Straight Punch (15 page)

Somehow—don't ask me how—Mom managed to talk Melinda into coming by the bank the following week. Mom wanted Melinda to meet a counselor who worked in the building next door, someone who specialized in helping people with gambling problems.

Jasmine insisted on getting a cab home with her aunt. When I turned around to look at them before we walked down to the parking garage, Jasmine's arm was around her aunt's shoulders. Aunt Melinda was adjusting her wig, which had now come halfway off. It was hard to tell who was the teenager and who was the adult.

“Hey, Mom, thanks,” I said as we took the elevator down two floors to our parking spot.

“No problem. I've done that sort of thing before.”

Because the elevator walls were mirrored gold, it was as if there were three more Moms and three more me's with us. “Are you saying this isn't the first time you've dragged a gambling addict away from a blackjack table?”

Mom smiled. “Not exactly. But I have spoken to a number of people with gambling addictions before and directed them to counseling. It's a fairly common problem. Anyway, I was glad to help tonight. I've been trying not to ask, but what happened to your lip anyway?”

“I sparred for the first time today.” I ran the tip of my tongue over my lower lip. It still hurt, but not as much as before. “It's Jasmine's handiwork.”

“I see,” Mom said. Her voice didn't give anything away. “I like Jasmine. She has a big heart. But I hope you got her back.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

I'd never have guessed that Big Ron had contacts in the art world. But he did.

Apparently, he'd worked for years as a private bodyguard for a wealthy art collector with homes around the world, including one in Montreal.

That was how Big Ron had come to know the people who owned the Galerie Tableaux on Sherbrooke Street, near the Museum of Fine Arts. So it was Big Ron who first mentioned the street-art exhibit. A local photographer, a professor at Concordia University, had been shooting tags, graffiti and murals all over town. “Let me try to get this right,” Big Ron had told Pretty Boy and me. “My friends who own the gallery say the show is a mix of street art and”—he scratched his head—“high art. Whatever the hell that means. Hopefully, not that whoever did it was getting high at the time.”

“I thought you said you worked for some fancy art collector,” Pretty Boy said.

Big Ron's belly shook when he laughed. “I watched his butt. I never said I picked up the lingo. Anyway, I figured you two
artistes
might want to check out the exhibit. There's what's called a
vernissage
on Thursday night. Open bar, so don't mention it to Whisky.”

Even though it was a photo exhibit, I knew we wouldn't run into Cyrus—he had a low opinion of anything having to do with street art.

When we arrived at the gallery, there was already a crowd. Servers were carrying trays of champagne in fluted glasses and slivers of smoked salmon on thin spicy crackers.

Pretty Boy nudged me. “This wingding feels a little too establishment for me,” he said, not bothering to lower his voice.

But when we got close enough to the walls to see the photographs, Pretty Boy stopped complaining.

There were six huge photographs of street art displayed on four walls. The photos were so sharp, so detailed, it felt as if the spray paint might drip onto the floor.

The photographer who'd shot the photos—his name was Johan Nachmann—was in the middle of the crowd, shaking hands and posing for other people's photographs.

Nachmann could have shot photos of standard tags, the kind that gave tagging a bad name—dark angular initials, sometimes even swear words—or he could have shot photos of artier tags, the kind Pretty Boy and I tried to do. Or he could have shot photos of graffiti-style murals the City had actually commissioned some street artists to do. What Nachmann did—and what made this exhibit so cool—was combine all the styles of street art, so that next to a photo of a standard tag on a dilapidated red brick building (it looked like it could have been in Montreal North) was a photo of a commissioned piece, a field of sunflowers a team of street artists had done on a wall in Notre-Dame-de-Grâce.

“I don't quite understand what Nachmann is trying to do in this exhibit,” I heard a tall, elegant-looking woman wearing cat
'
s-eye glasses say to the man with her. “Do you think he's saying that this”—she lifted her eyes, but I could tell she found it painful to look at the image of the tag on the red brick building—“is art? Because I think it's an abomination.”

Pretty Boy winked at me when she said the word
abomination
.

“I don't like that particular piece of graffiti either, but I like the photo. A lot,” the man said to the woman.

I couldn't resist joining the conversation. “I'm with you,” I said to the man.

“Not me,” Pretty Boy added. “I agree with your friend. That thing looks like a dog's breakfast. I mean, an abomination.”

The woman laughed and the man shook our hands.

We checked out all six of the photos, looking at them first from a distance, then walking closer to get a different perspective. The couple moved ahead of us into a second, smaller exhibit room.

We could hear them talking before we got there. They had finally found a photo they both liked.

“Remarkable,” the man said.

“Powerful, gritty,” the woman added.

“Nachmann has clearly captured the work of two taggers in this photograph,” the man said. “You can see that though the taggers' styles are quite different, they're working in tandem.”

As soon as Pretty Boy and I walked into the smaller room, we saw the photo they were discussing. Because it had been shot at an angle, it captured two walls. One had a forest on it; the other, a larva.

The couple had stopped talking, but they were still looking at the photo, moving closer to it the way we'd been doing in the other room.

It was Pretty Boy who walked back up to them. “Just thought you might like to know—we did those tags. Me and her.”

I felt the woman peering at us from behind her glasses. “Really,” she said. “I'm Carole Blanchette. I teach at Concordia with Professor Nachmann. I'm doing research about street art in Montreal. I'm always interested in talking to street taggers. Let me give you my card. I'd love to interview you sometime. And this is my colleague Norman Fineberg.”

The man who was with her reached out to shake our hands. “I teach studio art. If you'll allow me to be blunt, I think you two should be channeling your artistic talents in a way that doesn't involve breaking the law. You should come for a tour of our fine-arts building. I think you'd like what you see.”

After giving us their business cards, Carole and Norman insisted on introducing us to Johan Nachmann and also to Antoine and Gérard, who owned the gallery.

Pretty Boy had noticed that the photograph of our work had a pretty hefty price tag. “I see you're selling that thing for five thousand big ones,” he told Nachmann. “Maybe we should get a cut. After all, you couldn't have done it without us.”

Nachmann stared at us and said, “There's somebody here from the
Montreal Gazette
who wants to interview me. Thank you so much for coming to the exhibit.”

Antoine and Gérard were friendlier—especially after we told them we knew Big Ron.

“He worked for many years for one of our best customers,” Antoine said.

“It's a shame about what happened,” Gérard added, shaking his head.

Pretty Boy and I looked at each other. “What happened?” we asked at the same time.

“Big Ron didn't tell you?” Antoine said.

“He talks a lot,” Pretty Boy said, which made Antoine and Gérard both laugh, “but he doesn't say much about himself.”

“It's quite a story. Some gangster tried to rob his boss, the client we told you about, and Big Ron intervened,” Antoine said. “We weren't there, but we heard about it afterward. Big Ron punched the robber in the head. Apparently, he hit a vein. The man was bleeding and shaking and drooling, and then he passed out cold. At first, Big Ron thought he'd killed him, but then he came to. It turned out to be a concussion—a serious one. That was the day Big Ron decided to give up the bodyguarding business.”

Someone tapped my shoulder. When I saw that the person had a pencil and pad, I knew she had to be the reporter from the
Montreal Gazette.
She explained that Johan Nachmann had told her we were at the exhibit and she wanted to ask us a few questions. “I'd like to work you two into my story,” she said.

She said she wouldn't use our names in her story, but she wanted to know them anyhow, and also our ages and what school we went to.

She nearly dropped her pencil when we said New Directions. “Isn't that the boxing school? The one the neighbors have been protesting about?”

“That's the one,” Pretty Boy told her.

“What sort of trouble did you get in to be sent there?” she asked.

I gathered she was on deadline and needed to get straight to business. “I was expelled from my old high school for tagging. The principal had a three-strikes-you're-out rule.”

Pretty Boy was cagier. “I got into my own kind of trouble” was all he said.

The reporter was scribbling away on her pad. I'd never seen such messy handwriting. I hoped she'd be able to read it when it was time to file her story.

“Hey,” I said to her. “Can you put something in your story about what a great school New Directions is?” I figured we could use some good publicity.

“I'm afraid I can't say what a great school it is, because I haven't been there. But I will mention the two of you attend an alternative school. Do you believe there's some connection between the boxing and the kinds of tags you and Percy have been doing?”

I knew I had to come up with something good—and in a hurry.

“It's about change. The theme Pret—Percy and I have been exploring in our tags is change. We want people to know change is possible. Here's an example for you. Percy and I have started painting on canvas. It was for a school project, but I think we're enjoying it more than we expected to. And it's not going to get us sent to youth court. It feels like we're changing, and we're hoping people's attitudes can change too. Like the attitudes of our neighbors in Montreal North. Learning how to box has changed me.”

The reporter was paying closer attention. Maybe she wanted to take boxing lessons too. “In what way?” she asked.

“I used to be afraid a lot,” I told her.

“And?” she coaxed.

“Not so much anymore.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Pretty Boy and I hung out at the gallery till closing time. Instead of taking the metro home, we decided to walk. The night air was warm, and walking was a way to extend what had been an amazing evening. Even Pretty Boy had to admit it was fun. “That was real champagne,” he said when we were walking west on Sherbrooke Street, “not the fake kind.” He'd also met Antoine's nephew. “Did you see him? He's hot. And he gave me his email. He said we should have coffee.”

Sherbrooke Street is the longest street in Montreal, and it has many moods. Where the galleries are, it's got its nose in the air. It gets rougher around St-Mathieu Street, and it stays that way for a while, until it reaches Atwater Avenue and leads into Westmount, with its overpriced shops and cafés.

We were approaching St-Mathieu Street when we walked into a fight. There was no shouting, just a tension in the air like what happens before a lightning storm.

In the shadows behind a small apartment building, I spotted three guys, one much smaller than the others. The two big guys had cornered the little one. He was holding up his hands like someone surrendering in an old movie.

What was it about him that seemed familiar?

“It's that kid from next door to New Directions,” Pretty Boy whispered. “What's-her-name's son.”

Eddie. The gold buttons on his school blazer glinted in the dark. Why was he taking off his running shoes? Then I realized what was going on. He was being “taxed.” The two bigger guys wanted Eddie's runners. I couldn't help thinking that Florence must have hemmed a lot of pants and dresses to pay for those shoes.

My eyes met Pretty Boy's. Without exchanging a word, we agreed on a plan.

We walked into the shadows. This time, I didn't freeze.

“Everything okay back there?” I called. My voice didn't shake. Not a bit. After all, I was someone to watch, wasn't I?

“Just making sure everything's cool over here,” Pretty Boy added. The lightness of his tone only added to my confidence. We knew what we were doing. We were boxers. We were artists. We'd just been interviewed by the
Montreal
Gazette
, hadn't we?

Eddie had already kicked off one running shoe. It was lying on its side. The kid's white athletic sock was worn at the heel. He knelt down to take off the other shoe. That's when I noticed his legs were shaking. The poor kid was terrified.

The two big guys turned toward us. I sucked in my breath when I realized one of them was the tagger Pretty Boy had beaten up in August.

He nudged his sidekick. “That's the faggot. The one who knows boxing. What the fuck are you doing here?” he asked Pretty Boy.

I didn't notice him slip his hand into his pocket. All I noticed was the flash of something silver.

He had a knife.

“Get out of here! Now!” I shouted at Eddie. But the kid didn't budge. He just stood there, shaking and pinned to the wall, one shoe off, one shoe on. I wondered afterward if it was because he was paralyzed, like I used to be around violence.

Pretty Boy's eyes were on the silver blade. I could feel him thinking. Scrambling for a plan. He'd take on the guy with the knife and leave the other one for me. The other one—the one I was going to have to take on—wasn't big. His eyes were darting back and forth between his friend and Pretty Boy in a way that made me think he was nervous. Maybe I could take him. My feet moved into fighting stance without my telling them to.

Pretty Boy didn't throw a punch. “Listen,” he said, still not lifting his eyes from the blade. His voice was so calm, it was eerie. “Why don't you let this kid put his shoe back on and we'll make like none of this ever happened?”

Eddie eyed his shoe longingly.

The big guy laughed. “You afraid of a knife? Is that it, faggot?”

“I'm not afraid of a knife.” How did Pretty Boy stay so calm? “And I wish you'd stop calling me faggot.”

“Faggot!”

The sidekick lunged at Pretty Boy. Only later did it occur to me that I should have been insulted—he obviously hadn't thought he'd have to deal with me.

Pretty Boy was startled. Maybe that was why he didn't raise his hands to his cheeks in time. The sidekick punched Pretty Boy in the neck, and Pretty Boy yelped in pain. I nearly called out that that wasn't fair—but, of course, that would've been stupid. We were on the street. There were no rules here.

The sidekick hooted. Now it was my turn to lunge. I kicked my right leg back to gain momentum, then pushed it forward. The tip of my foot landed right where I wanted it to—in the guy's nuts.

The sidekick rolled to the ground, whimpering and cradling his crotch.

We didn't have much time.

The big guy was snorting like a horse. “What are you, some fag hag?” he asked me. Then he flicked the blade of his knife. There was laughter in his dark eyes.

Pretty Boy licked his lips. “I'm starting to think maybe you like fags more than you know.” I knew Pretty Boy was trying to distract him and take his mind off me and what I'd just done to his friend.

“What the fuck do you mean by that?”

Pretty Boy's strategy worked. Only now the big guy had his knife aimed at Pretty Boy's throat.

That was when I saw something I'd never seen in Pretty Boy's eyes. Fear. Ice-cold fear.

This is it, I thought. This is where Pretty Boy's story ends. And maybe mine too. It didn't seem fair that a night that had gone so well could end up so totally wrong.

Someone whimpered. It wasn't the sidekick. He was on his knees, hunched over like he was going to puke.

It was Eddie, whimpering like a pup in a thunderstorm. Shaking too. That was when I noticed the overturned metal garbage can, its lid propped up against it, only inches from Eddie. Our eyes met and I lifted my chin just a touch, toward the lid.

The sidekick was puking. The sour stench filled my nostrils.

Eddie's eyes were bulging. I mouthed the words “Throw it!”

And he did. He picked up that dented metal lid and hurled it at the big guy. There was a clang as it made contact. The knife flew through the air, landing on the pavement with a clatter.

“What the fuck!” the big guy shouted.

Someone in an apartment on St-Mathieu Street must have phoned the police, because we heard a siren. The big guy took off, but the cops must have spotted him because when they drove up, he was in the back of the cruiser, in handcuffs.

“Not you again, Percy,” one of the cops said when he saw Pretty Boy.

“He didn't do anything wrong,” I said. “The guy you've got in the back of your car pulled a knife. It's over there.” I'd told the others not to touch the knife—we'd left it lying on the pavement where it landed. I'd seen enough cop shows to know about fingerprints.

Eddie straightened his shoulders as he spoke to the cop. “Those two guys, Nick's the one in your car, Tommy's that one”—he gestured toward the sidekick, who was still on the ground—“wanted to steal my running shoes. Tessa and her friend”—he looked over at Pretty Boy—“tried to stop them.”

“Nick and Tommy? You know them?” I asked.

“They go to my school.”

“They go to St. William's?”

“Uh-huh.” Eddie looked down. “They've been bullying me since I started going there. Teasing me because we live in a crappy neighborhood. They made me do bad stuff. Stuff I shouldn't've done.” His voice cracked, but he didn't cry. For a little guy, Eddie was tough. I shouldn't have been surprised. After all, he was Florence's kid.

“Hey, hey.” Pretty Boy clapped Eddie on the shoulder. “We've all done some bad stuff. But just now you did good. Real good. Now, will you put your shoe back on? You're making me dizzy hopping around on one foot like that.”

Pretty Boy turned to the cops. “What this little guy didn't tell you is he just saved my sorry ass.”