Pound for Pound (35 page)

Chicky tore up the forty-dollar fight ticket and drove the fifteen minutes back to his room. He carried his clothes down to his truck, then went back to his room for the rest of his stuff, which wasn’t much. He pulled off his belt and silver buckle and dropped them in the toilet. He left the room for the last time and went to the office to check out.

The old lady at the counter said, “No refunds on early departures. House policy.”

“I only wanted to give you my key.”

He drove to the casino, and spoke to the restaurant manager. “You folks been good to me, and I don’t like hangin you out like this, but I’m goin home tonight after my fight. Sorry, sir.”

“You were the best ever,” the manager said, “and we’ll miss you. It’s Darleen, right?”

Chicky nodded and looked away.

“You weren’t the first, and won’t be the last. So don’t take it personal.”

“Yessir.”

Chicky drove to the arena. He’d fight because he’d signed a contract to fight, and because Wardell had put his name on him, but not because he wanted to. He felt like all his blood had been drained and wondered how he could last one round with a midget, much less duke it out for three minutes times four with some hothead from the barrio.

Fucking Blond Darleen had nutted him. Fucking cunt-whore bitch-pig. This would be one more thing he couldn’t tell his
abuelito.

He arrived at the arena at five-thirty. He’d haul ass home right after the fight. He parked over by one of the pylons so he wouldn’t get blocked in. Electricity sizzled through the high-tension wires. A dazzling, triple-black lowrider decorated with streaks and whorls and flames of piercing blues and yellows and greens and fuchsias cruised the lot, the three beefy occupants sullen-eyed and covered with jailhouse tats.

Several lunch wagons had already arrived and the drivers were setting up. Chicky bought a
pan dulce
and hot coffee, the only food he’d had that day. Dunking the sweet bread into the coffee, he realized he no longer cared whether he won or lost. Getting paid was all that mattered now. He was tempted to just take off and forget the money, but the five
hundred, less fifty, was a cushion he could use on the road in case of a breakdown. Besides, losing again was just another round of drinks. He’d go through the motions, collect as soon as he could, and then head for home.

The aroma of cooking
carnitas
and chile reminded him of home. He’d pig out on Mexican food back in Poteet, and he’d never leave home again. Fucking
Al-lay y su chingada madre.
He thought about Blond Darleen despite himself. Why should he care so much? He’d always known they were just screwing each other, so why was it so hard to breathe? Why did he want to break something? Why did he feel like hiding in the reeds instead of going for a win that would make him real again? Why did he care so much that another pair of balls was sitting in his saddle? He didn’t know whether to kill or die.

“Old Darleen’s Winchester kicks as good as it shoots.”

T
he soft dirt floor of the Sports Arena had been tamped down and covered with two-foot by four-foot interlocking plastic mats. Metal folding chairs were set in rows around the ring. Mariachi music was already blaring through maxed-out speakers. Ring officials had arrived. A few fans, all Mexican, were taking seats high in the stands. When Chicky inquired about the stables and horses, he was told about the Sunday
charreadas,
and he wished that he had known about them before. Maybe he would have met a nice little sloe-eyed
pocha
instead of that
gabacha
whore from the casino.

Chicky entered the dressing room. Some of the other fighters were either napping or talking softly. Most had trouble looking anyone in the eye. It had become popular for some Chicanos to peroxide tufts or even all of their hair, and no one thought anything of Chicky’s yellow mop. Many thought he was white, until they heard his name.

Wardell said, “How you feelin?”

Chicky said, “Somewheres between low and flat.”

“Wass that about?”

“I’m goin home after the fight, Mr. Purdy.”

“How come?”

“Pussy.”

“Boy, you went and got some pussy on you before the goddamn fight?”

“No way. Darleen’s fucked me, all right, but I ain’t fucked her.”

Wardell said, “Put the bitch out you head, boy, we got us a fight to win.”

“I know,” said Chicky, “but I keep lookin for my nuts and I can’t find ‘em.”

“They’ll grow back, same as when you prune a tree, only bigger.”

“This ever happen to you, Wardell?”

Wardell said, “Why you think I walk funny?” Then he saw Earl and Dan headed his way.

“Hey, Dan!” yelled Wardell. He was laying out the gauze and tape for Chicky’s hands. “I thought you was dead.”

“Bullshit!” he shot back. “Nobody this pretty is allowed to die!”

Wardell slapped hands and laughed. Earl saw the gauze.

Earl said, “I heard you stopped working corners, slick.”

“That’s right. I’ma just he’pin this boy for tonight,” said Wardell. “This here Chicky Garza wit the blond head. He black-headed first time I see ‘im.”

Chicky nodded and smiled, but then thought of Blond Darleen and his face darkened. Dan and Earl shook Chicky’s hand, noticed his height and weight, and the bright shine of good conditioning in his eyes.

Wardell said, “Chicky, this here’s Dan Cooley, the one you was lookin for.”

Dan said, “Me you were lookin for?”

Hearing Dan’s name, Chicky’s heart began to thump. Now he was tongue-tied. Too much was happening in one day. He wanted to unload his whole story on Dan, but knew better, and just nodded, his mouth dry, his eyes wide.

Wardell said, “Boy from San Antone. He come lookin for you to train him while back.”

Dan shook his head. Barky was all he could handle these days. “I’m outta trainin.”

Chicky said, “That’s what I kinda heard.”

Dan said, “You’re from Texas, how come you know about me?”

Chicky knew he couldn’t tell him the truth, what with his losses and another loss sure to come. Three strikes and you’re out in any ball game. He’d brought enough shame on himself, what with Blond Darleen and all, but there was no way he’d put a black mark on his grandpa.

“How’d I know about you?” Chicky said, stalling. “Somebody at one of the gyms said you were good. I got other names, too.”

Wardell said, “He trained some with Tony Velasco.”

“Aw, shit,” Dan said. He turned to Chicky. “Garza, huh? You ever hear of a old-time lightweight named Eloy Garza? He was from Texas someplace. Stay on your ass like a goddamn wolf with blood in his eye.”

Chicky lied, “Can’t say I have. See, there’s lots a Garzas in South Texas.”

Chicky didn’t know at first why he was telling the lie but later figured it out. He didn’t want his pitiful record associated with his grandfather’s achievements in the ring.

“Yeah, well, Wardell here’ll steer you straight now you’re here.”

“Me’n him only a short-notice deal,” Wardell told Dan. “He be leavin right after he get paid.”

Dan said, “With a name like Garza, what you doin with all that blond hair?”

“I had me a ol’ gal what sung me a cunt song.”

Once Wardell had wrapped Chicky’s hands, Chicky got a look at his opponent, who made several quick trips to the men’s room. Chicky was wondering if he should call his granddaddy from somewhere on the road, or just walk in on him. At least he’d have his El Patron to show off. Other than the Stetson, he had bragging rights on nothing.

The arena was filling rapidly, the sounds of humans muffling the roaring music. Chicky felt disconnected. From boxing, from home, from
himself. There were no Mexicans he could turn to, and he hadn’t heard any Texas talk since he’d left El Paso. He thought of his grandmother. He clung to her memory and he yearned for his grandfather’s rough hand on his shoulder.

The referee checked and signed Chicky’s wrapped hands, and the promoter came in to wish everyone luck. Chicky was then told he’d fight third instead of first. Now he had to wait in line for his ass whipping. As he sat brooding, he remembered what Dan Cooley had said about the way his granddaddy fought. Chicky flushed Blond Darleen from his mind and vowed to go out there with blood in his eye, like his grand-daddy had.

Earl and Dan watched the fights quietly, their eyes trained to see each combination of red punches as distinctly as cherries in a basket. The first two bouts were dull, the opponents short on skill and long on fear. The crowd hooted, but everyone knew these were just warm-up fights, and accepted them as such.

Earl said, “Best all those boys hang ‘em up soon, maybe after tonight.”

“It’s a hard game,” said Dan.

Chicky and his opponent, Pepe Reyes, made their way to the ring, Chicky looking bony to Earl at
143.
Reyes was well over the 147 limit, having eaten steadily since the weigh-in. When the announcer introduced Chicky as hailing from San Antonio, many in the crowd booed.

Dan said, “Let’s see what Tex’s got.”

Chicky lost the first two rounds, but only by a slight margin. When the East L.A. boy began to tire early in the third, Chicky’s work with Mack’s boy paid off. Once he was able to force his southpaw stance on Reyes, the balance of the fight changed. With Reyes backing up, Chicky let his power loose, fueling it with his hurt and shame, and his grandfather’s honor. The barrio boy was tough, and only backed up when Chicky knocked him back, but Chicky felt himself slip into a dancing, bob-and-weave
rhythm, and suddenly the punches were throwing themselves. Chicky won the third round easily, but halfway through, a shot to his nose started bleeding severely. He breathed the way Eloy had taught him. Through his mouth, so he wouldn’t swallow blood coming down from the back of his throat or snort air into the aperture of torn nasal tissue and inflate his face.

Wardell wobbled up to the ring apron between the third and fourth rounds. He couldn’t waste time climbing through the ropes, so he worked from outside. He stopped the blood flow with adrenaline chloride and pressure, then cleaned and greased and watered his fighter and got it all done in less than the allotted sixty seconds.

Earl said, “Nothin stop Wardell.”

Chicky knocked Reyes down near the end of the fourth, but was unable to put him away because the last bell rang, ending the fight. Both boys raised their arms in victory. The crowd cheered what was clearly a two-point round for Chicky. Along with most fans, Dan and Earl saw Chicky winning his third fight.

But two of the three judges gave the fight to Reyes, the third calling it a draw—a majority decision going to the local boy. Most of the crowd hooted, but not the fans from East Al-Lay.

“Home-town call,” said Earl.

Dan said, “What’s new?”

Wardell stopped by with his bucket. “Kid’s about to die. Two Velasco setups, now this mess.”

Earl said, “We thought he won.”

Wardell said, “Damn straight he won! Only now what we got is a good young fighter jobbed into three losses.”

“He’s better than zero and three,” Earl said. “He don’t know how to fight, but he’s got those fast, heavy hands that came from somewhere.”

“Yeah, but he’s got a wide-ass stance that shortens his reach and forces him to lean in to land,” Dan said. “Leaning in puts him inside the other guy’s reach. He wants to be inside, he’d best know how to counter instead of fuckin stand there and trade.”

Wardell said, “Why don’t you take him on?”

“Nooo,” Dan said, “I already lost too much to this game.”

Wardell nodded. “Like the rest of us.”

Chicky changed clothes and waited in silence as whoops of victory came from Reyes’s friends down the hall. Wardell emptied water bottles, dumped ice, and began to put all his gear together.

Chicky spoke to himself, the words falling dead in the air. “When you can’t even win when you win, then you ain’t never gonna win.”

Chicky wanted his check so he could go, but nobody showed up from the Commission. The bell ending the fourth fight rang, but Chicky had heard none of it. The ring announcer shouted out the winner’s name, and then called for the intermission. The music blared while beer drinkers headed for the urinals. The commission guy arrived, had Chicky sign, and then gave him a check for the full five hundred. The promoter, a local Chicano, left the noise down the hallway and glanced in on Chicky.

He said, “Too bad, homes, losing after coming on like you did.”

Chicky said, “This kinda shit could make a Mexican hate Mexicans.”

Dan checked his watch and turned to Earl. “Time to take ol’ Bark out to pee.”

“How do you say pee in Spanish?” Earl asked.

“I haven’t got to that lesson yet.”

“That dog’s more trouble than a kid.”

“Yeah,” said Dan, “but he don’t listen to loud music or need braces.”

Chicky paid off his corner man, then turned to Wardell. “I ‘preciate what you done out there.”

“Glad to do it. Too bad you’re leavin.”

“Deck’s stacked against me, pods.”

Chicky palmed a folded, crisp hundred-dollar bill he’d taken from his
kicker, and shook hands with Wardell. The old man felt it and knew right off it was more than gas money.

Wardell said, “No good, son. I be happy if I don’t make nothin workin wit you.”

Chicky said, “God bless you, Wardell, but I want you to have it. California ain’t all bad.”

D
an moved through the crowd toward the main exit. He saw Detective Nájera leaving the men’s room. Dan caught the cop’s attention.

‘Well, it’s Mr. Cooley.”

“You remember me.”

“How could I forget?” Nájera said, with a faint smile.

“Like the action?”

“Club fight, you know,” said Nájera. “But my Texas brother got robbed for sure.”

“I know what you mean,” Dan said. “Listen. Somethin’s been botherin me ever since when I, uh, well, you know, I want to apologize for the crap I said to you.”

Nájera smiled. “Oh, hell, I’m a cop and we don’t always see folks at their best.”