PALOOKA

D.W. Davis

            I chased the whiskey with a sip of lukewarm beer. The bartender hadn’t wanted to serve me, that much was obvious, and I wasn’t sure at first if it was my face, then I caught sight of the TV above the bar and nodded. I hadn’t noticed the cameras when I was out there, but that’s how it is. Regional cable at its finest. Well, at least the bartender knew I had some money to spend, at least for now. The Gaming Commission might take some interest later, maybe. My agent, Karl, swore they wouldn’t give a shit, but I’m pretty sure he had some fresh powder up his nose when he said that.

            The bar was half-empty, obvious from the parking lot, which was why I’d chosen it. Some hole-in-the-wall dive frequented by locals in the latter stages of their lives, as busy on a Tuesday as a Saturday, and with the same folks. I’d gotten some looks when I’d walked in, just passing glances though. Glazed, disinterested eyes hidden beneath battered White Sox caps, dark circles, and heavy wrinkles. My kind of people.

            The bartender wasn’t much different, save that he recognized me and moved from one end of the bar to the other, sometimes cleaning, mostly leaning on the counter and watching the TV or fiddling with his phone. I pegged him about my age, though he actually looked it, a working stiff who’d worked as hard as he could and hadn’t gotten far. Didn’t figure him for the owner, who might’ve just straight up and thrown me out. Here was a guy working for tips, for the extraneous dollars strangers were willing to throw his way for a couple hours of his service. Also my kind of people. I knew that type pretty damn well.

            Up until that point, my night had gone exactly as planned—which was to say, not at all as I’d planned. I’d trained for the fight, months in the gym, smaller fights on the side; some of them paid, most not, some not even legal. Toughened my knuckles, toughened my face and skin. I was a little overweight but that helped me, gave me something to throw around, to put behind my fists. Gloves, no gloves, bell, no bell. Even one match where you fought until you fell, and it took four opponents to fell me. I knew what the fuck I was doing, as I kept reminding Karl, and he sometimes kept reminding me, as though I was the one who’d forgotten. I knew what the fuck I was doing and I was fucking good at it. Or at least, passable. Better than many in my bracket, though considering I was one of the few who didn’t have a problem with needles or powder, that wasn’t saying much. None of us were holding out for Pay-per-View. Some of us were just holding out for the next bout.

            The offer came at the last minute, and it wasn’t the one I’d expected. Most men like to think they wouldn’t take a dive. We’re professionals. We’re proud. We have morals. We play honest and fair, may the best man win, obey the rules and clean your nose. That’s the life we all live in our heads. But I’ll tell you this: you will take a dive if someone waves a wad of hundreds in your face, and you have bills to pay and alimony due. If you have an addiction to fuel or sorrows to drown, you will take a dive. And it will be for less than you think. No one will ever want to make a movie of it. There’s not a suitcase full of money that gets slid under the table. There’s some smarmy guy in a jacket, a normal looking person, perhaps a little twitchy, who comes into your locker room or wherever you’re getting prepped before the fight, and he’ll say, “Hey, Jim,” even if your name isn’t Jim, and he’ll say, “I got an offer for you, it comes from so-and-so,” and you know who so-and-so is even though you’ve never met him or seen him, even though you half-thought he was just a rumor, and then this twitchy man will give you a number, and then he’ll say, “Take ‘er easy out there, Jim,” and when he leaves there will be an envelope on the bench or maybe a loose wad of bills, a little sticky and crumbled, but they add up just the same as crisp ones. And that’s it. It’s not sexy. It’s not glamorous. This ain’t Vegas, it’s never Vegas, you don’t get to go to Vegas except to sit in front of a slot machine or a Pai Gow table and lose all those bills you were just given. The only lights you see in Vegas are the ones you walk under down the strip as you head toward the seedy motel that’s the only thing you can afford now.

            I recognized the twitchy man that night. He’d twitched at me before. Not this city, I didn’t think, but probably northern Illinois, maybe Indiana. Some of these So-and-So’s had a longer reach than others. None of them Al Capone or even Al Pacino, but they liked to think they were. They employed fellows like this twitchy little man, all hopped up on some redneck concoction sold over-priced from a house with boarded-up windows in a near-forgotten section of the city, to travel around and hand out money and collect money. And these twitchy little men obeyed because they feared Mr. So-and-So, even though I’m pretty sure there wasn’t a whole lot to fear. Move three states away and you’re safe, at least from everyone but yourself.

            This man slid into the locker room like he belonged, which I guess he thought he did. He stood just inside the doorway. I didn’t have anyone there to screen guests; Karl wasn’t the traveling kind, he was back in St. Louis snorting it up. And the man didn’t make any noise. I’m not sure how long it took before I realized someone was there, but once I knew I didn’t let on at first, just threw a few more punches at the air. Then I turned around and looked at him.

            He smiled, or what passed for a smile on that face. If I was missing that much teeth, I wouldn’t smile, and I’m in a profession where one tends to lose teeth. He said, “Hey, Jack,” which actually happened to be my name, not that I’m sure he knew that.

            I just nodded. Let’s get this shit over with.

            “Got an offer think you’ll like,” he said, and spat out some Italian name that I’m pretty sure was mispronounced.

            I waited.

            “Fifth,” he said.

            I nodded.

            “You work ‘im ‘til then. In the fifth, near the end of the round, we’re talking last seconds here, Jack, milk it, you throw a hell of a blow. You don’t hit ‘im, he makes money with his face, but you come close, like close, and he goes fuckin’ down.”

            I nodded again. Then caught myself.

            “What?”

            The twitchy man wasn’t used to being questioned. He didn’t get mad; he got confused. “Say again?”

            “He goes down?”

            “Said that, didn’t I?”

            “In the fifth.”

            “Fuckin’ said it.”

            “Don’t touch him.”

            “Oh, you touch ‘im. Just keep ‘im on his feet ‘til the end of the fifth, the very goddamn end, and then you brush one by his nose. Comprende?”

            He mispronounced the word, but that isn’t why I hesitated. My mind was reeling, and I noticed he hadn’t offered me any cash. Didn’t even seem interested in reaching for his pockets. What is this?

            “Why come to me?” I asked.

            His face scrunched up. “Whaddya mean?”

            “Why not go to him?”

            “I already did, Jack. Now I’m comin’ to you.”

            I shook my head.

            He said, very carefully, “Don’t. Hit. ‘im. Okay? Don’t ask me why. I don’t know why. I don’t do why. I do this. Got it? We good?”

            I took a deep breath and nodded. “Yeah. Got it.”

            He started to leave, then turned and glanced around. “Big pot tonight, I hear. Looks like you might make out good here.”

            I probably would. But I couldn’t help but think how the other guy would make out.

            I finished my prep work in a bit of a daze, working up that pre-match sweat that always makes me feel like I can slip out of my opponent’s grasp. It’s not true, but truth is a subjective thing in the ring, or cage, or square, or whatever the hell they put us in on any given night. You get yourself in the right mindset, you’re a warrior, even if you’ve agreed to take a fall you’re taking a warrior’s fall, and you go out there and swing your fists and mind your footwork.

            A man came to get me and led me out to the ring. An actual ring, but small and unforgiving. I was the first to enter and I got a smattering of applause from the crowd that paid their twenty-dollar entry fee. No one there cared who won, not really. They wanted to see two men go at it for a few minutes, then another pair, and another.

            At least, that’s what I thought. Then my opponent came out, and there was a small hush and then a louder applause and I understood what the twitchy man had not. I understood why I wasn’t supposed to hit this one too hard.

            He was handsome, undeniably so. Young and trim and fit but it was the face that stood out. A playboy’s face, the face of a man in his early twenties who had the whole world laid out before him, begging for his attention. He smiled as he walked into the ring, even grinning chummily at me, as though we had met before and shared a laugh. Of course he knew the fix, and of course he knew I wasn’t supposed to hurt him too terribly, but the smile didn’t seem false or corrupt. Here was a man, a beautiful man, for whom smiling came easily.

            It was all too clear, of course, why Mr. So-and-So didn’t want me to batter this man’s face. For most of us, a night like this wasn’t only the best we could hope for; it was all we could hope for. I would make out tonight, as the twitchy man had said, and I would be happy, and I wouldn’t dream of anything bigger. But this young man, especially if Mr. So-and-So actually had some strings, could potentially compete for bigger crowds, for televised crowds. If he played his cards right, if he had the talent that his body suggested, if he kept his face mostly intact, he could be fighting at the MGM Grand one day, Madison Square Gardens, going up against the best of the best. Taking a dive tonight against an also-ran such as myself would prove the loyalty to Mr. So-and-So it would take to get there.

            The bell rang and the fight commenced. He was good. Not polished yet, but with definite talent. Caught me a few solid blows and I sensed that if he gave his all, he could have me staggering. His footwork was advanced, his balance excellent. With enough training and experience, yes, this kid was going places.

            I held my own. Don’t know if I would’ve beat him in a fair fight—it would’ve been close. Odds in his favor. And he was the favorite that night—of that there was no doubt. Bets had been placed before the bell rang and I could tell by the cheers whose side the crowd was on, which was usually the side the bettors were on. You don’t bet against a guy who looks like that, you just can’t. Made sense to have him go down against me; who the hell was I to complain when I won as the underdog?

            Go down he did, near the end of the fifth, just a few seconds remaining. I was just starting to get tired, and he probably had another round before fatigue set in. I reared back my right arm and let loose. Made sure to miss him by a hair—wasn’t easy, and I’d even practiced it a couple times in the third. He reared back and spun his head, spitting out his mouth guard. Guy could act, that’s for sure. Fell down hard on the mat and stayed down in a daze. What counted as a referee—he was also a scorekeeper—came out and did the count. I walked off the mat amid the cheers and boos. Fought the urge to turn around and just stare at the kid—he was that good.

            I cleaned up and took care of my cuts and iced my body. By the time I was done, my take had been delivered, and I counted it out bill by bill, then stuffed it in my boots. I walked out into the cold, hailed a taxi, and found the bar near my hotel. Cut to a finished whiskey, the dregs of my beer and me flagging the bartender for another.

            He delivered it and took my money wordlessly. I thought about it, then left a tip. Not much, more of a fuck you tip. The TV was showing some carpentry show now. No one except myself and the bartender watched. I think he left it on to make a point. I saw you, asshole. I know what you did, asshole. I wanted to ask what he would’ve done. If I’d paid him more than he could’ve made keeping the bar open to close it for a night, but tell everyone he’d kept it open and made all that in tips because he was so good at his job. What would he have done? Played a game of High ‘n Mighty? No. He would’ve done exactly as I did, because that’s what we do in this world when we aren’t given what we think we deserve. My ex liked to say fake it ‘til you make it. I fail to see the difference in philosophy.

            I was halfway finished with my beer—and a second shot of whiskey, which I practically had to pry out of the bartender’s fingers—when I saw him glance up. His eyes went wide momentarily, before he glanced at me and smirked. I stared at him until he looked away, and I sensed someone behind me.

            “I’ll take a shot of Jack,” a voice said, and I didn’t need to turn my head to tell it was my opponent from earlier.

            The bartender poured the shot and the kid took it. He paid and glanced at me. “Good fight.”

            It had been, so I nodded.

            “I asked Malcolm to follow you,” he said. “Hope you don’t mind. Nothin’ personal.”

            I nodded again, as if I knew who Malcolm was. Odds on the twitchy man.

            “Got nothin’ against you,” he said. “Just want you to know that. Man that was fuckin’ fun, anyways. My first fight on TV. I had my girlfriend DVR it.”

            “Mine too, I think,” I told him, though it wasn’t true. Just something to say in a bar after we had almost beat the shit out of each other for others’ amusement.

            He motioned to my beer. “You almost finished?”
            I stared at the glass for a few seconds. “I was taking my time,” I said, not sure where he was going.

            He made a noise. “I got a question for you.”

            I waited.

            “Not one I can ask in here.”

            I looked at him directly for the first time. His face showed some signs of the fight, but not as many as mine. Nothing that wouldn’t heal in a few days. His eyes were what most interested me, and I saw in them a detached sort of curiosity, but no anger. He seemed somewhat bored, as though this conversation were a formality.         

            I finished my beer. “Okay. Where?”

            “Alley,” he said. He gestured with his head. “There’s a door at the back.”

            I didn’t wonder how he knew this; I just took him at his word. He led us toward the back of the bar, past the restrooms. The bartender watched us go. No one else seemed to care. The kid pushed open the door and we went outside. The night was still frigid; an inch of snow covered the ground, the sky threatened more. The beaten leather jacket I wore offered little comfort from the chill, but I pulled it tighter around me.

            When the door shut behind us, the kid turned around. He studied me for a minute, and I prepared myself for anything. There are plenty of sore losers in our sport. Those who just don’t get it. Someone’s gotta lose—it’ll be me, it’ll be you, but it’s gonna be one of us, always. There are no ties. There are losses that aren’t really losses, and there are wins that aren’t really wins, but one man gets tabbed with a victory and one with defeat. It’s the contract you sign when you step into this mess. Some men can accept it better than others.

            But the kid didn’t lunge at me, didn’t swing his fists. Instead, he just looked me up and down, as though seeing me for the first time. Then he said, “Hit me.”

            I blinked and said nothing.

            “Hit me.” He tapped the side of his face. “Here. Hard as you can.”

            I took a breath, then let it out. “Why?”

            “Cause I gotta know.”

            “You gotta know?”

            “How hard you can hit. If I could’ve taken it. If you’re better than me.”

            I shook my head. “I can hit hard, son, and you can take it because you’re a fighter. That’s what we do.”

            “I gotta know, man.”

            I glanced towards both ends of the alley. One led out to the parking lot; the other continued on farther than I could make out. I thought I made out a human form several yards away, slumped against the wall and wrapped in a blanket. Other than that, we were alone.

            “I’ll tell them I fell,” he said. “They’ll never know you did it. I just gotta know.”

            I didn’t. Part of me felt I already knew, part of me didn’t give a shit. But I was older, and I had the scars and dents to prove it. His face was damn near perfect, his body trim and lean. He had more future than past, reason to hope for something more than I’d ever thought possible for myself. Despite myself, I felt a twinge of jealousy somewhere deep inside. To be that young again, to not know what the hell I was getting myself into. I hated myself for it, but the resentment was there, the yearning for a second chance. Fuck the winnings. Fuck the knowledge that I’d have another fight down the road, another chance to make enough to tide me over. What this kid had was worth more than all of that.

            So I hit him. And I hit him about as hard as I could. My fist met his face and sent him reeling backwards. His eyes flashed wide and I took delight in the pain I saw in them. And damn if it didn’t feel good to induce that pain, the thrill that comes with a good fight, a fair one, when you finally feel the match tilt your way. There are better feelings in the world, but not many I get to experience too often.

            It was fleeting, though, like the thrill usually is. The kid staggered; I had delivered a good blow, we both knew it. But his knees didn’t crumble, and he caught himself before the wall did. He trembled, but he didn’t go down. He breathed heavy, spat, and I prepared myself for the retaliation that always came when you don’t knock your opponent down.

            But he just shook his head. Wiped some spittle from his lips with his jacket sleeve. He looked at me, and I saw thoughts moving behind his eyes, his brain interpreting what had just happened. Then he said, “That’s what I thought.”

            I looked at him, waiting. He spat once more and said, “Not bad.” Then he gave me a quick smile—a genuine one, again—and turned and walked towards the parking lot.

            Not bad. The words tumbled through my mind as I watched him leave. Not bad. No, not bad. Definitely not bad. But then what was it? What in God’s name was it?

            The kid turned the corner at the end of the alley and disappeared. I knew, instinctively, that I’d never see him again. He was too good for me, or I wasn’t good enough for him. Either way, it amounted to the same damn thing.

            Not bad.

            I tried the door but it wouldn’t open from the outside. So I followed the kid’s footsteps in the snow and walked down the alley to the front of the bar. The kid was gone, the only trace he’d ever been there the throb in my hand. I went back into the bar and sat down at the same stool. The bartender looked surprised to see me, but put down a shot and a beer when I asked. I drank and tried to ignore the pain in my hand, but it stayed with me. No amount of beer or liquor drowned it out, but I tried anyways.

D.W. Davis is a native of rural Illinois. His work has appeared in various online and print journals. You can find him at Facebook.com/DanDavis05, or @dan_davis86 on Twitter.