Hook and Shoot (19 page)

“Stop lying.”

“Let's get you into something nasty, see if you can get out. Lay down.”

I put my back on the canvas. Robbie knelt next to me and hooked his left arm behind my right knee, got it in the crook, and pulled it toward my face. He wrapped his right arm behind my head, clamped his
hands together, and squeezed.

Vince squatted. “Ready? Break out.”

I tried to straighten my leg; all that did was pull my head farther forward. My throat was pinched shut and my diaphragm had nowhere to go. My left arm was trapped under Robbie; my right flailed around and tried to connect with his head, show that I could punch my way out.

Nothing there.

I relaxed to see if he'd tire and give me a gap, but he compressed everything, leaned into it, and out of nowhere I was in that bathtub filling with water, no air or room to move, a steel mesh pressing into my face.

The room started to go dark from the freezer lid closing over me.

I panicked.

Kicked out to shatter the end of the tub and let the water spill, rolled right, then left to slosh it over the lip for another half inch of air. My hand went toward the ceiling to keep the lid from closing. I thrashed.

Robbie squeezed harder.

Black.

Through the water somebody said, “Woody, you okay?”

I blinked, saw Gil leaning above me. “What?”

“Lie still.”

I tried to sit up. He held me down with one hand. The Snarl brothers were across the cage, talking low and not looking in my direction.

I smacked my lips and tasted copper. “What happened?”

“You went out. From the exertion, I think. Looked like your eyes were gonna pop out.”

“Shit. Sorry.”

“Don't apologize. But you know better. You don't blow your wad like that. Take yourself out of the fight. What's up?”

I heard water sucking into my ears and a freezer lid thumping shut. “That was a really tight hold.”

“It was bad. You've been in worse.”

I sat up. The trapped feeling was fading, losing weight, getting winched high above my head to come back down and smash me again. “I don't know then.”

Gil rubbed my neck. “I think we're done for today.”

“No. I'm not ending in that. On that.”

He waited until I looked him in the eye. Whatever he saw made him say, “Just take it easy for a while.”

I walked to Vince and Robbie on slow legs. “Sorry, guys.”

“Please,” Vince said, “I been put to sleep so many times this asshole here calls me NyQuil, put a buncha sheep on the garage ceiling so I can count 'em on my way out.”

“Helluva grip,” I told Robbie.

“Ambidextrous,” he said, jerking both hands up and down.

I took my time down the steps. Got some water and checked my phone, something to banish the cold clamp of the tub, at least for now. No calls from Marcela. Just seeing her number would have cheered me up. Nothing from the Law Offices of Argo and Taylor. Maybe they were pissed about me slapping their soldier around, taking his sharp toy away from him. Looking back on that made me feel a little better for about a second.

I'd hoped putting the dive on the table, even without talking to anyone important yet, would get them to hold off on killing everybody. Trying to, anyway.

The guy in the service lot had dashed that, unless he'd gone rogue like his twin by the pool.

Best to leave the offer out there, just in case, but I wanted to call and pull the whole unofficial, nobody-seems-to-care-anyway deal.

Not because of pride or second thoughts.

The way things were looking, if Zombi had the skill set of the Snarl brothers plus Olympic-caliber judo, even a drizzle of striking, I wouldn't have to throw the fight.

I'd lose fair and square.

Punching Robbie in the face cheered me up some, not a lot. I could breathe and move. Small victories.

We started at half-speed, Vince telling me, “Just do your thing. We'll see how it looks.”

Robbie had a small head and he moved it well, kept his hands up. I pawed at it, kept him honest with some slapping leg kicks.

“Careful with those,” Vince said. “He catches one, you're on your ass.”

Gil took notes. Robbie snapped some jabs at me.

“You got good slipping,” Vince said, weaving around us like a referee. “Not a lot of wasted movement. I like it.”

Robbie jabbed again and shot, went for my right leg. I sprawled and shoved him into the canvas, thought for a second about going down with him to see if my elbows fit in his ears, but stayed up and backed away.

Vince clapped. “Smart boy, you stay away from the ground with this guy. But, hey, he gets you tied up on the feet in a clinch, he can crank your arm just as easy.”

“Let's see that,” Gil said, then, “What?” when I glared at him.

Robbie and I got in a clinch, a bit awkward with the height difference, and I tried to spin him and get his back against the cage.

“See how solid his base is?” Vince said. “He's balanced; he ain't going nowhere.”

I kneed Robbie in the ribs. He took the opportunity to hook my raised leg with his and pull it out while he drove forward, making me fall back against the cage. I was trying to get my feet under me when he wrapped his left arm over my right, pinned my forearm against the outside of his shoulder like I was hitchhiking. He clasped his hands in front of his chest, then cranked my elbow forward and my wrist back.

Something clunked in my shoulder and I tapped.

“Gotta watch out for that one,” Vince said.

They showed me a couple dozen more I needed to watch out for, my shoulders, elbows, wrists, knees, ankles, and neck agreeing: let's not make a habit out of those, thanks.

Then we got into how to avoid them, what to do if I couldn't, how to padlock my joints so they wouldn't get shredded. I spent most of the time making sure I could still breathe and spread out. I didn't look at the claw-foot bathtubs and freezers gaping in the corners.

After ninety minutes of that, I sat against the fence and closed my eyes.

Gil hunkered down next to me. “You good?”

“Just a lot to process.”

“This is the crash course, so don't think you gotta remember it all. Vince and Robbie are here every day
until the fight. Got some guys they can bring, closer to your size. We'll figure it out.”

All these friends working hard, sacrificing to get me ready for a fight I didn't think I could win, might even lose on purpose.

Hurt worse than anything all day.

I stuck my head in the back. Vanessa was curled up next to Burch, holding a mug near his face. They were watching something with a laugh track, the volume at a whisper. They glanced at me, mumbled to each other, and didn't look again.

Eddie was video chatting with somebody in front of his backdrop, telling them, “Sorry. I'm booked up until the fights. Whatever we need to handle, let's do it now.” He moved his hand off camera, slid an empty glass toward me.

I gave it the sour face, snatched it off the table, and put some ice water in it. Set it back on the table so Eddie could lift it without looking, take a sip, and go on chatting.

I took a shower and tiptoed into the kitchen to find some food.

The rest of the week was more of the same.

Vanessa helped Burch recover while Eddie handled his business.

Nobody tried to murder us, unless you count the Snarl brothers bringing their manglers over to keep me miserable.

I called Marcela every day and talked about things that didn't matter to one of the only people who did. She knew I wasn't telling her everything but didn't push it, ended every call with, “I love you. Do you need me to come?”

“No,” I lied.

Train. Eat. Sleep.

Argo and Taylor didn't call.

Saturday afternoon, one week from the Zombi fight, Eddie came into the kitchen dressed for battle. Full suit, blue silk tie that matched his molded faux hawk. “We're leaving in fifteen.”

“This is a bad idea.”

He shrugged. “People are already wondering what the fuck is going on with me. If I skip the press conference, shareholders are going to walk.”

“It's on the billboards. The Yakuza has your itinerary today. They'll be waiting.”

“That's why you'll be glued to my side.”

“Great. I'll use my other arm to hold Burch up.”

“He says he's fine.”

“Looks like shit.”

Another shrug. “He's British. Nice suit.”

It was a new one, deep brown with a pale green
shirt and a green tie with subtle squares. “I said thanks already.”

“Brah, ease up. It's almost showtime. You feel it?”

“Yeah. Feels like crosshairs on my forehead.”

“We get to see Zombi today, the myth, the legend.”

“If he shows. Don't be surprised they keep him away, just blow the building up once we're inside.”

“Hey, don't let that happen, okay?”

The conference room was packed with rows of folding chairs facing a long table, everything draped with Warrior logos. Burch had me and Eddie and Gil in a corner behind the backdrop, ringed by six burly security guys in maroon blazers until the thing started. He'd told the team leader, “This isn't a racial thing, but no Asians get close to Mr. Takanori.”

“Chicks too?”

“Not even babies.”

Burch was pale and sweating but seemed alert, almost relieved after the tense drive over, holding himself up with the steering wheel while he tried to look in every direction until we dropped into the private garage.

Now he had a line of men and women wearing expensive clothes and Warrior credentials waiting to talk to Eddie, each one getting a thorough pat-down from a blazer, then Burch, before they could step to
Eddie and say, “Where the hell have you been?”

The hum from the other side of the backdrop got louder.

Gil slipped out of the group and leaned around the corner for a look at the dais, turned back, and waved me over. “Zombi's out there.”

“Should I look?”

“Why not?”

“I don't want him to see me peeking out at him. Or shit, have somebody take a picture of it.”

“Just look. Christ.”

I stepped past the corner, hands in my pockets, scanned the faces in the seats. Some of them disappeared behind a camera. My suit soaked up flashes. I looked to my left at the dais, the empty chairs with water bottles and name cards in front of them, the podium and microphone in the middle, all the way to the other end at the guy who had to be Zombi, wearing a suit and sitting with a red-haired woman.

She was listening to a guy from Warrior, nodding, then leaning toward Zombi and talking. Interpreting. He said something to her, sipped his water, then turned and saw me.

All the noise fell away. The room closed into a tunnel, just me and him, rails running between our eyes. This man wanted to slap food out of my hand. Drag me out of my home and burn it down. Shame
me, exile me from my tribe.

Back at ya, buddy.

But more than that, he and his crew wanted to invade, infest, conquer. Eddie had tried to build a wall; now it was time to sharpen the spears.

Zombi was bigger than I'd expected. Wide shoulders and a solid neck. Large, angular jaw with plenty of room for my fists. Lumps of putty for ears from all the grinding and a head of black stubble. His face was right there but it showed me nothing. The original stoics looked like slapsticks compared to this statue.

He stood up.

Turned his whole body toward me.

Bowed.

Cameras chattered, paused, waited.

I took my hands out of my pockets and bowed in return.

Just before he turned away he studied what he had to deal with. His mouth pulled to the side, a twitch, allowing one reaction to slip through the facade:

Unimpressed.

The press conference was a bunch of monotone noise interrupted by softball questions. The main event for next Saturday's card was between two lightweights for the belt at one hundred fifty-five pounds, training
partners until the challenger decided he'd be a better champ and broke from the team.

Eddie spent most of his time at the podium with the champ sitting to his left, challenger to his right, the two of them sniping across the microphone until Eddie told them both to shut up and wait their turn.

I was at the opposite end of the table from Zombi, had to look past all the other fighters and Eddie to check on him. Burch prowled the perimeter of the room and drilled his bloodshot eyes at anybody reaching into a jacket. His skin looked gray and slippery under the fluorescents. People stepped out of his way even without knowing he had a machine gun strapped under his coat.

Zombi didn't seem to care about Burch, just another shape moving in front of him. He sat there with no expression, staring out into the crowd of fifty or so reporters and staffers.

I scanned the faces and clothes out there for his handlers, waited for someone to give me the slicing finger across the throat or a cocked finger and thumb.

Nothing.

The clothes didn't help a bit. Everybody dresses like a gangster in Vegas.

Eddie finally got to the bottom of the card, me and Zombi, and called Zombi to the microphone. I had to admire Eddie—no sign that this fighter was
the embodiment of his ruin.

Zombi sent his interpreter to the podium so she could spout some canned shit about being honored to fight for Warrior and American fans, he'd do his best, let's all be friends. Didn't take any questions or say anything about box freezers or snake tattoos on sex slaves. Points for PR savvy.

When Eddie called me up I said some canned shit about being honored to fight for Warrior, ready to prove the Burbank fight was just the beginning. Any questions?

“Where'd you get that suit?”

I sat down and Eddie wrapped up, made sure the two lightweights exited in opposite directions. I looked around for Gil and saw a fiftyish guy in a suit making his way toward me. No press credentials or anything else to identify him. He looked soft, gold-rimmed glasses and a little roll of skin spilling over his collar and tie.