craving some good entertainment and it is not particularly pretty to think that the other fighter and I will soon be beating each other up and inflicting pain solely for the thrill and viewing pleasure of the elegantly dressed, bloodthirsty audience. I try to empty my mind of all such thoughts. They are useless and distracting.
I am inside the cage now and, when the door closes behind me, time resumes its usual speed.
“Fighter, ready?” the referee looks at the Formidable Frightening Freya.
“Fighter, ready?” The referee turns to me.
“Fight!”
For the first ten to fifteen seconds we are just walking in circles, trying to measure each other up and guess at our opponent’s martial arts style. From the Formidable Freya’s stance I can deduce that she’s had judo training, so she must be good at throws and takedowns. No doubt she has a full arsenal of other skills as well.
The Dark Fights Page 10