Prize fighter, p.1
Prize Fighter, page 1
Prize Fighter
Geonn Cannon
Supposed Crimes LLC
Matthews, North Carolina
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All Rights Reserved
Copyright © 2020 Geonn Cannon
Published in the United States
ISBN: 978-1-952150-52-4
Chapter One
“Fire Hill Road was released to mixed reviews. The film holds a 57% rating from Rotten Tomatoes based on 44 reviews. Considered a box office disappointment, the film has gained a cult following due to the rising stars in its cast, including Nathan Sargent, Ida Day, and Renee Lamar in her film debut. (source - Wikipedia)”
There were people who had never been punched in the face. In fact, Maxine Reszke was pretty sure that was the majority of the population. It was a safe bet that she’d taken more knuckles to the cheekbone than anybody in most of the rooms she found herself in. She balanced it out with the knowledge that she’d also probably hit more people in the face than anyone she might meet. The give and take was important.
The other occupants of the room in which she was currently sitting might actually prove a challenge to that belief. Two guys at the pool table had more tattoos than words in their vocabulary, a slick-haired man in a suit who was obviously slumming, and a guy in a denim jacket near the door who was checking a flip phone. She saw them all in the reflection of the TV over the bar which had been out of service for the past two weeks. There was a glass of whiskey in front of her with three full ice cubes and a sliver of alcohol clinging to the bottom.
She didn’t like being hit. She didn’t necessarily seek it out. But there was something about the point of impact which was unlike any other feeling in the world. Sound cut out. Light crystallized. She could hear blood in her ears, feel the bone under her skin, sense the pull of gravity on her as surely as if there were strings on her shoulders and hips. The evidence of each punch remained on her face, in the line of her nose or the slight puffiness around one eye. The right side of her jaw was uneven, something that could really only be noticed by touch.
Denim Jacket’s phone chimed. Max looked over her shoulder. In her periphery, she saw the pool players turn as well. Denim was already moving through the door. Everyone in the bar went back to their own business.
It had been weeks since she was punched hard enough to rattle her cage. There were the occasional fights, but only with students and other beginners who either pulled back at the last second or didn’t know how to throw a punch in the first place. It was enough to keep her limber, but it was nothing compared to the real thing. The thrill of a true match, against an opponent who could hold their own against her. That was what she craved more than anything.
Marcus came out of the kitchen with a takeout container in a white plastic bag. She could smell the fries and charred meat as soon as the door swung open. The bar was out of her way, the burger was twice as expensive as what she could get at a fast-food place, and it took him almost a half hour to fill a single order, but it was worth all that hassle for the finished product. She fished her last twenty out of her pocket and dropped it on the bar next to her mostly empty glass.
“No mustard?” she said.
He looked offended she would ask and put the bag down without answering. He scooped up the money and her glass with the same move, turning his back on her as she slipped off the stool with her dinner. The slumming businessman watched her go but she ignored his gaze, and the feeling of it lingering on her when she was past the booth.
The bar was at the end of an alleyway. Fire escape on the right, dumpsters on the left. It was that kind of place, a place no one came willingly or by accident. There was a paper OPEN sign in the window but no other attempt at marketing. Denim was standing near the mouth of the alley facing out, a woman in a black overcoat stood facing him. Her hood was up, and she kept twisting her neck to look toward the street and both ways up the sidewalk. Their heads were bowed toward each other and both stopped talking when Max passed. She’d seen this sort of thing enough times that she barely even registered it.
But then the woman snapped her head toward Max. Their eyes locked. Max held the other woman’s gaze for two steps before the woman’s nervousness made her look away again.
Max left the alley and turned left. She heard their conversation start up again but only a few words reached her.
“--what you want, that’s what--”
“--bring that much. I brought the usual--”
“--come back when you have--”
“--need it now. I promise--"
The woman raised her voice, desperate. The man raised his voice in response. “If you can’t afford it, I can find plenty of folks who can.”
“I can afford it, but I’m not going to bring that much money to meet a person like you.”
“What’d you say, bitch?”
Max was almost to the corner, almost to Not My Problem. But then the woman yelped, followed by a slap. Max stopped. Her burger was going cold with each passing second. She looked back. The sidewalk behind her was empty, but she heard the woman make a high-pitched noise. Like an animal being cornered. Max thought about how long it had been since she’d punched or taken a punch. Even longer if she didn’t count the punches she took in the ring.
She sighed. She turned around.
There was just enough distance to get a good running start. She rounded the corner into the alley. Denim had the woman pressed against the wall, one hand over her mouth, the other rifling through the pockets of her coat. Max lowered her head, leading with her shoulder. Neither of them saw Max until she crashed into Denim and sent him flying into the dumpster. The woman shrieked. Denim managed to stay on his feet but stared at Max, dazed.
Max took advantage of his confusion. She grabbed a handful of his jacket and pulled him toward her, brought him close enough to pop him in the face. The blow rocked his head back, but she kept him upright so she could drive her fist forward a second time, then a third, and a fourth. Her knuckles sang, a cool shimmering feeling before the nerves could process the sensation as pain. Denim was breathing through blood now, sputtering, his eyes open but unfocused on anything.
She shoved him hard against the side of the dumpster and put a hand on his forehead to make him look at her.
“Two choices,” she said. “You run right now, or I break both your legs so you can’t follow her.”
He swayed on his feet, and she stepped to one side, shoving him toward the mouth of the alley. He put one hand up to his face as he shambled onto the sidewalk. He veered to one side and bumped his shoulder roughly on the corner of the building, and then slumped out of sight. Max watched him go and noticed her bag of food lying on the sidewalk. She hadn’t even noticed dropping it. She walked past the woman she’d saved and bent down to retrieve it. Some gunk on the bottom of the bag, and the burger might have to be reconstructed, but otherwise fine.
“I don’t...” The woman sounded on the verge of hysterics. “I-I don’t know h-how...”
“Are you good?” Max asked.
The woman blinked. Big eyes. Green or blue, it was hard to tell in the dark. But the hair that had fallen free of her hood was definitely red. It curled along her cheekbone. After a moment she realized what Max was asking.
“Y-yeah. He, he was only looking f-for money.”
Max nodded and turned around. She started walking away.
“Wait, I don’t know your name...”
“It would be strange if you did,” Max said over her shoulder. She raised her hand, using two fingers to sloppily salute the woman as she walked away.
She was almost to her car when she passed Denim sitting on a stoop, hands up over his ruined face. She was pretty sure he was crying. He looked up when he heard her coming and tensed, pressing himself back as if he could melt into the stairs. She held eye contact long enough to cement their dynamic - he was never going to get revenge on her, never try to one-up her if their paths crossed again, because he knew she was choosing to let him go without further injury. She saw the knowledge in his eyes before she put him behind her, literally and figuratively.
Her car was just ahead. She still had time to get home and eat her burger before it turned into cold mush, and she could comfort herself with the knowledge she’d done a good deed.
***
Stupid.
Renee Lamar’s hands were still shaking, and she felt like she was going to throw up. She started walking after her mysterious savior vanished into the night. The stranger had just picked up the dropped bag of food and strolled away like it was nothing. Like the past thirty seconds weren’t the most vicious thing she’d ever done. Renee could still hear the sound of the punches. Solid sounds, but sickeningly liquid at the same time, like she was punching a water balloon. And the blood...
She stopped on the corner and realized she would have to get home somehow. She took out her phone, flashing back to Griffin’s hands rummaging through them. He was just looking for money, but it could have gone so wrong so easily. And when he found out she didn’t have more cash, if that woman hadn’t come back, then who knows what might have...
Renee closed her eyes. Took a breath. Let it out. She managed to keep her fingers steady enough to call an Uber. Alvin would be there in two minutes, according to the app. She put the phone back in her pocket and reached up to tuck her
She took the chance to compose herself. She caught her breath. She made her hands stop shaking and put them in her pocket. Touching the baggie there calmed her somewhat, even though she hadn’t yet partaken of it. Just knowing she had it was enough to take the edge off so she could act normally.
A car pulled up to the curb, a lit sign on the rearview mirror announcing it as an Uber. The driver’s window rolled down and a man whose beard gave his face an unnaturally round shape.
“Norma?”
Renee smiled. “That’s me.”
At least it was the name she used on apps like this. She didn’t know if it was egotistical to hide her real name, but she didn’t want to take any chances. To Uber, Lyft, DoorDash, Amazon, or any company with access to her home address, she was Norma Baker, a nod to Marilyn Monroe’s birth name. That was also probably egotistical, but she didn’t care. She would rather be slightly safer and full of herself than just listing her name on any app she downloaded.
She got into the backseat. John looked at her in the rearview mirror. “There are chargers back there if you need ‘em. Bottle of water, bag of pretzels...”
“I’m fine. Thank you.”
He pulled away from the curb and headed north, following the blue line on the phone mounted next to the steering wheel.
Renee sighed and rested her head against the window, staring out at the street. Stupid, she thought again. For letting her stash get so low, for not going to her usual guy because he was out of town, for agreeing to meet with someone she’d never actually met in a place he’d chosen. But desperate times. And she was desperate. She knew the area was shady, so she had only taken exactly as much money as she usually needed.
Griffin had recognized her as soon as he walked out of the bar. “Hey, I know you.” And that was probably when he decided the price had gone up. The smart thing would’ve been to walk away, but she’d already seen what was in his hand. She was so close to it, so close to a fix. Just a handful of little white pills, not even a full bottle’s worth, and even that cost a couple hundred dollars. There was no chance she was going to bring extra to this part of town.
She closed her eyes and clutched the bag in her pocket like it was a security blanket. She drifted off just enough to be startled when the car pulled to the curb and she opened her eyes to see the house under construction on the corner of her street. She sat up and smoothed her hand over her hair. She wished she had something to tip the driver with. That was one thing she missed about cabs. Handing over the cash was a nice, solid end to the transaction. It was awkward with everything done through the app.
“Well, thank you...”
“No problem.” He twisted to look at her. “You know who I was thinking you look like...”
She smiled, already twisting to get out of the car. “Oh, yeah. I get that all the time, believe me.”
She closed the door before he had a chance to respond and waited until he pulled away from the curb before she started walking. It was a posh neighborhood in the Pacific Palisades, the sort of place where the risk of walking alone at night was tiny compared to being dropped off at her doorstep. The fresh air also helped calm her nerves and put the events of the night behind her. To her left, the ground dropped away to give the houses along this road an unobstructed view of the ocean, which was currently inky black and reflecting the low-hanging clouds.
She arrived home. The curved stone steps leading up to her door were flanked on either side by solar-powered lights, which made her think of runways and late-night landings. She let herself into the house, silenced the warning beep of her security alarm, and let her coat slide off her arms. When she tapped the sensor on the wall, soft lighting spread out across the open area of her living room. It looked more like a hotel lobby than a home; a square of chairs and divans to her left, and directly ahead, a kitchen where the check-in desk would be.
“Alexa,” she said, stepping out of her shoes, “shuffle blues playlist.”
Music started playing as she went into the kitchen. The lights were still off here, but she could see well enough in the ambient light to do what needed to be done. She hummed along with the music and ignored the tremors in her fingers as she crushed a few pills and used a knife to push the powder into a blunt line. She bent down, pressed her thumb against one side of her nose, and inhaled deeply.
The oxycodone hit her hard, fast, and complete. She stood up straight, eyes closed as the cool numbness spread through her. Her hands came up and pushed her hair back, thick red handfuls of it, and she rolled her head back on her shoulders. It felt like every part of her - head, arms, legs - was only attacked to her body by thin balloon strings.
After that, her attention drifted in and out but she caught snippets of what she was doing. Slacks and silk panties pooled on the hardwood of the hallway. Her stash was kept in an antique teapot on her bureau with her jewelry. She ran the pad of her middle finger over the design, smiling at how the light glinted off all the rings and necklaces and bracelets surrounding it. She felt like a dragon with her hoard. She chuckled and added the pills to the teapot, then patted the lid when it was back in place.
More flashes rather than actual memories: The snap of the bathroom light coming on. The cold porcelain of the tub under her ass, the splash of water, and then the coldness of it as she sank down. She was still in her bra but otherwise naked. She thought about taking it off, but it was already wet and she didn’t feel like making the effort.
She thought about her savior. The mystery woman with her downturned lips, the dark eyes which had locked on Renee’s, the extremely short black hair that still managed to make spider-legs over her forehead. Renee saw the roll of the woman’s shoulders as she walked, a strut, a challenge to anyone who might be in her way. She wasn’t the sort of person to go around. People moved for her.
She was wearing a hoodie. When she walked away she saw a logo on the back. Yellow circle. Palm tree in the center. Words written around the upper arc.
COSTELLO’S BOXING GYM.
“Costello,” she murmured.
The blues coming from the living room paused. “When I Was Cruel No. 2” by Elvis Costello began playing. She opened her eyes at the change and wanted to switch it back, but lacked the energy or motivation. Besides, the slow lounge crawl of the song was actually much better than what it replaced, so she dropped her hands into the water and moved her head to the rhythm. She was too far from the speaker to hear the sneering lyrics but that was fine.
An image of the street filled her mind. Her, cowering. The savior, standing in a spotlight. Shoulders rising and falling with her ragged breathing, blood dripping from her fists. She let that memory settle at the forefront of her brain as she drifted away, mouthing the repetitive “Un... un...” from the Costello song.
***
Max put her left hand flat on her kitchen counter and dropped a bag of frozen broccoli on top of it. The cold seeped into her stinging knuckles, and she ate her dinner with the other hand. Her skin was so hot that she was afraid it might melt the ice. She couldn’t catch her breath. The adrenaline wore off when she was halfway home and she broke out into a cold sweat in the car. Even now she felt as if she was burning off every calorie as quickly as she could devour them, taking big animalistic bites of her burger and staring off into the middle distance.
She focused on nothing, because her mind’s eye was focused on a memory. “Reszke was the favorite to win this match, but these first two rounds have been showing none of that promise.” She hadn’t heard their voices at the time, of course, but she’d watched the tape countless times since. Who else had a professional commentary for the worst night of their lives? Who else could supplement their personal point of view with multiple camera angles professionally filmed by HBO?
“Reszke has landed jab after jab, to seemingly no cumulative effect. You can see the exhaustion in her eyes as she keeps chipping away at this brick wall.”
“You definitely can, Jim, but she’s a superlative fighter. She’s not going to just lay down.”
She was wearing blue gloves. She sometimes still saw the flashes of blue in her periphery as she threw punches at Miriam Rudd, in her red gloves. Seven rounds. Close to half an hour. Ears ringing, blood pounding in her temples, cuts throbbing and seeping blood down toward her eyes. Her legs shaking from the effort of keeping her upright. She couldn’t lose. She wouldn’t lose.
