Bridgeport Brawler (Fight Card) Read online

  Carmen pushed my head away and nodded to the big slab of beef standing next to me. The guy produced a ten pound sledge hammer and stood next to me, one hand on the table, the other which held the hammer raised in the air.

  It seemed to float there for an eternity before he finally brought it down on my right hand. The pain was excruciating, and was followed by several more blows. After the third, it didn’t matter anymore. I had been engulfed in darkness.

  ***

  I awoke to find myself lying in a pile of trash in some alley. It stank something awful. I was woozy, but it wasn’t long before the mangled piece of meat that was my right hand brought me back to reality.

  I stared at the mangled mess and for the first time since I was five started to weep. I’m not sure how long I sat there, but eventually I got to my feet and shuffled out of the alley. I looked up and realized I was in an alley off Twenty-Sixth Street. At least they had left me close to a hospital. Mercy was just a few blocks away.

  I headed that way holding what used to be my hand up in the air to ease the pain. The bleeding had more or less stopped while I was out. It was a strange feeling. My hand hurt like hell, but the rest of me was numb.

  It was the first time in a long time I wasn’t sure what my future would hold. It was also the first time in a long time I was scared of something. It wasn’t Carmen and his goons, but the thought I would probably never fight again. Without boxing, I didn’t know how I would get by.

  The hand started to throb to remind me to deal with first things first.

  ROUND 5

  Six months later, several operations, and lots of booze, I was finally accepting my right hand would never open and close properly. I would never be able to make a fist – never use it to strike with the thunder it once held. It was now a useless stump.

  Patrick The Hammer White was done with the boxing game.

  No judge in the country would let me step into a ring with my hand in the desperate shape it had become. I figured I needed a new game plan, but after a few months of staring at the bottom of a bottle of booze, the answers just weren’t materializing. I was nearly broke, having spent most of what I had earned fighting on all the medical bills.

  I had one thing left to my name, my brother Don’s Indian motorcycle. I stared at it as I listened to the rumble in my stomach, holding an empty bottle of Rye in my hand.

  I straddled the motorcycle and kicked it over. A moment later, I was on the road to Chili’s garage. David Chili Ambriz had spent a short time with me at St. Vincent’s. He’d always coveted the Indian. I hoped he could afford to give me a good price for it, but as they say, beggars can’t be choosers.

  Chili’s garage was located on Thirty-First, just east of Wallace. It was only a few blocks from where my family had lived until I burnt the house down those many years ago.

  I drove past the place, which after all this time was still a vacant lot. I stopped and stared at it for a few minutes. Vacant and empty, just like my life. I took a deep breath and headed on to the garage.

  Boxing was just one of the things we could learn at St. Vincent’s. Mechanics was another. The priests at St. Vincent’s Asylum for Boys prided themselves on giving the hopeless every chance in the world to make something of themselves.

  The funny thing was Chili was not what you would call mechanically inclined. Most of what he worked on never ran again. This made me all the more curious to see how he came to own and operate a well-respected garage.

  I pulled through the gate surrounding the small yard where the cars he worked on were stored. There were also a few junkers, which looked as if they’d been used for parts a few too many times.

  I parked the bike close to the front entrance. There was a bright pink neon sign spelling out Chili’s, surrounded by a few neon Chile peppers. It brought a chuckle to my lips – the first one in quite some time.

  I pushed open the door and entered a smoky office. There was a couple large desks, one of which was occupied by a swanky blond. The other was occupied by Chili. His legs were stretched out on the top of the desk, and the phone was glued to his ear.

  I watched the blond chewing bubble gum and typing with two fingers. Obviously, she hadn’t been hired for her secretary skills. I moved a little close and the blond spoke without looking up.

  “Can I help ya, bud?”

  “I came to talk to Chili.” I motioned to Chili, but she didn’t notice.

  However, Chili looked up and his eyes nearly popped out of his skull.

  He responded to the guy he was talking to on the phone, “Look, Louie, I’ll call ya back. Something important just came up.”

  I could tell he didn’t wait for a reply before he hung up. He swung his feet off the desk and jumped out of his chair to come over by me.

  It had been a few years since I’d seen him, but Chili looked the same. Puffy cheeks, thin line excuse for a mustache, and always sporting a smile.

  “Pat, how are ya, man. I been watching the fights since you first started. You was something. Course, I remember you from the short stint at St. Vincent’s. You always had a hell of a right!”

  He grabbed for my hand to shake it and then pulled back as he looked down at the mangled excuse.

  “Geez, Pat. I’m sorry. I heard what happen. Bad news that Carmen, really bad.” He turned to look at the blonde. “Hey, sweet cheeks. What say you take a walk and get me and Pat a few cups of Joe and some rolls from Nick’s down the street?”

  Chili pulled out a wad a bills as the blonde stepped out of her chair and floated more than walked over. She smiled at me, I think – my eyes weren’t on her face. She definitely filled out all the seams in the rather tight dress she was wearing. I watched as she walked out, all six foot of her, most of it legs. I whistled and looked at Chili who was all smiles.

  “You hired her for her typing skills, right?”

  Chili just smiled and motioned me to take a seat at the chair in front of his desk.

  “So tell me, Pat, what can I do for you?”

  I hung my head a little. “To be honest, I need a little dough. So, I thought I’d see if you were interested in buying the old Indian off me.” I could see the shock on his face. Everyone at the orphanage knew how much the old bike meant to me. It was the only piece of my past that still existed.

  “No way, champ. I mean I would love to own that bike, don’t get me wrong, but I couldn’t do it to you!”

  “I know, but things are tough. I’m flat busted.”

  Chili shook his head. “I have a better idea. What say you come and work for me instead? I’ll spot ya a few bucks to help ya out, at least until your first paycheck.”

  “Don’t call me champ, please. That guy is dead and buried.”

  Chili seemed shocked by my down and out manners, but nodded.

  “I’m not so sure I would work out – bum hand and all.”

  “Are you kidding me? Not only were you the best boxer I ever seen, but you cracked a mean wrench as well. Consider yourself hired. Mi Casa, Su Casa, as they say in my native land – at least I think they do.” Chili’s face lit up as he stood and motioned for me to follow him to the back garage.

  I got the tour and met the other two men who kept him in business. One was named Effron Gonzales, but they called him Metch for some reason. The other was Chico Juarez.

  Metch was a little plump and the coveralls fit him snug. Chico was slim, his coveralls hanging loosely. They both eyed me up as I made my way into the back of the shop.

  Metch stepped away from the car he was working on. Chico slid out from under another. They both started wiping grease from the hands hastily and seeming to shy away a bit in my presence.

  They spoke in unison almost. “Hey, you’re the champ.” Then they looked at each other like one had stolen the other’s thunder.

  Metch stepped forward and without looking grabbed my hand to shake it. I didn’t move it in time, and when he grasped it firmly I winched a little which caused him to release it and look down. H
e gasped a bit at the site before him, but quickly gathered himself and shook it off.

  “It is truly an honor, my friend, to meet you. I am a big fan. Me and Chico caught almost all your fights. Your right was bad!” He threw a few punches in the air and smiled from ear to ear.

  I tried to maintain a smile. The two of them were obviously big fans, but somehow I found it hard to hear myself called champ anymore. It just didn’t fit, and I sure didn’t feel like a champ anymore.

  Chili seemed to sense my awkwardness and stepped in to save the day.

  “Hey listen, you two. Play time is over. These cars aren’t going to fix themselves.” He stared at them, putting his hands on his hips to empathize his point.

  The two mechanics sheepishly returned to their work, staring at me and smiling the whole time.

  Chili pulled me aside and spoke softly. “I don’t know all the ins and outs of what happened, and if you’re not comfortable with telling me, then no worries. You are welcome to work here as long as you want. These two are good, but nothing like you were. I will probably have to order you a special set of overalls, but that won’t take long. So, how’s tomorrow sound for starting?”

  I pulled my sleeves up and looked at him. “What’s wrong with right now?”

  Chili smiled and stepped aside like a bull fighter in front of a charging bull. I jumped right in with Metch and Chico. Their awe wore off by the end of the night and we worked together like a fine oiled machine.

  At eight it was time to lock up. Metch and Effron headed. Chili motioned me over to his desk. He pulled a bottle of tequila out of a drawer, along with a couple small glasses, which he filled halfway. I looked at the small glasses, then at him, and smiled. “Don’t get cheap on me now.”

  Chili shook his head and smiled. “Trust me, this is homemade. And this is more than enough to light your fire, guaranteed!”

  I slammed the stuff down without listening, and instantly felt my insides burning up. I virtually coughed flames, which made Chili chuckle.

  “I told you the stuff was strong. I get it from my aunt, she’s got a little distillery in her basement. She gets the stuff to make it sent straight up here from Mexico. Whew!” He shook his head, and we both laughed.

  ROUND 6

  I had been with Chili for a few months when I started to pick up on a few things. Things were going on after hours. We were cutting up cars that appeared perfectly fine.

  I shrugged my shoulders and kept to myself about it. I was happy to have the job, and for the most part, work was a blast. I could still lift a short block out of a car by myself, and the hard work and sweat reminded me of the days in the gym.

  I still found my way to the bottom of a bottle more often than I should have, but my spirits were up for the first time in a while. As a result, I just looked the other way.

  One night though, a few guys showed up at the shop after hours. I’d hung around and was helping tear apart a forty-nine Ford, destination unknown.

  Chili was up front with a phone glued to his ear, his feet up on the desk like normal. The door was open to the shop. Metch and Chico had done me the favor of turning down their cucaracha music for a bit, so I heard the bell jingle when the front door opened. I also heard Chili’s enraged voice.

  I dropped what I was working on, wiped the grease off my hands, and headed to the office door. Three gorillas, who I could tell by smell alone, were Carmen’s boys.

  I wasn’t sure, but the one looked like the goon who had used the hammer on me. The two goons moved quickly, grabbing Chili, while the third started to work him over.

  I quickly pulled off my coveralls and walked into the room. The goon who was slapping Chili around turned and saw me. It was the sledgehammer boy all right. His eyes twinkled and a big shit eating grin fell across his face as he stepped toward me.

  “If it isn’t stumpy, the former heavyweight champion of the world!” He rolled some extra emphasis on the last part.

  I felt the hair stand up on the back of my neck like a wild dog. I could feel the anger building and the right side of my mouth curl into a snarl.

  I moved toward the punk as he set himself to throw a haymaker at me. I brush it aside and planted a straight left into his gut. I stepped forward and applied pressure on his foot, so he couldn’t fall away as he double over, setting what came next up perfectly.

  I brought my knee up just as I forced his head to meet it. I felt his nose as well as a few teeth give way. I grabbed him by the back of the collar and rammed him behind me into a waiting metal file cabinet, assuring he was out for the duration.

  I spread my feet a few feet apart in a boxing stance, as the other goons stepped toward me. They apparently liked their odds, because the noticeable bulges under their jackets were still concealed.

  Chili was out for the count, so I knew I couldn’t depend on him for help. However, truth be told, I felt alive for the first time in a very long while. I smiled and stepped toward the two.

  The first came at me with his arms raised, trying to grab me in a bear hug. I snapped a couple quick left jabs to his face, which broke his nose and then stepped into a kick that connected with his sack like the best punter in football. I watched his eyes roll up into his head as he reached down to grab them. He dropped to the floor – out cold.

  The other goon tried to reach for his gat, but I didn’t give him the chance. I lunged in with a left uppercut, which straightened him up and caused his hand to come out of his jacket empty.

  I shot a left hook to his temple and then planted the heel of my foot into his thigh, causing him to drop to a knee. I brought my curled right arm up and, with all the force I had, drove my elbow into the base of his skull. He was out before his face kissed the floor.

  I stood over them as I felt the blood pumping hard through the veins in my neck. It felt good. It felt right, bringing back good, bad, and so-so memories. However, after all I had been through, I relished those feelings, the thrill, and the excitement.

  I heard a low moan from Chili and, finally, something had brought Metch and Chico to the office. I figured it was the fact the dirty work was done, but they swore they didn’t hear a thing and were just ready to wrap up for the night.

  I helped Chili to his feet and over to his chair. He moaned a little as I poured a shot of the tequila he kept in the drawer and brought it over to him. I held it under his nose first, and then force about half of it down his throat. The effect was better than smelling salts. His eyes bulged, and he coughed, but he was wide awake.

  “Geez, Pat! You trying to kill me? I told ya that stuff is strong!” He shook his head back and forth. “Whew! I gotta patent that stuff,” he said.

  Metch, Chico, and I all chuckled.

  Chili told Metch and Chico to take the goons out to the curb, after making sure their guns were removed, as well as any other items they could use against us.

  I didn’t think they would be in any mood to come after us. Judging from the way they looked, a hospital was gonna be in order.

  After Metch and Chico did as instructed, Chili waved for them to shut the door to the garage then motioned me over to the desk. He grabbed the bottle and another glass and poured the two of us a belt.

  He sat down and indicated I do the same. He slid a glass in front of me. Chili held his up and said, “Salute! Or whatever it is they say down in Mexico.” He tilted the glass and poured the whole thing down his gullet.

  I did the same, amazed Chili didn’t gag. He seemed to be gathering his thoughts, but decided another drink was in order before speaking. Finally, he cut loose.

  “Pat, I know you realize everything going on around here is…let’s just say, not a hundred percent on the up and up.”

  He poured himself another shot and motioned for me to push my glass over. He filled it up. We splashed them down and he filled them up again. I knew something was wrong. Chili never drank like this.

  He was by all accounts a lightweight. I felt a gnawing at the pit of my gut. It told me, I was
either gonna be flipped upside down, or have my life drifted into a corner. Either way, I wasn’t gonna be happy.

  Chili downed the drink, then looked at me. He didn’t shy away, making direct eye contact. I expected nothing less. Despite his flaws, Chili was a man of character. He considered me a friend, and I knew he would do nothing to tarnish that friendship.

  “Pat, I am up against it with Carmen.” He wavered a bit and hiccupped, then shook his head trying to clear his thoughts. “He wants a piece of the pie. Too big of a piece.”

  I shook my head. It seemed no matter how hard I tried to forget about Carmen, he kept creeping back like some infection no amount of penicillin could cure. I had actually been starting to feel happy again – as much as bum with a fighter’s heart could.

  Chili set the bottle down hard to get my attention. “You listening to me?”

  I chuckled. Cleary, Chili was still a lightweight.

  “Sure, but what say we continue this in the morning?”

  I stood up. Chili raised his finger to point at me and then his eyes rolled up and he fell forward onto the desk. Two seconds later he was snoring away.

  I helped him up and carried him up the stairs to the little apartment he kept above the shop. The room was surprisingly clean and tidy. I set him in his bed and covered him up. His eyes blinked open and closed. He muttered a few unintelligible words and went back to snoring.

  Downstairs, I sent Metch and Chico home, locked up, and started walking in no particular direction. I was just thinking. It was something, I often did during the weeks leading up to a big fight. I guess it was something I held onto from St. Vincent’s. Father Tim was a big walker, and sometimes I was lucky enough to go with him. He called it a simple way to cleanse the soul.

  I walked for what seemed like hours, thinking about Carmen, thinking about the turn he had caused my life to take – realized I caused it myself in some ways. But why did he have to want me to take a dive?