Suckerpunch: (2011) (9 page)

The water bottle in my hand was defective and shaking a little, so I put it down between my feet. I didn’t want any shaky water. I sat in a chair with Gil and Jairo in front of me in case the adrenaline wouldn’t let me stay put.

We could hear Burbank hollering at the other end of the backstage area, saying we should go
right now.
He kept repeating those last two words. I thought I heard the crowd pick up the chant on the other side of the drapes.

Gil muttered to me about saving it for tomorrow, don’t wear myself out, let the other guy get tired—the mantra of a cornerman.

Eddie and some other suits found us. He pushed his way to me and Gil. “Skip the fighter orientation after this. It’s the same shit you heard a few days ago, just on a bigger scale. Security doesn’t want you and Burbank in the same room again until tomorrow night.”

Gil said, “Woody’s not the one acting like a cartoon character.”

“Yeah, well, your boy didn’t exactly diffuse the situation out there. Just take the rest of the day off.” He pointed at Gil. “But you still gotta sign that shit.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Eddie and his crew rolled away.

Marcela sat down next to me and started reading the label on a can of energy drink. She said, “This has four servings of fruit in it,” and looked around for a response. When no one said anything, she said, “Fruit in a can, I don’t get. Just eat fruit.”

Jairo put the can on the table next to her chair and shook his head.

She said, “Okay, fine,” and crossed her arms.

“Maybe it’s so you can absorb the nutrients faster,” I said. I was breathing too fast and had to make up for it when I was done talking. Deep breaths.

“Through the nose,” Gil said.

Marcela glanced at the can. “What, your body wants it faster? Are you sure you can take it?”

“Take it?”

“Your ancestors, they did fine with a banana off the tree.”

“I think I’m mostly Scottish. No bananas there.”

“So, what? Apples?” Marcela leaned forward and put her elbows on her knees like me.

Burbank had stopped yelling at some point. There was still a hum of energy backstage, but it was pressing against a bubble around us.

I shrugged.

She said, “Who cares. The point is, you don’t want these phonies. Your body says no.” Marcela tipped the can over and shoved it under a pile of T-shirts with the drink company’s logo on them. Satisfied, she slapped her knees. “What are we doing now?”

“I gotta work this out,” I said. “Let’s go back and hit the bags.”

Marcela said something in Portuguese that shocked Jairo.

“No,” Gil said. “In this state, you’ll bust your hand or stroke out on me. You gotta relax.”

“Watch some tapes?”

“I said
relax,
not watch Burbank fights and get even more worked up. Hang out. Get some dinner. Have a conversation about something besides forcing your will on him.”

“They made me say that.”

“I know.” Gil patted my head.

“Take me to dinner,” Marcela said. “And to see the fountain.”

I raised my eyebrows at Jairo, not sure if he was her official chaperone or what. I didn’t want to start any blood feuds.

“Is up to her,” he said.

Marcela smacked my arm. “Don’t look at him for things about me.”

I surrendered. “Okay, where do you want to eat?”

“There is a VIP club here in the building called Chaos. Let’s go there.”

“Chaos. You’ve been there?”

“No.”

“Is it relaxing?”

“Of course.”

Like I’d asked if water was wet. “Okay. You guys coming?”

Gil shook his head. “We go, all you’ll talk about is tomorrow. Get away from it for a few hours. No fried food, though.”

“Hooray.”

“Marcela, will you make sure he eats good stuff?”

She hooked her arm through mine. “I will order for him.”

Gil and Jairo headed for the door. “We’re gonna find Javier and Edson and sign that shit for Eddie. See you back at the gym?”

“Yeah. Hey, what time?” I asked. I didn’t want them to leave. Marcela was intimidating me.

Over his shoulder Gil said, “Not too late.”

Jairo nodded.

“So ten? Eleven?”

“Sounds good.”

“Which one?”

That only got a wave. Before they walked out the door, I saw Gil nudge Jairo, who looked back with a stupid grin and laughed. Idiots.

I turned to Marcela. She looked right at me with those tan eyes. There were flecks of green in there I hadn’t noticed before. She had a small scar at the corner of her left eye that disappeared when her eyebrows lifted and she waited for me to talk. I didn’t know what to say. I stuck to things I knew were true. “It’s almost six. We could eat now.”

“Let’s walk around a little first. I’m not too hungry yet.”

“Good. Okay.” We went through the doors.

“So, what happened back there? Jairo had to run out; then those guys are bringing you to the chair.”

I was surprised I had to tell her. “Oh, there was some trouble on the stage. You know, smack talk, posturing, all that.”

“You are all so stupid,” Marcela said.

I didn’t argue.

“Why do you do that?”

“Well . . . ,” I said and started searching for the restaurant. If I could get some food in my mouth quick enough, maybe I wouldn’t have to answer.

Marcela and I got out of the event center and went through the big opening into the casino, laid out in a huge circle and divided like a pie into different gambling areas. The middle of the pie was all clubs and shops and restaurants; in order to get to them, you had to run the gauntlet of slots, craps, roulette, blackjack, poker, and whatever else they could come up with to get your money. We battled clockwise through the noise and bustle and after fifteen minutes found an entrance into the inner circle.

The long hallway into the core was decked out like a Roman garden, the walls covered in trellis and fake ivy with an electronic sky you could glimpse through the leaves to catch the stars winking at you. They’d done a good job with the constellations. I thought I saw a dollar sign, but it might have been Cassiopeia.

We stepped into the inner sanctum next to a shop that sold realistic Roman fashion. Silver togas and all. I saw the sign for Chaos, then the long line outside the door that looked like tryouts for the douche bag Olympics. Marcela sagged.

“Maybe we can find a vending machine,” I said.

She perked up, pointed. “That guy is waving at you.”

I saw the Chaos doorman beckoning somebody over.

Me?

Well, well.

We showed him our event badges, but he shooed them down. Dressed in a tailored suit that Marcela and I could play hide-and-seek inside, he was close to seven feet tall and had short black hair and no facial hair or visible tattoos.

He smiled and said, “Please, Woody. We know who you are. Shouldn’t you be resting up for tomorrow?”

“We won’t be out late. Just unwinding a little.” I glanced at Marcela to see if she was going to overrule me. She was busy leaning around the doorman to peek through the door and didn’t say anything.

“I heard what happened,” he said and tapped a wireless earpiece. “I hope you knock his ass out, man.”

“Can I hit him with you?”

“Have fun in there. I’ll let them know you’re coming, and we’ll get a booth ready.”

“Much appreciated.” I tried to tip him, but he pushed my hand away.

Marcela and I put on bored faces like the debonair VIPs we were. We went through the door into darkness, and immediately a cool mist drifted over us and our feet swirled through a low-lying fog. We pushed through a thick black curtain that was pulsating to heavy bass and stepped into a room that should have been illegal.

It was dim, illuminated with indirect spots in cool blues, greens, and purples with some red thrown in to draw the eye. Ahead of us was a full bar extending from floor to ceiling with the staff working horizontally, the drinks defying gravity to stay in the glasses as they went to customers who stuck to high-backed stools but should be dropping to the floor in a heap.

Directly over my head a woman walked upside down out of a door that wasn’t there and waved to another woman who looked like she was ten feet away on my left, but when she screeched and hugged her inverted friend, I couldn’t hear a thing. It wasn’t because of the music—I could hear plenty of people talking and laughing and not screaming (which was alarming)—it was because she was really nowhere near me.

The music was some anonymous thump and squawk with an orchestra in the background playing out of sheer terror. I glanced down to make sure I was on the floor and saw that at least the heavy fog was there with me, paying attention to the rules.

Marcela started forward. When she didn’t disappear forever, I followed her into the abyss. About five steps in, the mirrors started to make sense, but I still didn’t want to reach out to lean on anything in case it wasn’t there. The bar became horizontal, and the people at it stopped being magical. I wanted to shake hands with every one of them.

A blonde woman in a nice suit and a purpose walked over. “Woody?” She did a good job of sounding familiar, but there was a slight undercurrent of worry that I wasn’t the right guy.

“Yes,” I said.

“I’m Bonnie. We’re so glad to see you and . . . ?”

“Marcela,” I said, presenting her.

“Of course,” Bonnie said. “If you’d like to follow me, your table awaits.”

We trailed her between more mirrors and floating people, but I didn’t wobble or act too amazed. We came out into an open area with a nearly empty dance floor straight ahead and another bar along the left wall. She turned right and led us up a short flight of stairs to a row of booths along the right wall that overlooked the dance floor.

A woman wearing a small white dress and a laurel wreath in her hair waited next to an empty booth. Bonnie waved us into it.

I took the far seat so I could see the doorway. Old habits.

“This is Stephanie. She’ll be taking care of you this evening.”

Marcela smiled. “Thank you so much.”

“Okay, bye now.” And Bonnie was gone.

Stephanie poured us waters and said she’d be back when we’d had a chance to review the menu.

I took a look around. The only mirrors were behind the bar, and I vowed to stay away from them. The room looked like a billowing Roman tent, maybe something the senators would use to host debauchery and assassinations. Six brass poles were spaced evenly down the center of the dance floor, parallel to the booths, with faux torches banded near the tops sending flickering light into the overlapping canvas of the ceiling. The poles were thin enough to be at home on a stripper runway, and there were a few girls out there taking pictures of each other hooking legs around the poles and pulling their bottom lips down with one finger. A few of the bartenders were having a serious discussion about the girls, probably conspiring over which kind of shot would get their tops off the quickest.

“What is this, marble?” Marcela rapped on the table and tried to move it back and forth.

“I think it’s concrete, made to look like marble.”

“I think it’s marble,” she said and picked up her menu. She was fun to watch, everything right there on her face. Her eyes drifted over to the dance floor, came back, and squinted at me. “Do you dance?”

It was a trick question. “I have danced before. It’s a lot like my jiu jitsu.”