Right as Rain (22 page)

“You ever notice,” said Strange, “how many white fighters call themselves Rocky?”

“I think there’s been one or two.”

“There’s that hook again,” said Strange, pointing to the ring.

Takoma Park’s Sharmba Mitchell was defending his WBA super lightweight title against Pedro Saiz, out of Brooklyn. Saiz, a late replacement for a scratched William Joppy, had not been expected to show too much, but he was proving himself tonight. Mitchell wore trunks cut in strips of red, white, and blue. Saiz wore white.

The fourth round ended. As the fighters went to their corners, a blonde showing a whole lot of leg climbed into the ring and walked around the edge of the ropes, a round—card held up in her hands.

“You see the ladies?” said Strange.

“I liked Round Two, myself,” said Quinn.

“Shame about the face.”

“Hey, I bet she’s got a big heart.”

“A big
inverted
heart, you mean.”

“Her ass
was
pretty big. But I thought you guys liked that.”

“You thought. Anyway, I’m not talkin’ about the ring girls, Terry, I’m talkin’ about
our
ladies. Our dates.”

“They went to get a couple of beers.”

“Fifteen minutes ago.”

“They’re okay. Probably down there with their faces together, having a firefight. Talking about us.”

“I hope they are. It’s when they stop talkin’ about us, then we’re in trouble.” Strange sipped his beer and looked at Quinn out of the corners of his eyes. “You didn’t tell me about Juana, man.”

“That she was fine?”

“That she was a sister.”

“She’s half Puerto Rican.”

“Half nothin’. You got a drop of black in you, you are
black.
”

“Got a problem with it?” said Quinn.

“Uh—uh. I mean, I’m not gonna lie to you, it took me back at first, ’cause I didn’t expect it.”

“It’s the way we’re programmed, is all it is.”

“Now you’re gonna tell me what it is.”

“I was up in Wheaton Plaza a couple of weeks back, the mall? Half the young couples, some of ’em had babies in strollers, were interracial. Fifteen years ago, when I was hanging out up at the Plaza, you wouldn’t have seen it. It’s just natural for these kids now. And it made me think, the way my generation is, and especially the way your generation is, it’s
our
hang—up, man. It’s something
we’ve
got to get over, ’cause the world’s changing whether we like it or not.”

“Case you didn’t notice, you been getting a lot of looks here tonight. From people in all sorts of generations.”

“She’s been drawing the looks, and I don’t blame the guys who been lookin’.”

“You’re gonna have to at least face this, Terry: There’s a whole lot of people, black and white, they just don’t believe in mixin’, man. That doesn’t make them racists or anything like that. It’s just their opinion, straight up.”

“Long as they stay out of my business, they can have any kind of opinion they want.”

The fifth round began. A fight broke out by the men’s room to their right, and security guards swarmed the guilty parties, carrying one man out as he kicked his legs and yelled obscenities over his shoulder. There had been a few fights in the crowd that night, and they had occurred with more frequency as more beer and liquor had been served.

“You been seein’ Juana long?”

Quinn rolled his eyes. “Shit, man, you still on that?”

“I got to admit, when we came up on the two of you, first thing I thought was, Terry got himself a one—time date with a black woman for my benefit. Trying to make an impression on old Strange, like, Here I am, Terry Quinn, lovin’ all the people, can’t you see I just want us
all
to get along?”

Quinn laughed. “I’m through trying to impress you, Derek. You ought to know that by now. I’ve told you everything I know. I mean, can we just hang out and not deal with it for one night?”

“So how long you been seein’ her?”

“Not too long, I guess. I’m crazy about her, too, you want to know the truth.”

“I got eyes.”

“How about you and Janine?”

“Shoot. We been seein’ each other now, I don’t know, about ten years. Not exclusive, nothin’ like that.”

“She’s in love with you.”

“Go ahead, man.”

“Look, I got eyes, too.”

“My mother always tells me that old parable about the guy, went all around the world lookin’ for diamonds, when all the time he never did think to look in his own backyard.”

“Diamonds in your backyard. I’ve heard that one plenty of times.”

“Yeah, she didn’t make it up. But when it’s your mom tellin’ you, you tend to listen. Anyhow, I guess me and Janine, we’re good for each other in a lot of ways.”

Strange knew it was deeper than that between him and Janine. But he was a private man, and that was all he could bring himself to say.

Saiz issued a flagrant low blow to Mitchell, sending him to his knees. The increasingly raucous crowed booed loudly as the ref directed Saiz to his corner and deducted a point. At Mitchell’s nod, the ref restarted the fight. Mitchell came out with fury, throwing a flurry of punches in a blur of speed and power.

“You’re gonna see somethin’ now,” said Quinn.

“Yeah,” said Strange. “Sharmba’s gonna fuck him up.”

Mitchell decisioned Saiz unanimously. Janine and Juana walked up the stands carrying two beers each. An elderly couple on the end got up to let them pass.

“Damn, where y’all been?” said Strange, as they took their seats. He sounded mildly cross, but it was plain from the relieved look on his face that he had been worried about Janine.

“Juana wanted to see Sugar Ray,” said Janine. “He’s down at ringside.”

“You see him?”

“Mm—huh,” said Juana, and she and Janine laughed.

“Saw Don King, too,” said Janine.

“Must have made you hungry for some cotton candy,” said Strange.

“Wondered why my stomach was growling,” said Janine, “looking at that hair of his.”

“How you doin’?” said Quinn, touching Juana’s hand.

“Janine’s really nice,” she whispered.

“Havin’ fun?”

“Uh—huh.”

He kissed her lips.

A tuxedoed man came into the ring, pulled down the hanging microphone, and began to describe, with flourish, the participants in the main event.

“Who’s that guy?” said Quinn.

“Discombobulating Jones,” said Strange with affection. “Best ring announcer in D.C.”

“Here we go,” said Quinn. “Bernard Hopkins.”

“Hopkins took out Simon Brown,” said Strange. “You know that?”

The main event had Hopkins in a rematch with Robert Allen for the IBF middleweight crown. Their first pairing, in Vegas, had been marred by Allen’s shoves and holds, and ended as a no contest when Hopkins fell through the ropes and sprained an ankle.

“Allen’s doin’ it again,” said Strange, well into the first round. “He’s headlockin’ him, man; he doesn’t want to fight.”

Allen seemed to fake an injury, claiming himself the victim of a low blow. The spectators became angry, calling Allen a punk and a bitch. As they grew more boisterous, they moved en masse toward the ring. The fight continued, with round after round the same. The crowd’s taunts became louder and more threatening.

“These people want blood,” said Strange.

“Let’s get out of here,” said Quinn. “This fight stinks anyway, and you know Hopkins is gonna win.”

The four of them moved through the dense crowd. The young women in the crowd were mostly attractive, with shoulder—length, relaxed hairstyles that Juana called Brandy cuts. The oversized look was out for the young men. Many wore baseball jackets with leather sleeves and colorful sayings embroidered on the back. Someone bumped Quinn and he kept on, not knowing and trying not to care if it was intentional or not. But he felt his face flush as he walked away.

Out in the auditorium, as they walked down the carpeted lobby, a young man in a group of three made a comment directed at Juana, saying how he’d like to “kick that shit deep.” Quinn felt his face grow hot and the tug of Juana’s hand on his leather. He kept walking, and the movement calmed him.

Once outside, they walked down 10th. Strange and Quinn followed Janine and Juana, who were stepping quickly, talking to one another up ahead. A young black man was standing on the median, yelling at passing cars. “I hate cracker motherfuckers!” he screamed. “I swear to God, I’m gonna kill the next white motherfucker I see!”

“Sounds like the man’s got some kind of
hang—up,
” said Strange, a playful light in his eyes. “Doesn’t he know, Terry, that the world is
changing?”

“Think I ought to go tell him?” said Quinn.

“Go ahead,” said Strange, with a small grin. “I’ll make sure your lady gets home safe.”

JUANA
and Quinn followed Strange and Janine over to Stan’s, where they had a round, and then another, before last call. By now they were all a little bit drunk, and Juana and Janine didn’t seem to want the evening to end, so they agreed to meet up at Strange’s row house for “one more.”

Strange bought a twelve—pack at a market and drove up Georgia. Janine sat beside him on the bench, her thigh touching his, while Strange messed with the stereo, popping in
War Live
and fast—forwarding the tape to a song he liked.

“What you lookin’ for?” asked Janine.

“'Get Down.’ Here it is.” Strange turned the bass dial and put more bottom into the mix. “What’s Ron doin’ on Monday, you know?”

“He’s workin’ a couple of jumpers, I think.”

“I could use his help.”

“We need the money he’s gonna bring into the business, Derek. Don’t tell me this Wilson thing is going to result in a big payday, ’cause I know you’re not gonna end up charging his mother enough. Let Ron do his thing and go on and do yours.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Strange turned up the volume and sang, “The po—lice … We’re talkin’ ’bout the po—lice.’ ”

Janine laughed. “You’re in rare form tonight, honey.”

“Havin’ a good time, I guess.”

“Me, too. I like Juana. That’s a together young lady right there. Going to law school down at GW, you know that? Might have her talk to Lionel about it, let him know in a backdoor kind of way that anybody can do anything, they set their mind to it. You know she didn’t come from any kind of privilege or nothin’ like that.”

“What about Terry? You think he’s good for her?”

“They stay together, they’re gonna have problems they don’t even know about yet. Not to mention, all you’ve got to do is look in his eyes and see, that’s an intense young man. He’s got a lot of things to work out his own self before he can take on the responsibilities of a real relationship. But I do like him.”

Strange nodded, looking in the rearview mirror at the black VW following his car. “So do I.”

In the Bug, Quinn shifted the stick while Juana worked the clutch and steered with her left hand. Her right hand was going through a box of tapes that sat in her lap.

“How about Lucinda Williams?” said Juana.

“The chick on
Laverne and Shirley?”

“You’re thinkin’ of
Cindy
Williams.”

“I’m fuckin’ with you, girl.”

“Here, put this in, you’ll like it.”

Quinn slipped the tape into the deck. “Metal Firecracker” came through the system, filling the interior of the car.

“This rocks,” said Quinn.

“Yeah, Lucinda is bad.”

Quinn chuckled, looking through the windshield. “Derek’s got that Caddy all waxed up. I bet he really loves that car.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothin’. I’m sayin’ he’s proud of it, is all. His age group, the symbol of success is a Cadillac. You know what I mean.”

“I guess I do.”

When Juana was a kid, she heard a white boy in her elementary school class call a Cadillac a 'nigger boat.’ She had told herself from the start that Terry wasn’t 'like that’ in any kind of way. But how could you know what was really in a person’s heart? He had downed more than a few beers tonight, and maybe this was him for real, loose and talking truly for the first time. Maybe what he believed was out of his control, that everything he had learned had been taught to him, and had been ingrained in him irreversibly, long ago. And maybe she was just being too sensitive. Once you started going in that direction, you could drive yourself crazy over something that was probably nothing at all.

“What’s wrong?” said Quinn, looking at her face.

“Nothing, Tuh—ree,” said Juana, finding his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. “I was just thinking of you, that’s all.”

Chapter
21

S
TRANGE
was doing something he called the chicken leg, Janine dancing beside him, as “Night Train” blared through his living room stereo. Quinn was nearby, shouting out encouragement between hits from a can of beer. Juana sat on the couch, twisting up a number from some herb and papers she had found in her purse. Greco lay on the floor with his head between his paws, his tail slowly thumping the carpet.

“Sonny Liston used to train to that one,” said Strange, as the song ended.

“Like you were doin’ right there?” asked Quinn.

“Naw, man, that was a dance we used to do. Check this out.” Strange held up a CD with a photograph of a sixties—looking white girl on its cover. “Mr. Otis Redding.
Otis Blue.
”

“You already played that Solomon Burke. What, are we working our way up to modern times here?”

“This is the man right here,” Strange said, as Steve Cropper’s bluesy guitar kicked it off on “Ole Man Trouble,” the horns and then Otis’s vocal coming behind it.

“Got any Motown?”

“Shoot, Terry, Motown ain’t nothin’ but soul music for white people, man.”

“How do I know? I wasn’t even alive when this shit was playin’ on the radio.”

“And I was still gettin’ press—and—curls,” added Janine. “Barely a child.”

“I was there,” said Strange. “And it was right.”

Juana walked over with a joint in her hand. “You guys want some of this?”

“I do,” said Quinn.

“Been a while for me,” said Strange.

“Come on,” said Juana.

“You all aren’t gonna start acting funny now, are you?” asked Janine.