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  I take a breath and sigh.

  “Sure. What are the stakes, what’s the catch—the kicker?”

  Edson eyeballs the glove, the concrete floor, not looking up. He jaws his dip and spits the juice into the pail again.

  “It’s a doozy, Ray. But, ah, I think you got it, no worries, right? Never even seen you get close to losing.”

  “Not counting the powder and brass knuckles from last time, yeah?”

  The old man toes the ground and rubs more oil into the gloves.

  “I told you, Ray, I didn’t see nuthin’ or I’d have stopped the fight. You know that.”

  On the other side of the hangar I see a door open, and in walks a tall, thin man all dressed in black, a flash of white at his neck, two young boys at his side.

  “Double the usual, Ray,” Edson whispers, “and there’s only one catch.”

  The priest strolls up closer, into the light, the blond twins on either side like two malnourished hyenas looking for a carcass.

  “Ray, this is Father Brassard.”

  The man smiles, and he’s all teeth.

  “Heard a lot about you, Ray,” Brassard says. “I’ve come to cast the first stone.”

  The boys next to him cackle and nod their heads, the one on the left rubbing his nose, his face, the one on the right grinning like the canary eater he is.

  “Father,” I say. “Bless me, for I have sinned.”

  Brassard makes the sign of the cross in the air.

  “Nope, not gonna be enough, I fear. Some penance is in order, my son.”

  He elbows one of the boys, who turns around to reveal a backpack, which holds a wicker offering plate, stuffed with dollar bills that are wrapped in red rubber bands. Edson reaches back toward the ring and pulls a footlocker out from under the canvas and metal railings. He clicks it open and pulls out a stack of bills, half as big as what Brassard has offered.

  “Two to one, right?” Edson asks the priest.

  “Exactly.”

  “What’s this about, Brassard,” I ask, “doubling down, covering your ass?”

  “Language, Ray. Let’s just say that a few other investments went south and I’m here to recoup my losses. That, and I have a lot of issues to work out.”

  The kids grin and laugh at his remark, but when he turns to look at them, they go quiet, eyes to the concrete floor. He unbuttons his coat and hands it to one of the lads, and proceeds to take off his collar and black shirt, stripping down to his black pants. His arms are long and sinuous, scars running up and down them. When he turns around to place his folded clothes with one of the boys, a crosshatch of ugly red welts and scabbed lines reveals itself to the room.

  “I am my own worst enemy,” the priest says, his face turned away. “Today I repent, today I redeem—today I ask for forgiveness.”

  Edson looks up at Ray, nodding along, eyes bugging out.

  “The catch, Ray,” he whispers. “Ask him about the catch.”

  I turn my head from the old man back to Father Brassard.

  “You’re not a good man, Ray. I know that; we all know that,” Brassard says. “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop, right, my son? Today, we see what evil lurks within you, what you’re made of. Two to one, your hands tied behind your back.”

  I stare the man down, unafraid.

  “And idle lips are his mouthpiece,” I reply. “I have no issue with the stakes, the terms, Father. You won’t be the first holy man I hurt, or the last. I fear no god—yours, or any other.”

  A glimmer flashes in Brassard’s eyes.

  “Blessed are the meek,” he says.

  Edson nods, his mouth open, sending a spit into the can.

  “For they shall inherit the Earth,” Brassard continues.

  “We’ll see about that.”

  Chapter 7

  Standing inside the ring, we’re both in boxing shorts now, bouncing on our toes, swinging our arms, trying to warm up in this cold, abandoned warehouse. Brassard is a piece of work—fractured and lost, no matter what he says about God, no matter how much scripture he quotes. Behind the wide smile and sparkling teeth, there is a twitch in his eyes, an uncertainty. Not just about the fight, what I might do to him, but his presence in general—distant, distracted, and panicked. I don’t for a minute think he’s as humble and innocent as he pretends. I see the looks the boys give him—respect, but also fear, adoration, as well as hate. There are many ways to abuse young boys and girls; I’m not as simple-minded as to assume that he touches these two in the dark of night, whispering in their ear about redemption, about sacrifice. No, this aging thorn bird has the look of a Lothario, a Casanova—these two merely his pawns, his tools. This lost soul is a silver fox, sly and cunning—confessions taken at all hours of the day, drop-in visits in order to provide guidance and assistance, his hand resting on one aging housewife’s knee after another.

  But what do I know? They all bleed the same.

  “Ray, here you go—turn around, old chum.”

  It’s Edson stepping into the ring with a pair of handcuffs dangling in front of him. I stop bouncing and let my hands drift down to hang at my sides.

  “I know, I know,” Edson says. “Not ideal, but it’s what the client wants. Too easy to slip out of rope or twine or what have you.”

  I take a deep breath and turn around.

  “Just try not to cinch them too tight, Eddy.”

  “You got it, champ,” he says. My arms are pulled back, the metal clicked on tight, but not slicing into my skin—not yet, anyway. “You got a plan, Ray?”

  “Working on it.”

  “Well, work fast, my friend. The reverend is eager to shed some blood, and not his own this time.”

  I turn back around and Edson reaches up to place my mouth guard in, standing on his tiptoes, as the priest does the same, wedging the plastic in over his teeth.

  Brassard is smiling wide, his head cleaved in half, a light whirling in his eyes. In his corner the feral lads are talking him up, foaming at the mouth, ready for the carnage to begin. Not sure who they’re really rooting for, as they turn their heads to me, give me a sour nod or three. Their voices and words are riling Brassard up, but their eyes tell a different story.

  Edson stands in the middle of the ring.

  “No holds barred, fellas, anything goes. Punching, slapping, kicking, biting, elbowing, shots to the crotch, spitting…whatever gets you going. But when I say stop, when I say it’s over, there is no debating me. Got it, boys?”

  I nod my head once, my arms behind my back, as Brassard shrugs his shoulders, cracks his neck from side to side, and throws a few quick punches into the air.

  “Sure thing,” he mutters.

  “I’d have you touch gloves, but, you know…” he trails off.

  I nod again and smile.

  “When I ring the bell, come out fighting. Got it?”

  Edson slips out of the ring, and as I watch the man across from me, I see he has no fear. Which makes my stomach lurch. A man who is ready to die, unafraid of the violence and suffering that stands in front of him, that’s a man who’s not quite right. And that’s a dangerous opponent. I don’t fear his body, his strength, his fists—I fear the unknown, like every other reasonable man on the planet.

  I know I’m going to get him, but I can’t avoid his fists forever, and I don’t trust this holy man as far as I can throw him. I need a few moments to see what his plan is—rush in right away, fists to my gut, my chest, or will he target my face? How to dodge him, and how to attack? Those are the pressing questions. I’m too big and slow, my strength usually in my arms, my fists, but tonight it’ll have to be my legs, dodging and weaving, moving and bouncing, and when the time comes, there are really only two weapons to be deployed. But it all starts with my legs. If I miss, it leaves me open and vulnerable. This could be a fight that I win with one move, one violent attack—one strike to the center of his face. Timing is everything. It’s time to summon the films of my childhood, a grace that I rarely use when
fighting—all with my arms tied behind my back.

  Time to enter the dragon.

  The bell rings and we both smile, teeth behind plastic, hearts fluttering, the light fading from both of our eyes as the serpent rises from within.

  Chapter 8

  When the fighting starts, I retreat inside myself and regress to a more primitive form of life. All I can hear and feel is my body, the way my weight carries, each step forward and backward, each thigh muscle tightening and then relaxing, finding my center, my balance. Tonight it’s different—no hands, and no fists. I feel top heavy, as if I might tip forward, my arms bent back, my hands clenched together—my face and chest exposed.

  What was I thinking?

  Brassard closes the distance fast, he’s eager to start hitting something, his lackeys pounding the canvas, their mouths open as their eyes bulge, and the darkness creeps in closer.

  I can’t avoid contact, there’s nowhere to go—so I wait until the last minute and lunge to the left, his right fist glancing off my stomach, his left following closely, and missing entirely. He stumbles forward and I circle away from him.

  “You’re faster than you look,” he mumbles through the mouth guard.

  Circling left and left and left and he comes at me again, fakes a punch, pulling it back, as I go left then right, and he’s got me. Right, left, right, the fists land in my gut, and I’m tightening the muscles best I can; it’s nothing I can’t handle. He backs off a step and goes for my face, overconfident after landing a few light blows. I lean to the right this time and he misses, and as I step away, I put my foot in his ass and push him to the canvas. He splays out on the ground, grunts, and turns his head toward me, pissed off.

  I see Edson at the edge of the canvas, both arms on the edge of the ring, grinning. The boys in Brassard’s corner pound the mat again and again.

  He’s up quick, and coming in fast, angry now, embarrassed, his face flushed. He’s trying to back me into a corner, darting left then right, as I try to outmaneuver him. He’s got a lot of energy, I’ll give him that much. He pushes in, and once he’s close, my legs are taken out of the equation, not enough room to extend, nowhere to go. He’s on me, left, right, left, his fists rattling my stomach, my chest, pushing me back, and then he shoots an uppercut soaring skyward into my jaw, and my head snaps up. His first good punch, landed with authority. I bull-rush him forward trying to push him backward, and he trips over his own feet as I knock him on his ass again. I stomp my right foot toward his ankle, his shin, and it glances off his sweaty leg.

  So close to ending the fight.

  He rolls over and bounces back up. He knows that I could have finished him off right there, a solid kick and his leg would have snapped. His face is slick now, sweat dripping down from his forehead to his chin, his chest shiny, his arms glistening.

  He’s slowed down a bit, a little out of breath, and I move in, the aggressor now. I bounce forward and then back, trying to corner him now, leaning back and then kicking forward, my long leg extending, turning sideways, landing in the middle of his chest, glancing off his slow fists and arms, ribs cracking, sending him flying into the ropes.

  “Fuck,” he moans.

  “Mouth, Father, your mouth.” I chuckle to myself.

  He’s lost some wind, slowed down a bit, uncertain how to come at me now. He lunges in and then backs out, lunges in and then backs out, trying to remember how quick my legs are, my kick; how much time does he need, he wonders, how close does he need to get in order to avoid another kick.

  But I know what’s coming next, what I need to do, so I slow my dance and stay in the center, letting him come to me, eager to end this fight. And he obliges.

  In fast, he’s right, left, right to my gut and then back out. In fast, and then right, left, right. But those blows to my midsection won’t do him any good. He sees that, and now he’s aiming for my head. In fast and then a right jab to my jaw, a left to my head, and then right, right, right. I take it, all of it, wanting him to get cocky, to relax, and he does just that. When he takes a breath, arms dipping down a bit, still in close, I make my move.

  My neck pulls back and I slam my forehead down into his face, head-butting him, crushing his nose, the cartilage cracking, his high-pitched scream filling my ears, blood spraying my face, a spritz of warmth, and then he’s falling backward, arms wide, his eyes rolling up into his head. I drift over to finish it, to shove my heel through his paper skull, but I feel hands on me suddenly, Edson in the ring, grabbing me and pulling me away, the two boys on their knees, tears in their eyes, towels to the twitching priest’s face, his body jerking, urine pooling under him as blood seeps over the sides of his skull.

  “Ray, Ray, Ray…stop, it’s over, it’s done!” he yells, pulling me back, my body cold and slick, marble covered in olive oil, as I spit my mouthpiece onto the ground.

  I can breathe now.

  Wasn’t this always the outcome?

  “Boys,” Edson gasps, “get him to the hospital down the street, to Resurrection. This didn’t happen here. You know the deal.”

  They drag the fallen priest off the mat, still unconscious, their eyes back to me now and then, empty and cold. They hold a towel to his face, trying to get him dressed, his coat on, and then they’re across the concrete, pulling him, sobbing, yelling at each other, and then they’re out the door, and gone.

  Edson shoves a key in the lock and springs the handcuffs open. I rub my wrists, circles leaking sticky blood, these rings that run around my swollen fists. He hands me a bottle of water and I drink it down in several large gulps, spitting some blood on the canvas, wrinkling my nose.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  “Peachy,” I say.

  He helps me out of the ring and onto risers that line one wall. He towels me off, quiet, as I try to catch my breath.

  “Never had a doubt,” he says.

  I picture the fire in the priest’s eyes, the rabid kids leering from his corner, and my face throbs, remembering each punch that he landed.

  “Me either.”

  Chapter 9

  A wad of bills in my coat pocket, I hide behind my sunglasses and in the depths of my sweatshirt, face bruised and swollen, the rings around my wrists stinging and pulsing. I’m back on the Blue Line el now, headed south, the walk to the bus, the ride to the train a blur. I wonder if the priest will live, and if he does, how he’ll explain the money disappearing, if anyone notices, or the bruised and broken face he’ll display. I imagine there will be a story, corroborated by the twins that accompany him—robbed by a young black man, I imagine, or beaten by Hispanic thugs on his way to the bank, or on the way to heal and comfort somebody—a single, divorced, or widowed young woman, if I believe the story I’m knitting here.

  The lights flicker on the train and go out for a moment, so I relax, bathing in the darkness. I feel no guilt for what I’ve done—better to do it in the ring than out on the streets. He asked for the opportunity, and it was granted to him. He came for me, not the other way around. So at the end of the day, I can live with it—my actions, the violence, the imagery that fills my head, the sounds and smells and pain. I close my eyes and slip away for a moment. It’s always the same scene, the same moment.

  You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, Raymond.

  That’s my uncle Tully speaking here. He’s rubbing my shoulders and giving me advice. I’m ten years old. I’d just gotten in a fight with a guy at school. There were certain rules in class, and at recess, and this kid, Stephen—man, he just didn’t seem to care. For some reason it was my job, my moral obligation, to keep him in line, to remind him to put his books away, to not go down the hill and around the corner from the jungle gym—out of bounds for recess. He never listened. Tully would scold me for being a tattle-tale, tell me I’d never make friends like that, and maybe I should try to get to know this boy, to understand where he was coming from. Things might not be good at home, or maybe he was jealous of my good grades.

  All I rememb
er is Tully trying to calm me down, still pissed off from the fight at recess, the bruises on my hands, my skinned knees still oozing, as my uncle rubbed my shoulders and gave me a hug and pressed his face up against my cheek, telling me everything would be okay.

  My eyes shoot open as the train continues south, the car nearly empty. A girl with blond hair sits alone at the other end of the car, her long gray coat buttoned up, black leggings and knee-high boots tap, tap, tapping on the floor of the train. She has large, hot-pink headphones on and is hiding behind her sunglasses, just like me. Her skin is pale, and I feel a strange camaraderie with her, my long lost sister of the night. Her lips are red, her gloves fuzzy and pink, to match her headphones. A large scarf wraps around her neck and shoulders, geometric shapes in black over white fabric, with rough trim framing it all. She looks happy. I wonder where she’s going.

  The door at the other end of the train clicks open, and a young man in a red flannel jacket and blue jeans saunters in. He looks high as a kite, eyes bloodshot, a tall-boy Schlitz in his hand lifted to his stubbled face, head tilting back, finishing it off with a flourish, belching, and crushing the can in his fingers, flinging it to the ground.

  “Long live the new flesh,” he says, raising his arms over his head and stopping at the girl.

  “Hey, mama, you look good.”

  She’s covered from head to toe, hardly lying around in a bikini, but the man stops anyway, nothing better to do. I watch him.

  “You headed out, babe, party or something?”

  He leans over her and she continues to ignore him. Good girl. I clear my throat but he doesn’t hear me, laughing and rubbing his mouth with his hand.

  “What, you too good to talk wif me? What’s up with that?”

  She doesn’t move, just sits there, her music going.

  “Come on, don’t be like that, give a guy a break, yeah?”

  “Fuck off,” she says.

  “Oh, I get it. You don’t like cock,” he laughs. “I’m a big fan of pussy myself—I get it, I get it.”