THEY CALLED HIM The Swede. No one knew exactly why a Russian gangster named Ivan Loginovsky would be called Swede, but the rumors were that he spent some time in a Swedish prison for manslaughter. Other rumors suggested he was either a big fan of the film, Smokin' Aces, or a really big fan of rutabagas. Me, I liked to think he took the nickname because he re-enacted movie scenes with cheap cardboard props (look it up). It made him seem less threatening. And kind of fun. Except that he wasn’t very fun at all. He kidnapped a friend’s daughter, and I needed to get her back.
The whys and hows were not important. The asshole kidnapped someone’s daughter. No one goes after friends or family and gets away with it. Not in my business.
Swede ran a rinky-dink boxing club on the south end of town. A cheap little building in a cheap little neighborhood full of large, cheap people with steroids for blood. Say what you will, but the lack of money and economy in this part of town made everyone a little harder, a little tougher than you’d expect. I guess when you’re beaten down enough, some people just become soft, like when you tenderize a steak … but in this neighborhood, the people seemed more like pizza dough that had been kneaded just a little too much for far too long.
I knew he was waiting for me inside when I saw the hired muscle standing by the door. I’m stretching the definition of muscle a little bit; these guys were equal parts protein and fat, with enough carbohydrates to go into diabetic shock. They might have been from the club, but they sure weren’t getting their money’s worth. I slugged the first one hard in the stomach and he doubled down faster than a KFC sandwich. While he was retching on the sidewalk, I gave his friend a look, and he wisely chose a different path to enlightenment.
The Swede wasn’t going to be so easy. As I entered the dingy, dust-covered gymnasium, I caught a glimpse of his figure as my eyes adjusted to the dimness. He was sitting up in the ring, on a metal folding chair.
The Swede was a big guy. Big and tall. Ropy too, in the way you can only get in prison, or a Russian work camp. The Swede was all that—a prize fighter in his day, recruited by the mob after he made some money taking dives, eventually becoming a very competent cleaner. The guy who made problems go away. He worked his way up the ranks, always after someone met with a tragic “accident.” Now, here he was, in charge of his own little slice of the pie. And his thumb was knuckle deep in mine.
As I said, he was pretty tall. At least six-five, most of it muscle. And he made the folding chair look like something made for kids. His knees came up a little lower than his chin.
In front of him was the girl, Kayla. She stood between me and him, and he casually rested his hands on her shoulders, making him look even bigger. Kayla looked a little spooked, but she stayed calm. She was a tough little kid, with an abusive father. So, she’d been in this kind of position before. Not this exact situation, with a Russian gangster, but she understood the severity of it. No tears, but a slight quivering where the Swede’s hands rested on her.
I know. I’m a terrible babysitter. I promised her mother that I’d keep her safe, and here she was, a bargaining chip for a Russian mobster, in a cheap, south-side boxing gym.
He had two other goons standing by, on the floor by the ring. These guys looked like actual pro boxers. Two large Black guys, one with an Apollo Creed mustache. They were dressed in workout gear, as if he’d just gathered them up off the heavy bags. They were slick with sweat. Washboard abs. Twitchy reaction time. I hoped that I wouldn’t have to face them. I wasn’t sure I could take on the Swede, let alone either one of these guys. At least not in a fair fight.
The Swede spoke. I could see Kayla shudder at the sound of his voice.
“Ah, you finally here, Virtue.” He sounded like Boris Badenov and Dracula started an ESL school. The thought made me smile.
“Hey Swede, how long have you been sitting like that? Aren’t your legs cramping up? And why didn’t you get a chair for the girl?” I figured the more apathetic I sounded during a confrontation, the less leverage the bad guys held. I hoped Kayla understood this.
“She doesn’t get chair, Virtue. She may not live long enough to need it.”
“Look, Swede,” I said, holding my hands out, “It’s just me. I’m unarmed. Next time you want to see me, just ask. Let the girl go.”
“I think we’ll keep her around for little bit longer, da?”
“I’ve got a better idea. Hear me out on this. You’ve got a beef against me, that’s fine. Let’s settle this like men. In the ring.”
The Swede smiled a little. What I mean is that he raised the right side of his lip over some bad teeth, and squinted his eyes. I was pretty sure it was a smile.
“You want to fight me? I knew you were crazy, but wow.”
“Don’t make it weird, Ivan. Look, here’s the deal.” I approached the ring and gently pushed on the Carl Weathers boxer until I had some room to step up on and grab the top rope. “Let your goons hold on to the girl, and you and I settle this in a civilized way.”
“Like boxing, da?”
“More civilized.” I stepped through the ropes, and eased Kayla away from the Swede. I moved her over to the blue corner, and gave her to Carl. “You see, Swede, maybe we’ve both been wronged. At least, we both share that perception. I have something you want, so there’s that. You, on the other hand, kidnapped a twelve-year-old girl. So, maybe we both have something to prove.”
“I hold all cards here, Virtue. But I like the idea of killing you with bare hands.”
“Well, okay. But, maybe it won’t come to that. Here’s my proposal …”
The Swede stood up out of his chair. With him out of the context, it looked like a normal, metal folding chair. He approached me, and looked down, almost six inches, into my eyes. I slowly backed away to the left as I talked.
“You ever hear of Roshambo?”
“Like Kurosawa film?”
“What? No, like Rock-paper-scissors.”
“Rock-paper-scissors? Virtue, we’re not to be playing games.”
From my peripheral vision, I could see that Kayla was now on the other side of the ropes, and was standing next to Carl.
“Swede, what I have in mind is a little different. Are you familiar with the old Inuit custom for conflict resolution? It’s like fighting a public duel, but with punches. We face each other, and one person hits the other one, either in the head or the shoulder. The other one makes no attempt to dodge, and if he’s still standing, he gets to go.”
The Swede nodded thoughtfully. “This sounds nice, Virtue. Maybe we can do this. Ah, but who gets to go first?”
“That’s the thing,” I said, backing a little more to the left. The Swede had a habit of getting in your space, a clumsy boxing move, especially given his long reach. “You’ve got considerably more leverage—”
The Swede lashed out with a solid right hook and connected with my face. I didn’t even feel the pain for a split second, and then it was as if the left side of my head was doused in gasoline and set on fire. I heard a meaty-sounding click as the lights went dim. It was definitely something happening inside my head, and I was more than a little worried. I opened my eyes, and realized I was on the mat. I scrambled to my feet, and then dropped down to one knee.
“I go first, Virtue. Ha ha.” The Swede chuckled. “I learn from watching South Park. You’re lucky I don’t kick you ‘square in da nuts!’”
As the darkness closed in, I could hear Kayla scream.
That was enough to energize me back into existence. The old boxing training kicked in, and I built on the pain coming from my left cheek. In the film Atanarjuat, the old custom (which may be entirely fictional) actually called for hits to the temple. I was glad I didn’t mention it, or else I might be dead.
I shook off the sleep and my head cleared. I kept up the groggy act, and got my bearing in the ring.
“Good one, Swede,” I said, spitting blood as I struggled to my feet, “but I’m dead serious about this.” I staggered a bit, pretending to be worse off than I was. “Now it’s my turn to hit you.” I circled to the left and put him between me and his goons.
“Ah, go ahead. I think we’re almost done.” He smiled and leaned his chin towards me. I smiled a bit as he opened his arms and closed his eyes, waiting for the punch. “Virtue, I thinking you lost this—”
The Swede didn’t have time to finish his sentence. I spun to my left, and in one quick motion, grabbed the steel chair, and struck him across the face with it. He dropped like an egg on hard concrete, complete with mess. I had readied a second swing, but it was unnecessary. There was a pool of blood and teeth by the Swede’s broken face, and I set the chair down beside him.
I gave the boxers a good hard stare out of my unswollen eye, and they got the message. They were free to make new bad life choices, and they knew damn well not to mess with me. They backed off, and Carl gently let go of the girl, who ran to my side and helped me through the ropes.
“Do you need a hospital?” she asked.
“I may. Let’s get to the car and see,” I said.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” she said. “I was really scared.”
“Me too.”
“You know,” she said, “you’d make a terrible father.”
“I know, sweetie. I know.”