"Still am, for the next few minutes." Then he remembered his ruined right arm. "Shit, I'm not even that right now, am I?"
"Sorry."
"Tell me one thing…"
"What?"
"Did you think I was as good as The Monk?"
He shrugged. "I dunno. Never saw Monk play. But you can ask him yourself in a couple of minutes." Without a backwards glance, the guy walked back towards the L train.
Jay-Jay sat alone, his left hand tapping the bass notes of "Reflections" onto the concrete as he watched the rose petals floating by his feet into the gutter on a gentle river of his blood. He found it oddly beautiful as he died with a song in his ears.
The Long Count
'Ponk'
That was the sound in Rusty's head. Just like one of the cartoon sound effects on the Batman show. Unfortunately, it was also the sound of the big guy's pinky ring as it bounced off his upper left canine.
When the chirping birdies cleared, Rusty managed a response to the somewhat unexpected blow. "Ow."
The shot to the mouth was only somewhat unexpected since Hermes, the flyweight who had been working the heavy bag under Rusty's tutelage, took the first swing. Hermes was on his back, down for the long count.
"Aw hell," Rusty said, less in pain for his mouth than at seeing yet another prospect unconscious on the mat. Granted, Hermes was a flyweight and the puncher was clearly a heavyweight, but still. He should have been able to take one goddamn punch. Or had the reflexes to get the hell out of the way. "Look what you did to my boxer. That ain't right."
"Do I have your attention, Mr. Cobb?" The voice was a syrupy Texas drawl. Rusty leaned around the heavyweight to see its owner.
Jesus, Rusty thought, I'm being rousted by Hopalong Cassidy. The guy was standing in a Brooklyn gym wearing an embroidered western shirt and a brown ten-gallon hat. "Chaps."
"Excuse me?"
"You need chaps to finish that outfit, Pardner."
The cowboy nodded at the heavyweight, who grabbed Rusty by the front of his sweatshirt and backhanded him across the mouth. Small blessing, but the second shot cleanly knocked out the canine that was cracked by the first punch. At least he'd save on the dentist bill.
"Nobody likes a smart mouth, Mr. Cobb."
"Please, we've shared so much already, call me Rusty." He spat out his tooth, which bounced once and landed on Hermes's limp glove.
"This isn't a Sunday social, Mr. Cobb." The cowboy took his hat off and wiped his sweaty brow.
It was hot in the gym. Rusty kept it that way on purpose. A page he stole from the old Kronk Gym in Detroit for conditioning fighters. Maybe if he waited long enough, his two visitors would pass out from heat exhaustion. "So I shouldn't bother with the fine china, then. You mind telling me what this is about?"
"Don't insult me by pretending you don't know why I'm here." Cowboy bit the end off of a cigar the size of a biscuit can. He spit the wet tobacco right on Hermes's forehead. Hermes didn't even stir. One time contender, now human spittoon. The goon whipped out a lighter that looked like it cost more than a Cadillac. Cowboy puffed a few times, rolling the cigar for an even burn. "Don't insult me by telling me you don't know who I am."
Rusty tried. He didn't have to try hard. He was sure that he'd remember such a ridiculous character. Something about the goon itched at the back of his head, but that was it. As far as Cowboy was concerned, nothing. "Sorry, Hoss. Never really listened to The Village People."
Cowboy waved his hand wearily at Rusty. "Hurt him", he sighed.
The goon palmed the lighter like a roll of quarters and came forward for round three. Rusty was ready this time. It had been almost three decades since he'd been in a ring, but the moves were still there. Like riding a bicycle. A late middle-aged bicycle in desperate need of oiling, but still able to out-speed a heavyweight.
Rusty ducked the haymaker, crouching low and bringing his fist up and under the big guy's ribcage. The goon woofed as Rusty drove his fist deep into his sternum. Then Rusty brought his left straight into the guy's balls. What the hell. They weren't in a ring, so Rusty wasn't worried about losing a point. The goon dropped to his knees.
God bless steel-toed boots, Rusty thought as he punted the goon's chin. The kick lifted him off the floor and on his back, splayed out next to Hermes. Knockout, Rusty thought proudly before he put weight on his kicking foot. Not being in fighting condition, the kick had wrenched his ankle. "Ah, shit," Rusty yelled as he dropped, clutching his foot.
Either way, he was just about to get up and hobble himself over for some cowboy ass-kicking when he heard the unmistakable click of a gun.
Jeez. The guy was actually carrying a six-shooter. Cowboy had it pointed directly between Rusty's eyes. "Nice moves for an old man, Mr. Cobb. I'd applaud, but I might accidentally pull the trigger and blow your face off."
"Please then, hold your applause until intermission."
"There is no intermission, Mr. Cobb. This is a one-act. At the end, you either return what you stole, or you disappear."
"Oh, it's like Tony and Tina's Wedding, then."
Cowboy didn't get that one. "You have three days." The big guy groaned and got up groggily. Cowboy shook his head disgustedly at his thug.
"That's a long play."
"You seem to be the only one playing here, Mr. Cobb. I'm not." Cowboy pushed the still staggering goon out the door.
Rusty was a thief. A petty thief, at best. Stole petty items. Petty cash, for instance. Nothing worth the trouble that Cowboy seemed intent on causing him. No fine art. No heirlooms. Shit, more often than not, the jewelry that he pocketed fell into the categories of costume or out and out worthless.
Like a lot of serviceable but non-contender boxers, Rusty needed work not long into his thirties when it became obvious that his minor talents were heading south. He delivered packages for a messenger service. Sometimes, those packages were C.O.D. When the receptionist went into the little metal cash boxes, Rusty made mental notes. The next day, dressed in his only decent suit, Rusty would walk into the offices early while the cleaning crews were still working, stuff the box in his valise and walk right out. If he had to sign in at the security desk, he just wrote in S.R. Leonard. Rusty wondered if Sugar Ray had ever been questioned about the thefts.
His record low was $14.75 at a small dot-com. His record high was almost a grand out of some big entertainment manager. Fuck 'em, Rusty would think. He'd worked with a manager/agent for a few years. He even managed to get Rusty a cameo in a Chuck Norris flick. Granted, Rusty just got kicked in the head and played dead, but it was still pretty cool.
The sonofabitch dropped him faster than a handful of shit the second the ref counted to ten in Rusty's last fight. Rusty got a quiet enjoyment out of burglarizing those bloodsucking pricks.
If he came into an office that had expensive little laptop computers, Rusty would help himself to a few and pawn them for a couple extra hundred. It was that money that eventually enabled him to buy the old gym in Brooklyn. Nowadays, if he pulled a grab, it was more for shits and giggles than actual need. Some people liked blackjack for their gambling; Rusty enjoyed a little trespassing and B &E.
And it was all little. Little was the operative word. Worst came to worst, Rusty would only have to suffer minor legal consequences. Even when he hooked up with Dante, they made sure they took only cash and easily pawned items. For reasons he couldn't figure, Cowboy seemed to believe that he had something that belonged to him.
And he wanted it back.
Unfortunately, Rusty didn't have clue one what that item could be.