The Fighter (23 page)

Fritzie
Zivic's bulldog rounded the corner at 22nd Street, followed by Zivic himself.

"Put
that hell-hound on a leash," Tommy called. "Damn thing nipped my toes
tonight."

"Were
your toes under the table? Under the table is a dog's domain."

"So
where you want they should go?" Tommy wanted to know. "Maybe you nail
boots to the ceiling and let us all hang."

Zivic
came up the walk. "Your uncle, uh?" he said to Rob. "Always the
bitch and moan. And to think, I come bearing gifts."

He
produced a few sawbucks from his navy peacoat and shoved them at Tommy.

"What's
this?"

"Yours,
dummy. Dropped them under the card table."

Tommy,
skeptical: "Another guy could've dropped 'em."

Fritzie
cut a glance at Rob, like he wished he wasn't here to see this. "They were
under your seat, okay?"

Tommy's
big hand reached out and covered Zivic's; when they came apart, the bills were
gone. "Thanks, Fritzie. Ought to be more careful."

"Tell
me something I don't know. Ah jeez ... I'm sorry, fellas."

Fritzie
apologized on behalf of Murdoch, who had chosen to bestow his nightly movement
on the Tullys' lawn.

Tommy
said, "Looks like he's enjoying himself. Bring a bag with you?"

"Ah,
come on, Tommy. It's nature's way. Whaddayacallit— biodegradable."

"Yeah,
and so are corpses. Doesn't mean I want one—"

"—on
your front lawn, yeah, yeah." Fritzie kicked snow over the load. "Did
I hear you talking about Garth Briscoe? Sad story, was Garth."

"What
happened?" said Rob. "He get hurt in the ring?"

"That
was his problem," Fritzie said. "He couldn't get hurt
enough."

"Let
me tell it," Tommy cut in. "Fritzie tells it, we'll be here come next
New Year. Briscoe was a good guy; he taught English composition down at St.
Mary's of the Sacred Heart—"

"The
Professor, is what the guys around the gym called him," said Fritzie.
"And in the beginning, he did have that professor-like air about
him."

"But
he had a problem," Tommy said. "He was one of those
whaddayacallems—like to hurt themselves?"

"Punch
pugs," Fritzie supplied.

Rob
said, "A masochist?"

"Right,"
Tommy continued, "so a masochist. Briscoe took punishment the likes of
which I'd never seen. He'd hardly protect himself. His ribs were always
bruised, face always bristly with catgut."

"His
old lady left him," Fritzie said. "Took the kids. Briscoe kept on
fighting."

Tommy
said, "Don't get me wrong—I respect a man who sucks it up and can give as
good as he gets for a few rounds and, when it comes down to it, takes his
beating like a man—"

"You
should," Fritzie cut in. "Made a career of it."

"People
in glass houses, Fritzie ..."

Fritzie
gave Rob a pointed look. "Some of us, that was the only way to go. We
didn't have such talent."

"I
asked Briscoe one time," Tommy said."
What exactly is the point?
He told me his aim was to get hit
so hard and so often that, y' know,
not
getting hit became its own
pleasure."

"Euphoric
pleasure," Fritzie said,
pleased with himself. "Thought if he dealt with pain on a nonstop basis,
when that pain was taken away, his body would exist in this state of constant
bliss. Crazy, but..." He shrugged.

"God,
it was awful watching him fight after hearing that. And the problem was he
never reached that state of grace, so after a while the pain became an end in
itself. A guy can get addicted to pain, just like anything. Get so his body
craves it."

Rob
pictured a man taking that sort of punishment—
eating leather,
the
gym bums called it:
That poor palooka ate leather till
his face was full.

Murdoch
was now chewing on the wooden steps. Gnawing with rotten yellow teeth, a
meringue of foam slathering his chops.

"Can
you stop him doing that, Fritzie? First he turds in the yard, now he's like a
beaver on the steps. You'd think he was sent by the realtors' board to drive
house values down."

"Yawh!"
Fritzie prodded the dog's haunches. "Scit!" Murdoch wheeled and
nipped Fritzie's boot. "Miserable devil. He'll be dead soon." Feeling
poorly for having wished his sole companion dead, Fritzie picked the old dog up
and kneaded its ears.

"Briscoe
..." Tommy went on,"... ended up not entirely human. Your dad booted
him out of the club: guys felt ill staring at his bashed-in mug. I saw him a
few years ago, walking down Ferry Street. His face was so scarred I barely
recognized him. And this
nothinglook
in his eyes—like he was dead and
hadn't quite figured it out yet. Boxing's a wonderful thing, Robbie, but it's
not the only thing. It wasn't the thing for Garth Briscoe. It isn't for
everyone."

Murdoch
squirmed and whined. "Fine, you loveless brute," said Fritzie,
setting him on the ground. The dog's hips gave out; his rear legs crumpled
under his haunches.

"It's
why he's so mean all the time." Fritzie's eyes glassed over; Rob was
worried he might start sobbing. "A dog gets old, it doesn't understand
why it can't do the things it used to. Makes a creature ornery." "That
thing was ornery as a pup," said Tommy. "Poor Murdoch..."
Fritzie went on,"... doubt he'll see another year." Inside the house:
a crash, a drunken roar. Tommy said, "Reuben's pissed as a jar of
hornets." Fritzie said, "Sounds like he's just plain old pissed,
too." Tommy nodded. "Yuh."

"Come
on, Murdoch." Fritzie slapped his thigh. "I'll leave you men to
it."

Reuben
Tully's forehead lay on the table like it had been glued there. The bottle of
Jim Beam was empty. At some point in the evening he'd taken Rob's boxing
trophies out of their display case and arrayed them across the tabletop.

The
sound of Tommy's and Rob's feet squeaking on the linoleum jerked him from his
stupor. "If it isn't my two favorite people in the whole ... wide ...
world."

"You
look like shit, Ruby. The drunkard style doesn't suit you." Reuben's eyes
were red-rimmed. "You're not wearing a rain barrel. You win, Tommy?"

"I
did not."

Reuben
nodded, as though expecting it. "And you," he said to Rob. "The
great white hope." He gulped air and slurred, "The
pacifishht."

"Head
on up to bed, Robbie. I'll get him squared away."

"Uh-uh-uh."
Reuben held his hand out like a traffic cop—
halt.
"I
wanna talk. Discuss the..." His head bobbed."... happened
today."

Rob
said he only wanted to go to bed.

"Well,
I want things, too. I want to know ..." Reuben's hand cinched around the
golden boxer on top of a trophy, his finger tapping its little golden
head."... why you tanked the goddamn match today."

"I
didn't tank it, Da—"

Tommy
cut in. "Don't answer him. He's loaded and talking nonsense."

"I
wasn't loaded this afternoon! And I been around long enough to spot a
piss-tank!"

Tommy
guided Rob toward the stairs. "Okay, you're off to bed."

Reuben
jerked up, knocking the table with his knees. Trophies bucked off and hit the
linoleum, their cheap metal heads and arms busting off. The bottle shattered,
spraying shards. He lost his balance and collapsed onto his chair; a metal leg
buckled, spilling him onto the floor.

Tommy
grabbed his brother's sweater and yanked him up. "Goddamnit, get your
hands off me!" Tommy shoved his brother up against the fridge. Reuben
swatted Tommy's face, a glancing shot that drew blood above his eye. The fridge
rocked on its casters; the jar of quarters Tommy collected for the laundromat
tipped off and smashed. Rob was surprised at how easily Tommy was able to
manhandle his father. "Let
go,
you prick!"

But
Tommy pinned Reuben's wrists and jammed his head into Reuben's shoulder.
"You're in sock feet and there's busted glass all over. Damned if I'll let
go."

Reuben
closed his eyes; he couldn't seem to catch his breath. When he opened them they
were focused, with calm intensity, on his son.

"In
the ring," he said, "you hit a man, you earn his respect. Other
places—the office, the boardroom, wherever—that man does not have to respect
you. But in the ring, it's the law. And sure, it's rough. And no, I can't say
you won't ever get hurt. But that pain is temporary, Robbie, and better than
the pain of a wasted life, the same faces and places and heartbreak for
seventy, eighty years."

"I
don't care about getting hurt, Dad. What worries me is that this"—he
nodded to the broken trophies—"... is all there'll ever be."

"It
won't be. Listen, we want the same thing—for you to get out of this town."
He shoved against Tommy, who didn't budge. "Boxing is your ticket. You see
the ring as a trap, but it's not: it's a doorway. You got to step
through." He sighed. "I'm done, Tom. You can let go a me."

Tommy
kicked stray bits of glass away so that Reuben could make the stairs without
slicing his feet. Supported by the railing, Reuben ventured into the unlit
darkness of the second floor.

Tommy
wiped at the trickle of blood rounding his eye. "That went about as good
as you could expect."

"He
doesn't listen. Never has."

"What'd
you say?" Tommy threw an arm around his nephew's shoulders, hugged him
close, kissed the top of his head. "I'm kidding. Listen, the sauce turns
your pops into a comic book villain—the Asshole from the Black Lagoon. Let's hit
the sack; the Asshole can clean this mess up tomorrow morning."

Paul
was in an unnamed metropolis with sunlight trickling between the high rises. He
was naked, his muscles sleek and oiled, and at the end of one arm hung a
snub-nosed revolver. Up and down the sidewalks walked businessmen in identical
suits and ties and glossy shoes and briefcases with their hair cut in the same
style. They wandered aimlessly, bumping into one another and apologizing,
tripping and falling and getting up and falling again, running as if to catch a
departing bus only to smash headlong into the spotless facade of a skyscraper.
He turned and found one at his side and his breath caught because its only
feature was a huge mouth like a puppet's stretching halfway round its face.
This thing grabbed Paul's hand and shook it but Paul couldn't feel any bones, a
wash-glove packed with chilled lard, and the thing's oversize mouth opened up
and said, "You're missing the big picture." It said, "Uh-huh,
uh-huh, yup-yup- yup-yup-yup-yup-yup—" and Paul's other hand, the one with
the revolver, came up and the muzzle fitted under the thing's chin and when he
pulled the trigger the thing's hair fluttered and it fell and Paul saw the hole
in its head where the bullet went through but no blood just a sound like wind
rushing through a tunnel. And he turned to find another right next to him,
noseless and earless and eyeless and Paul wished for a razor blade to slit the
milky bulbs where its eyes should be and peel back the skin and see if anything
stared back. This one also grabbed his hand and shook it and said "The
bubble has burst" with great sadness and its teeth were the size of
shoe-peg corn, hundreds of them on account of its mouth being so big, and Paul
put the gun to the spot where its heart should be and pulled the trigger twice,
the sounds ricocheting between the skyscrapers and echoing along the street and
its body curled up and turned to white flakes like instant potatoes that blew
away. Paul cracked the chamber and checked the cylinders but each one still had
a bullet so he flicked it shut and shot another one and another, laughing like
hell, but they spun through the office building's revolving doors without end
and his exultation was replaced by hopelessness and he began to wither and
shrink, his body dwindling to half-size, then quarter-size and smaller as the
sun vanished behind a high rise so black it ate all light and Paul was no
bigger than a toy solider, naked and terrified as he fired at legs the size of
giant redwoods and fear exploded in his chest as a huge soft-soled loafer came
down to crush him ...