Dangerous Women Part 21

"You'll be sorry, spic," said Hard Belly, bubbling blood over his lips and down his chin.

The old man dropped the chain on the ground and popped Hard Belly with a left jab again, breaking Hard Belly's nose, spewing blood all over his face.

"What the f.u.c.k you got in your ears?" the old man said. "Mud? Huh? You got mud? You hear me talkin' to you? Adios, a.s.shole."

The three boys, and Hard Belly, who was wobbling, made their way down the street and were gone.

The Old Man looked down at Marvin, who was still lying on the ground.

"I've had worse beatings than that from my old mother, and she was missing an arm. Get the h.e.l.l up."

Marvin managed to get his feet under him, thinking it a feat equal with building one of the Great Pyramids-alone.

"What you come around here for?" the old man said. "Ain't n.o.body around here but s.h.i.ts. You look like a kid might come from someplace better."

Marvin shook his head. "No," he said. "I'm from around here."

"Since when?"

"Since a week ago."

"Yeah? You moved here on purpose, or you just lose your map?"

"On purpose."

"Well, kid, you maybe better think about moving away."

There was nothing Marvin wanted to do more than move. But his mother said no dice. They didn't have the money. Not since his father died. That had nipped them in the bud, and quite severely, that dying business. Marvin's dad had been doing all right at the factory, but then he died and since then their lives had gone downhill faster than a little red wagon stuffed full of bricks. He and his mom had to be where they were, and there was nothing else to be said about it. A downgrade for them would be a cardboard box with a view. An upgrade would be lifts in their shoes.

"I can't move. Mama doesn't have the money for it. She does laundry."

"Yeah, well, you better learn to stand up for yourself, then," said the old man. "You don't, you might just wake up with your pants down and your a.s.shole big as a dinner plate."

"They'd really do that?"

"Wouldn't put it past them," said the old man. "You better learn to fight back."

"Can you teach me?"

"Teach you what?"

"To fight."

"I can't do it. I have to hold my pants up. Get yourself a stick."

"You could teach me, though."

"I don't want to, kid. I got a full-time job just trying to stay breathing. I'm nearly eighty f.u.c.king years old. I ought to been feeding the worms five years ago. Listen up. You stay away from here, and if you can't ... well, good luck, boy."

Holding his pants with one hand, the old man shuffled away. Marvin watched him go for a moment, and then fled. It was his plan to make it through the week, when school would turn out for the summer, and then he'd just stay in the apartment and never leave until school started up in the fall. By then, maybe he could formulate a new plan.

He hoped that in that time the boys would have lost interest in punching him, or perhaps been killed in some dreadful manner, or moved off themselves. Started a career, though he had a pretty good idea they had already started one-professional thugs.

He told his mother he fell down. She believed him. She was too preoccupied with trying to keep food on the table to think otherwise, and he didn't want her to know anyway. Didn't want her to know he couldn't take care of himself, and that he was a walking punching bag. Thing was, she wasn't too alert to his problems. She had the job, and now she had a boyfriend, a housepainter. The painter was a tall, gangly guy that came over and watched TV and drank beer, then went to bed with his mother. Sometimes, when he was sleeping on the couch, he could hear them back there. He didn't remember ever hearing that kind of thing when his dad was alive, and he didn't know what to think about it. When it got really loud, he'd wrap his pillow around his ears and try to sleep.

During the summer he saw some ads online about how you could build your body, and he sent off for a DVD. He started doing push-ups and sit-ups and a number of other exercises. He didn't have money for the weights the DVD suggested. The DVD cost him what little money he had saved, mostly a nickel here, a quarter there. Change his mother gave him. But he figured if his savings kept him from an a.s.s whipping, it was worth every penny.

Marvin was consistent in his workouts. He gave them everything he had, and pretty soon his mother mentioned that he seemed to be looking stronger. Marvin thought so too. In fact, he actually had muscles. His arms were knotted and his stomach was pretty flat, and his thighs and calves had grown. He could throw a jab and a cross now. He found a guide online for how to do it. He was planning on working on the uppercut next, maybe the hook, but right now he had the jab and the cross down.

"All right," he said to the mirror. "Let them come. I'm ready."

After the first day of school in the fall, Marvin went home the same way he had that fateful day he had taken a beating. He didn't know exactly how he felt about what he was doing. He hoped he would never see them again on one hand, and on the other, he felt strong now, felt he could handle himself.

Marvin stuck his hand in his pocket and felt for the money he had there. Not much. A dollar or so in change. More money saved up from what his mother gave him. And he had his pack on his back. They might want that. He had to remember to come out of it, put it aside if he had to fight. No hindrances.

When he was where it happened before, there was no one. He went home feeling a bit disappointed. He would have enjoyed banging their heads together.

On his third day after school, he got his chance.

There were only two of them this time: Hard Belly, and one of the weasels that had been with him before. When they spotted him, Hard Belly smiled and moved toward Marvin quickly, the weasel trailing behind as if looking for sc.r.a.ps.

"Well, now," Hard Belly said as he got closer. "You remember me?"

"Yes," Marvin said.

"You ain't too smart, are you, kid? Thought you had done moved off. Thought I'd never get a chance to hit you again. That old man, I want you to know, he caught me by surprise. I could have kicked his a.s.s from Monday to next Sunday."

"You can't whip me, let alone him."

"Oh, so, during the summer, you grew a pair of b.a.l.l.s."

"Big pair."

"Big pair, huh. I bet you I can take that pack away from you and make you kiss my shoes. I can make you kiss my a.s.s."

"I'm going to whip your a.s.s," Marvin said.

The bully's expression changed, and Marvin didn't remember much after that.

He didn't come awake until Hard Belly was bent over, saying, "Now kiss it. And pucker good. A little tongue would be nice. You don't, Pogo here, he's gonna take out his knife and cut your d.i.c.k off. You hear?"

Marvin looked at Hard Belly. Hard Belly dropped his pants and bent over with his hands on his knees, his a.s.shole winking at Marvin. The weasel was riffling through Marvin's backpack, strewing things left and right.

"Lick or get cut," Hard Belly said.

Marvin coughed out some blood and started to try and crawl away.

"Lick it," Hard Belly said. "Lick it till I feel good. Come on, boy. Taste some s.h.i.t."

A foot flew out and went between Hard Belly's legs, caught his nuts with a sound like a beaver's tail slapping on water. Hard Belly screamed, went forward on his head, as if he were trying to do a headstand.

"Don't never do it, kid," a voice said. "It's better to get your throat cut."

It was the old man. He was standing close by. He wasn't holding his pants this time. He had on a belt.

Pogo came at the old man and swung a wild right at him. The old man didn't seem to move much but somehow he went under the punch, and when he came up, the uppercut that Marvin had not practiced was on exhibition. It hit Pogo under the chin and there was a snapping sound, and Pogo, the weasel, seemed to lose his head for a moment. It stretched his neck like it was made of rubber. Spittle flew out of Pogo's mouth and Pogo collapsed on the cement in a wad.

The old man wobbled over to Hard Belly, who was on his hands and knees, trying to get up, his pants around his ankles. The old man kicked him between the legs a couple of times. The kicks weren't pretty, but they were solid. Hard Belly spewed a t.u.r.d and fell on his face.

"You need to wipe up," the old man said. But Hard Belly wasn't listening. He was lying on the cement, making a sound like a truck trying to start.

The old man turned and looked at Marvin.

"I thought I was ready," Marvin said.

"You ain't even close, kid. If you can walk, come with me."

Marvin could walk, barely.

"You got some confidence somewhere," the old man said. "I seen that right off. But you didn't have no reason for it."

"I did some training."

"Yeah, well, swimming on dry land ain't the same as getting into it. There's things you can do that's just in the air, or with a partner that can make a real difference, but you don't get no feel for nothing. I hadn't come along, you'd have been licking some a.s.s crack and calling it a snow cone. Let me tell you, son. Don't never do that. Not unless it's a lady's a.s.s and you've been invited. Someone wants to make you do something like that, you die first. You do that kind of thing once, you'll have the taste of s.h.i.t in your mouth for the rest of your life."

"I guess it's better than being dead," Marvin said.

"Naw, it ain't neither. Let me tell you. Once I had me a little dog. He wasn't no bigger than a minute, but he had heart big as all the outdoors. Me and him took walks. One day we was walking along-not far from here, actually-and there was this German shepherd out nosing in some garbage cans. Rough-looking old dog, and it took in after my little dog. Mike was his name. And it was a h.e.l.l of a fight. Mike wouldn't give. He fought to the death."

"He got killed?"

"Naw. The shepherd got killed."

"Mike killed the shepherd?"

"Naw. 'Course not. I'm jerking you. I hit the shepherd with a board I picked up. But the lesson here is you got to do your best, and sometimes you got to hope there's someone around on your side with a board."

"You saying I'm Mike and you're the guy with the board?"

"I'm saying you can't fight for s.h.i.t. That's what I'm saying."

"What happened to Mike?"

"Got hit by a truck he was chasing. He was tough and willing, but he didn't have no sense. Kind of like you. Except you ain't tough. And another drawback you got is you ain't a dog. Another thing, that's twice I saved you, so you owe me something."

"What's that?"

"Well, you want to learn to fight, right?"

Marvin nodded.

"And I need a workout partner."

The old man's place wasn't far from the fight scene. It was a big, two-story concrete building. The windows were boarded over. When they got to the front door, the old man pulled out a series of keys and went to work on several locks.

While he did that, he said, "You keep a lookout. I got to really be careful when I do this, 'cause there's always some a.s.shole wanting to break in. I've had to hurt some jacka.s.ses more than once. Why I keep that two-by-four there in the can."

Marvin looked. There was indeed a two-by-four stuffed down inside a big trash can. The two-by-four was all that was in it.

The old man unlocked the door and they went inside. The old man flicked some lights and everything went bright. He then went to work on the locks, clicked them into place. They went along a narrow hall into a wide s.p.a.ce-a very wide s.p.a.ce.

What was there was a bed and a toilet out in the open on the far wall, and on the other wall was a long plank table and some chairs. There was a hot plate on the table, and above and behind it were some shelves stuffed with canned goods. There was an old refrigerator, one of those bullet-shaped things. It hummed loudly, like a child with a head injury. Next to the table was a sink, and not far from that was a shower, with a once-green curtain pulled around a metal scaffold. There was a TV under some posters on the wall and a few thick chairs with the stuffing leaking out.

There was a boxing ring in the middle of the room. In the ring was a thick mat, taped all over with duct tape. The sun-faded posters were of men in tights, crouched in boxing or wrestling positions. One of them said, "Danny Bacca, X-Man."

Marvin studied the poster. It was a little wrinkled at the corners, badly framed, and the gla.s.s was specked with dust.

"That's me," the old man said.

Marvin turned and looked at the old man, looked back at the poster.

"It's me before wrinkles and bad knees."

"You were a professional wrestler?" Marvin said.

"Naw, I was selling shoes. You're slow on the upbeat, kid. Good thing I was out taking my walk again or flies would be having you for lunch."

"Why were you called X-Man?"

"'Cause you got in the ring with me, they could cross you off the list. Put an X through your name. s.h.i.t, I think that was it. It's been so long ago, I ain't sure no more. What's your name, by the way?"

"Marvin."

"All right, Marvin, let's you and me go over to the ring."

The old man dodged through the ropes easily. Marvin found the ropes were pulled taut, and he had more trouble sliding between them than he thought. Once in the ring, the old man said, "Here's the thing. What I'm gonna do is I'm gonna give you a first lesson, and you're gonna listen to me."

"Okay."

"What I want-and I ain't f.u.c.king with you here-is I want you to come at me hard as you can. Try and hit me, take me down, bite my ear off. Whatever."

"I can't hurt you."

"I know that."

"I'm not saying I'm not willing," Marvin said. "I'm saying I know I can't. You've beat a guy twice I've had trouble with, and his friends, and I couldn't do nothing, so I know I can't hurt you."

"You got a point, kid. But I'm wantin' you to try. It's a lesson."