Sledge City attracted a surprisingly large crowd from nearby SODO—south of downtown—businesses after working hours. The serious fighters orbited the ring and the heavy bags lining the far wall, while the main workout area was given over to regular citizens, male and female. I blended in with the citizens.
No sign of Fekkete, but the rest of the gym’s inner circle was present and accounted for. Dickson Hinch held court from the ring. He was a sight. He shadow-boxed as he talked, gliding fluidly from side to side, flicking out his hands. His torso was as pale and hairless as a snake’s belly. When his shoulder and lat muscles flexed against his lean frame, they added to the image, spreading like the hood of a cobra.
I couldn’t hear most of what the fighters were saying over the constant noise in the gym—the staccato thuds of gloves, metronome clicks of jump ropes—but it was clear that the topic was Hinch’s last opponent. Memorializing his victory like it was the Battle of Carthage.
The doors of the back wall were open to allow a slight breeze to come through, pushing the heat around. It didn’t help. I was taking it easy, paying more attention to the Sledge City goons than my own workout. A round of jumping rope. A round of ab work. Still, the sweat dripped off my nose and chin. Two women broke away from the punching bags and began removing their gloves, as a shredded trainer called that the conditioning class would be starting on the mats today.
A double-end bag close to the fighters opened up. I walked over and began tapping it with jabs, making the bag swing on its bungee cords as I listened.
“—fuckin’ pussy gave up after that,” Hinch was saying. “Got nothin’.”
Bomba sat on the ring’s edge, while the guy with the topknot hairdo I’d seen on my first visit armored up, strapping on padded chest and headgear.
“We waiting on Orville?” said Hinch.
“Hell no. You ready, Wex?” Bomba said to Topknot.
Wex nodded and stepped up onto the canvas, putting in his mouthpiece as he climbed through the ropes. He seemed less eager than usual. The fact that he outweighed Hinch by thirty pounds and had a reach advantage must not have offered much comfort. Hinch bounced on his toes.
“Dickson. Don’ fuck him up,” Bomba said. “He’s got to fight at the quarry.”
Hinch nodded impatiently, eyes already fixed on the kid.
Bomba said go. Hinch launched into a flurry of punches and kicks, all killer, no filler. Wex covered up but still took two clean shots to the head and a lot of glancing blows. Every time he dared to throw out a hand, Hinch countered it and battered him. I was quickly seeing why the light heavyweight was ranked eighth and looking to go higher. The kid tried a kick. Hinch grabbed his leg and took him to the ground with a bang that made everyone who wasn’t already watching the bout turn and look.
“Time,” said Bomba. It wasn’t; barely ninety seconds had elapsed, but Wex wasn’t going to last the round. Bomba was bright enough to call a halt before Hinch punched the kid’s head through the canvas.
Hinch sprang up and swatted the turnbuckle—a high-five to himself.
I finished out the round jabbing the bag while Wex picked himself up. Roddy came in off the street. His bruises from Bomba’s fists had turned the shade of dying violets. He saw me and nodded a curt acknowledgment. He remembered meeting me last night, if not much else. I was a little surprised to see him. After the beating and the booze and the traz I’d slipped him, he must have woken late and with a headache that could floor an elk.
Orville tapped me on the shoulder with one of the punching mitts covering his hands. “You made it.” When he smiled, his cauliflower ears poked out another half-inch.
“Gotta sweat somewhere.”
“Well, I still got these on,” he said. “Let’s throw a little.”
I found a set of training gloves on the communal rack and we moved out to the open area of the floor. Orville started slow, holding up the mitts for one-two and one-two-three combinations. He stuck out a paw and I slipped it and came back with a hook, and he nodded, picking up the pace, adding uppercuts and pressing me to move and escape. It felt good. I’d let regular exercise slide while building the house. We ignored the electronic clang that ended the round. Orville was strong and surprisingly quick, his pro reflexes not completely gone. He met each blow with equal force, testing. I put mustard on the punches until the mitts boomed like cannon fire.
“Nice,” he said when he finally stepped back, stretching the word out to two syllables. “You got speed. Beat me to the mark a few times there.”
A string of curses from Hinch interrupted. Loud enough for me to hear over my labored breathing.
“Hey,” called Orville. “We got actual humans here.”
Hinch and Bomba scowled but bent their heads back to the argument they had been having with Roddy.
I wiped sweat off my face with my shirt and nodded toward the fighters. “Roddy in trouble again?”
“Who knows. He’s been telling anybody who’ll listen that he’s ready for more responsibility. Lie down with dogs, ya know?”
But before I could ask, Roddy came sidling over from the ring.
“Hey,” he said to me. “Jack.”
“Zack.”
“You’re looking for work, yeah? I remember that much.”
I shrugged. “If I can’t get construction, I’ll take what comes.”
“You want to fight? We need a sub.”
On a chair against the wall, Wex had an icepack taped to his shoulder and another pressed to his neck. His topknot had come unraveled during his minute in the ring and the strands hung down the side of his face like wilted vines.
“You want me to spar Hinch?” I said.
Roddy laughed. “Fuck, no. We got matches coming up tomorrow night. Our heavyweight dropped out.”
Orville cleared his throat and spat into a plastic trash can. “You ought to clear new guys with Mr. F. You know that.”
“I will, I will. Fekkete will be there, he can see Zack for himself.”
And vice versa. I’d finally get a glimpse of the man himself.
“These ain’t the kind of fights with a ref, I’m guessing,” I said.
“Naw,” said Orville. Scar tissue gave weight to his eyelids, made it tough to read his thoughts.
“That a problem?” Roddy said.
“What’s it pay?” I asked.
“Five hunnerd. More if you win.”
“How much more?”
“A grand. Total.”
I pretended to think about it. “Lemme talk to the boss. Fekkete.”
Roddy scowled. “Why?”
“’Cause I want to be sure I’m gonna get paid.”
“Fuck you, Jack or Zack or whatever. You don’t trust me?”
“Don’t know you.” I shrugged, taking off my training gloves.
“Wait, wait. Look, you come on board, I’ll get you the grand on top if you win. That’s fifteen.”
“Your boss shows me the cash first,” I said.
“Now you’re talkin’. Okay, I’ll get you the deets.” Roddy hopped back to the ring.
Orville had been diligently ignoring us, watching the women in the conditioning class. “You know who I’ll be fighting?” I said.
“I stay out of the business end.”
“But you think it’s a bad idea.”
“Depends on how much you need money. Listen,” he said, “you’re a tough-looking guy. That’s kinda the point. They want somebody who looks the part, who can attract a few bets.”
“And lose.”
“That’s also kinda the point. Whoever the other heavyweight is, you can be sure Mr. Fekkete expects him to break you.”
“Can I trust the guy to pay me? What’s his story?” I said.
“Make sure you get your five hundred bucks up front.”
I nodded and Orville lumbered off toward the equipment room. An old bear returning to the comfort of his cave.
As I packed up my gear, Roddy handed me a slip of paper with Carzell Quarry—Hwy 2—8:00 written in crude letters.
“Tomorrow night, yeah?” he said. I nodded and he slapped me on the shoulder. Best buds, now that I was ready to jump into the lion’s den.
I had no intention of fighting. If I was a last-minute sub in a money bout, they might as well have tattooed sucker on my forehead. But all I needed was two minutes with Fekkete. Prove to him that I could make his gold reappear, and he’d suddenly have bigger dreams than some underground blood sport.