“Donovan Creed.”
I look at the young guy. He says, “What?”
“Your name,” Guy says.
“Why does he care?” Younger guard says.
“I might need a witness later,” I say.
He shrugs. He’s so muscle bound, the simple effort of lifting his shoulders nearly doubles the volume of his neck.
“You can call me Z.”
“Z,” I say.
“That’s right.”
“That your street name?”
“You got a problem with that?”
Z and I are looking at each other, but out of the corner of my eye I see Guy roll his eyes the slightest bit.
“Guy, Z, nice to meet you,” I say, turning toward the door that leads to the boxing ring.
“Mr. Creed?” Guy says.
I turn my head.
“Your gym bag?” he says.
“Oh, right.”
I hand it to him. The bag is an ancient leather boxing duffel, circa 1919, with a single compartment, accessed by a zipper that runs the full length on top of the bag. Guy unzips it, looks inside.
Z says, “What’s he got, usual assortment of guns, knives and bombs?” He laughs.
Guy holds the bag open so Z can see the contents.
Z frowns and shakes his head. “Dude. If you’re here to fight Billy “the Kid” King, you oughta turn around and haul ass before he sees you.”
“Why’s that?”
“He’s a three-time former Golden Gloves champion. And he’s half your age.”
I nod.
Z looks exasperated. “And he’s never been beat.”
“So far,” I say.
Z turns to his friend and says, “You believe this guy?”
Guy says, “What’d he do, push you in the street? Embarrass you in front of your girlfriend? Then challenge you to a fight?”
“He made an unsavory remark about my therapist.”
Z says, “Your therapist?”
I nod.
“What, are you nuts or somethin’?”
“Somethin’.”
“And you mouthed off to him?”
“Nope. My therapist did. Then she slapped him.”
“So what happened?”
“He broke her nose.”
Guy says, “Sounds like Billy.”
Z says, “You saw it? You were there?”
I smile and say, “Had I been there, Billy wouldn’t be here. He’d be in the hospital, or dead.”
Z laughs. “You’re big, I’ll give you that. And you look tough, and talk tough.”
“And he’s got confidence,” Guy adds.
“He’s got that in spades,” Z agrees. “But Billy ain’t never been beat. And like I say, he’s half your age.”
I nod. “Thanks, guys.”
Guy says, “Wait. He’s got this move.” Then he demonstrates a left hook to the body, followed by a left hook to the chin.
“Thanks,” I say. “I’ll look for it.”
2.
I go through the door, see the boxing ring, and sure enough, there’s a guy in it beating some poor shlub half to death. You can see the other guy wants to quit, but his pride is keeping him in it. Billy King is taunting him.
“I’d love to see it go the other way just once,” a voice says, to my left.
I turn and see a frail young man of about thirty in a wheelchair. He looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t place him.
I nod.
“How you doing?” I say.
He smiles. “I’m all right. You here to fight Billy?”
“If he’s into it.”
He laughs. “Oh, he’ll be into it, all right.”
He reaches his hand up to shake mine. He’s about ten feet away, which means I’d have to walk over to him to take it.
“I don’t shake hands with strangers,” I say. “Nothing personal.”
“Oh,” he says. Then says, “What, you got a germ thing?” He pauses. “Or maybe you don’t like gimps.”
I don’t shake hands with strangers because it’s an easy way to get pulled into a knife they might have in their other hand, or the knee they might try to slam into my face. Or they might be able to pull me off balance, or hold me while their friends attack me from the back. There are a million reasons I don’t shake hands with strangers.
Only one of them is the germ thing.
So he got that one right. But he’s sort of right about the other as well, because I especially don’t shake hands with wheelchair-bound strangers. One of the deadliest men I’ve ever met is a wheelchair-bound midget named Victor. As I’ve learned over the years, a wheelchair can be wired with explosives and conceal any number of weapons. The guy could have a spray bottle filled with cyanide under the blanket that’s covering his legs. The guy could have a grenade launcher built into the arm rest. The guy could…well, you get the picture.
I tell the wheelchair guy, “I said it was nothing personal.”
“So you did,” he says.
Then he does something that completely surprises me. He gets to his feet and takes a few shaky steps toward me.
“Holy Jesus!” he says. “I can walk! It’s a miracle!” Then he makes a whispering sound like “Waaaauuu!” as if there are thousands of people applauding all around us. He stops, straightens up, does a quick little shadow dance that looks all knees and elbows.
“Jimmy Christmas,” he says, extending his hand. “Former Lightweight Champion, South Bronx Golden Gloves.”
I doubt this kid was the boxing champion of anything. I look at him and think he couldn’t beat up my breakfast. But why antagonize him? He seems a decent sort.
“Christmas?” I ignore the hand he’s holding between us, waiting for me to shake.
He flashes a toothy grin. “You love it, right?”
“Why Christmas?”
“Because,” he says, with a gleam in his eye, pausing to create a buildup. “Like Santa…I deliver the goods!”
He does that whispering “Waaaauuu!” sound again, like he’s in an arena and the crowd is cheering wildly.
“Why not call yourself Jimmy Santa?”
A hard look crosses his face. “You makin’ fun of my boxing name?”
“Not at all.”
“Sounds like you were.”
“If I were making fun of your name I’d tell you to call yourself Jimmy U.P.S.”
That throws him a second. Then he says, “Because UPS delivers?”
“That’s right. And because they’re into boxing in a big way.”
He frowns. “But you didn’t say that. About me being U.P.S.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“But you could have.”
Was he serious?
“Right. I could have said that. But didn’t.”
His eyes study my face a few seconds. Then he grins his toothy grin and says, “Tell you the truth, I like Jimmy Santa. You care if I use it?”
“Knock yourself out, Jimmy.”
He gives me another funny look. His hand is still hanging out there between us. I can’t imagine what sort of clue this kid needs before he understands I’m not going to shake his hand.
“What’s with the wheelchair?” I say.
Jimmy Santa shrugs, looks to either side, as if making sure no one’s listening. “I’m sorta runnin’ an insurance scam while I’m between fights.”
I think if he’s lucky he’ll be between fights a long time.
He says, “My brother’s Philip Ward.”
I finally make the connection.
“I saw you working Phil’s corner last year in Vegas,” I say. “Helluva fighter, your brother.”
He nods.
The room we’re in is set up like an auditorium, with four tiers that can accommodate about 200 chairs for a boxing event. Each tier is stepped down about twelve inches, which means we’re standing about five feet higher than the dozen or so guys at ringside, who watch as Billy circles his fallen prey. He’s shouting “Get up!” to a guy who can’t hear him. Most of the guys around the ring look sick to their stomachs. Probably friends of the poor bastard that’s had his ass handed to him.
“Billy’s good,” he says.