Suckerpunch: (2011) (16 page)

I stood on the asphalt and watched the headlights sweep closer. The footprints were white and faint but practically glowed against the black parking lot. I had all the time in the world to look back on the gravel and check Marcela and Lance. Their shoes were clean.

I looked down at mine.

Flour.

On my shoes and pant legs, dusted halfway up my calves.

Whatever the clatter was back in the bakery when Marcela hustled Lance out, it must have tipped or busted a bag of flour. And while I was ditching the gun with one hand and patting myself on the back with the other, I’d traipsed through it like Fred Astaire.

No, Gene Kelly.

The van was moving. Not fast but steady, like a crouched leopard bringing one paw forward at a time, trying not to spook the prey until the last second.

From the gravel, Marcela said, “Who is that? Is it them?”

She hadn’t seen my feet or the footprints. I could tell her later. Or not, depending. Without looking at her, I said, “Stay there. I’ll lead them off. Find a cab or a cop.”

I could squirt between the van and the motel and hoof it back toward the bakery. They’d either follow me or be confused long enough to let Marcela get Lance away. I started walking to the van and it stopped. The headlights dipped a bit toward the asphalt for a moment. I heard a door open but couldn’t see which one past the beams.

If it was the passenger, I’d have to deal with him on my way through.

If it was the driver, I might be able to swing around and put him down and throw the van keys over a fence.

If whoever it was had a gun, that would just be unfair and I would submit a protest in triplicate.

I angled to my left and didn’t get a chance to find out because behind me Lance got his second wind and bolted down the middle of the alley. I heard the slush of gravel and the van door clap shut. Then the van roared past me, Kendall’s bloody face grinning from the passenger window.

Marcela stayed behind the carport. She and I watched as the van caught up to Lance. She said, “No, no, no.”

Lance had made it maybe fifty yards, not bad in that time, and the van shot up behind him and didn’t swerve until the very end when it rocked to the left. Kendall opened his door to knock Lance off his feet and send him tumbling against a garbage bin. The hollow boom of it sounded like thunder in the desert.

The van skidded and stopped. Kendall got out and looked at Lance, who was making a sound like a trapped goose. The van’s side door opened, and Jake stretched out, grabbed Lance by his hair and belt, and pulled him in. Jake glanced at me and must have asked Kendall something, because Kendall waved a dismissing hand and Jake leaned back in the van and shut the door.

Kendall and I stared at each other for a moment; then he held a thumb and pinky phone up to his ear and pointed at me. “Give me a ring,” he said. He had to raise his voice, and I could tell it wasn’t comfortable for him with that nose and groin. He got in the van. It took off down the alley and turned right and was gone.

Marcela walked out to me and looked at the flour. She didn’t even raise an eyebrow about it. “What do you do now?”

“I guess I give him a call.”

“I tried to hold on to Lance, but he’s slippery.”

“I know. Don’t worry about it.”

“Are they going to hurt him?”

I said, “He won’t be comfortable. But they won’t kill him yet. I think.”

We watched the end of the alley, waiting for the van to turn around and Lance to pop out laughing and waving at the boys, all a big misunderstanding. They’d toot the horn and be off. Ten seconds of that and it still didn’t happen.

She said, “I don’t want to see any more tonight. I need a shower.”

“I’ll get you to your hotel.”

Marcela took my left hand in her right and we started walking toward a parking lot that would get us to Las Vegas Boulevard. “I got you,” she said, squeezing my hand. “You’re not slippery enough to get away.”

I tried to smile for her. “I’m not good at getting away.” I glanced back and saw that I was still trailing ghost images of my shoes.

They were getting fainter, but they were there.

A cab took us east from the Strip to Boulder Highway. I watched the street behind us and didn’t see anyone following.

Marcela thought it was funny I kept checking. “You just want to scare me so I invite you in to protect me.”

I hadn’t thought of that, but it wasn’t a bad plan. She saw me considering her idea and acted shocked by my gall. She pulled the silent treatment the rest of the way, but it was a comfortable quiet, and she wiggled closer to me and got her hip against mine and crossed a foot over my ankle.

We got to the extended stay hotel where Marcela and Jairo and the rest were booked. I expected to see at least one of the Arcoverdes in the lobby with a stack of brochures, glancing through them while he waited for me to bring Marcela back safe and sound. The place was empty except for a woman behind the counter and a couple in bathing suits peeking around corners until they found the way to the pool and disappeared.

In the cab, Marcela took my face in her hands and turned me so I was looking at her. “Can you sleep?”

“Sure, yeah.”

“Okay, go sleep. Tomorrow you’ll fight, and all this will be gone.” She flipped her hand over her shoulder and kissed the cheek it had been touching. She leaned toward the front seat and told the driver, “Take good care of him.”

“What?”

She turned to me. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll see you in the morning. Oh, we can’t have those cinnamon rolls now.”

“Not likely.”

“Lance.” She cursed. Then she got out and walked into the hotel.

The cab started forward.

“Wait,” I said.

Marcela waved to the woman at the counter and hit the button for an elevator I couldn’t see across from the counter. She stood with one foot tucked behind the other, the back foot up on the toes almost like a ballet dancer. She glanced down and brushed something off her shirt, then looked up. The elevator doors must have slid open, but before she stepped in, she saw me and laughed and waved me away, pretending to be surprised that I was still there but knowing I was and posing for me like that.

When she shooed me again, I told the driver it was okay, and we started moving. Marcela rolled her eyes and shook her head at the nonsense, but she was smiling, and I realized I was too.

“She’s a cutie,” the driver said. “What is she, Italian?”

“Brazilian,” I said.

“Oh my.”

“Yeah, I know.” He got me to the gym, all the overhead lights dark through the windows but the spots above the trophies and medals and certificates shining down in case any midnight strollers wanted to peek in and review Gil’s résumé. I went around the side door and punched the code into the security pad and headed for the bathroom.

I got some cold water on my face and double-checked for any damage; no one had hit me, but in situations like that, you can slice your leg on a shelf or bang your elbow into the wall or step in a pile of flour and not notice it for hours. Then you spot it, and it hurts like a bastard.

I was clean.

I checked the mirror again to see how I felt about Lance. Responsible but not guilty. I could handle that. I would do what I do when they closed the cage door. After that it was up to Kendall, and I figured him for the type who’d keep his word.

Gil had wanted me to get my mind off the fight, forget about Burbank for a while. Done and done. I thought about him for the first time since the weigh-in. He’d probably had a nice dinner, maybe a massage or a soak in the hot tub, gotten laid once or twice. Maybe he was looking in the mirror at the same moment, searching his eyes for any fear or concern and finding none because he was a monster with a game plan and he could tap into his primal being and demolish any man set before him.

I stared into my mirror and almost felt sorry for him.

I used the light from the DVD player and the sound of Roth’s snoring to find my cot. I got my head down and was almost asleep when Terence said, “Woody?”

I kept my eyes closed. “Yeah?”

“How was it?”

“Good.”

“Gil said you made weight okay.”

“Yeah, no problems.”

Terence chuckled. “That’s not what I heard.”

“Well, I guess it wasn’t boring.”

“Gil said you two acted like a couple of pro wrestlers, all bug-eyed and red-faced.”

“Us
two?
Burbank’s the one who came out like fuckin’ Elvis.”

Terence laughed.

Another voice said, “Is Marcela with you?”

I realized Roth’s snoring had stopped. “No.”

“Why not?”

“He already got his,” Terence said.

I suspected they’d been drinking. Neither had a fight coming up soon, but it was still irritating.

Roth asked, “Can I smell your finger?” and they both lost it.

I said, “Both you two clowns shut up. If Jairo heard you say that, he’d throw you back to Australia.”

“Shit,” Terence said, “I’d have to swim my ass all the way back.”

Roth thought that was hysterical. He was lost to the world.

Terence said, “What’d you two do?”

“Went to Chaos for dinner, saw some sights.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Mm-hmm, nothing. Now let me sleep. In case you forgot I have things to do tomorrow.”

Roth asked, “Do you dream in Portuguese now?”

I got up and heard him start to scramble, but he wasn’t fast enough. I flipped his cot over on top of him.

“Fuck’s sake,” he said from the pile. He was snoring again before I returned to my cot.

“I’ll be quiet,” Terence said.

“Thanks.” I closed my eyes and dropped off.

I woke up and had a few precious seconds lying there with my eyes closed before everything came back. I remembered I was going to fight Junior Burbank tonight. A few butterflies showed up with that, but I was looking forward to it.

I remembered Lance and Kendall, and things twisted a bit. Nothing I could do about it except focus on the fight, so I pushed all that away.

I remembered Marcela kissing me on the cheek and the look she gave me just before stepping into the elevator, and my stomach did a little yo-yo thing. I pictured it again and felt good but not the same. I’d have to forget about it and think about something else for a while, then come back to it out of nowhere and see if the same thing happened.

I wanted it to.

I opened my eyes. All the lights were on, and the Arcoverdes were standing by the couch drinking cappuccinos and watching soccer.

Marcela was not there.

I took a shower and had some fruit and oatmeal. I found it best to stick to the usual routine on fight day. Some guys can ditch the whole program after they make weight, eat lasagna and mashed potatoes and enchiladas and still be ready for five rounds, but not me.

A few years ago there was one guy who got so happy he made weight he celebrated with an all-you-can-eat pancake dinner, complete with a loaded omelet, hash browns, sausage, and a milk shake. And grapefruit juice. It put him way off schedule for quality time, and he was all gloved up, mouthpiece in, posse of yes-men ready to walk him out when he had to take a shit.

It must have been an urgent meeting, because he went in the stall with his gloves on and barely got his jock down in time. The guy he was fighting was out in the cage already, hopping around and staying loose, looking toward the aisle between the folding chairs and wondering what the hell was going on. After ten minutes the bathroom guy’s music started back up, and he came out about six pounds lighter and ready for war.