”
Dewey glanced at Daryl.
“I’ll make the same offer as before, man,” he said to Dewey, “but I know what you’re gonna say.”
Dewey didn’t respond. The truth is, though he heard what Daryl said this time, the meaning of the words seemed to sail over his head, as if they were in a different language.
All Dewey could hear now was the warmth. It had gotten there, to that level he’d grown to know and trust, when it guided him, when it spoke to him.
He’ll try to kill you. He wants to kill you. The question is, are you going to let him?
Daryl stepped to the center of the ring, motioning for Dewey and Tino to meet him there.
Tino continued to ignore Dewey as the two approached Daryl. Then he looked up and their eyes met. They were dark eyes, almost black. He smiled. He had no upper front teeth, just a big gaping hole. He stared at Dewey, studying him.
“What branch?” Tino asked, barely above a whisper.
Dewey didn’t answer. He was in a different place. He couldn’t even hear the din of the gym. The shouting was loud now. There was a sense of riot and chaos. He heard only his own thoughts.
It’s time to return. Now is that time.
“Three-minute rounds,” said Daryl, yelling so that Dewey and Tino could hear him above the clamor of the crowd, now five deep around the ring.
Daryl leaned toward Tino.
“When I say stop, you stop, and I’m fuckin’ serious, Tino.”
Tino smiled and began to bounce on his feet, back and forth, left right, staring at Dewey.
“Other than that, well, have at it, motherfuckers,” said Daryl, stepping back, motioning to the corners.
Daryl nodded to someone seated ringside. Suddenly the bell sounded, and the fight began.
Dewey stepped toward the center of the ring. Tino remained in his corner, adjusting his mouth guard. He seemed nonchalant as he did so, not even looking at Dewey. Dewey moved closer, and yet Tino seemed oblivious; he made eye contact with someone in the audience, smiled, then removed his mouth guard. He yelled something to him. His head was turned sideways to Dewey. Dewey came closer now, his fists raised, clenched, waiting for Tino to turn back to him, and in that momentary pause, Tino burst left—like a lion hurling itself through the bush at unsuspecting prey.
Dewey caught the move, but too late. He tried to block the attack, swinging at Tino’s head, but by the time his fist slashed right to left, Tino’s head was gone, dropped down beneath Dewey’s arm as he charged at Dewey’s legs—lurching viciously headfirst at Dewey’s thighs. The moment of anticipation, caused by his own error, was painful. Tino’s skull slammed his left thigh, as hard as a sledgehammer. The shock of the attack was unexpected, the pain brutal and immediate. Dewey felt lightness as Tino drove him hard, backward, then, for an awful second, into clear air. Before he hit the mat, Tino’s arms were around his legs, his sharp fingers ripping at the back of his legs, trying to break the skin. Then Dewey landed, Tino atop him. His back struck the mat, followed by the back of his head. In the fiery moment, he heard Tino’s grunt, a terrible sound, intermingled with pain in the front of his thigh and the dull, deep migraine that shot out from the back of his skull.
The gym erupted in screaming and cheers.
It took all of ten seconds, and Dewey knew he was in deep trouble.
The crowd moved closer, bunching up the sides of the ring, yelling at Tino, egging him on.
“ Break it! ”
“ Bury ’em, Tino! ”
Dewey lay on his back, locked at the thighs in a viselike grip. He slammed his fists into the back of Tino’s skull, his neck, and the upper part of his back, eliciting not even a grunt. Then Tino’s knee shot up from beneath him and hit Dewey squarely in the balls. A half second later, Tino’s right arm sprang loose from around Dewey, swinging wildly for Dewey’s face.
Dewey anticipated the move, raising his left arm, blocking Tino’s swing. Then, with his
Dewey glanced at Daryl.
“I’ll make the same offer as before, man,” he said to Dewey, “but I know what you’re gonna say.”
Dewey didn’t respond. The truth is, though he heard what Daryl said this time, the meaning of the words seemed to sail over his head, as if they were in a different language.
All Dewey could hear now was the warmth. It had gotten there, to that level he’d grown to know and trust, when it guided him, when it spoke to him.
He’ll try to kill you. He wants to kill you. The question is, are you going to let him?
Daryl stepped to the center of the ring, motioning for Dewey and Tino to meet him there.
Tino continued to ignore Dewey as the two approached Daryl. Then he looked up and their eyes met. They were dark eyes, almost black. He smiled. He had no upper front teeth, just a big gaping hole. He stared at Dewey, studying him.
“What branch?” Tino asked, barely above a whisper.
Dewey didn’t answer. He was in a different place. He couldn’t even hear the din of the gym. The shouting was loud now. There was a sense of riot and chaos. He heard only his own thoughts.
It’s time to return. Now is that time.
“Three-minute rounds,” said Daryl, yelling so that Dewey and Tino could hear him above the clamor of the crowd, now five deep around the ring.
Daryl leaned toward Tino.
“When I say stop, you stop, and I’m fuckin’ serious, Tino.”
Tino smiled and began to bounce on his feet, back and forth, left right, staring at Dewey.
“Other than that, well, have at it, motherfuckers,” said Daryl, stepping back, motioning to the corners.
Daryl nodded to someone seated ringside. Suddenly the bell sounded, and the fight began.
Dewey stepped toward the center of the ring. Tino remained in his corner, adjusting his mouth guard. He seemed nonchalant as he did so, not even looking at Dewey. Dewey moved closer, and yet Tino seemed oblivious; he made eye contact with someone in the audience, smiled, then removed his mouth guard. He yelled something to him. His head was turned sideways to Dewey. Dewey came closer now, his fists raised, clenched, waiting for Tino to turn back to him, and in that momentary pause, Tino burst left—like a lion hurling itself through the bush at unsuspecting prey.
Dewey caught the move, but too late. He tried to block the attack, swinging at Tino’s head, but by the time his fist slashed right to left, Tino’s head was gone, dropped down beneath Dewey’s arm as he charged at Dewey’s legs—lurching viciously headfirst at Dewey’s thighs. The moment of anticipation, caused by his own error, was painful. Tino’s skull slammed his left thigh, as hard as a sledgehammer. The shock of the attack was unexpected, the pain brutal and immediate. Dewey felt lightness as Tino drove him hard, backward, then, for an awful second, into clear air. Before he hit the mat, Tino’s arms were around his legs, his sharp fingers ripping at the back of his legs, trying to break the skin. Then Dewey landed, Tino atop him. His back struck the mat, followed by the back of his head. In the fiery moment, he heard Tino’s grunt, a terrible sound, intermingled with pain in the front of his thigh and the dull, deep migraine that shot out from the back of his skull.
The gym erupted in screaming and cheers.
It took all of ten seconds, and Dewey knew he was in deep trouble.
The crowd moved closer, bunching up the sides of the ring, yelling at Tino, egging him on.
“ Break it! ”
“ Bury ’em, Tino! ”
Dewey lay on his back, locked at the thighs in a viselike grip. He slammed his fists into the back of Tino’s skull, his neck, and the upper part of his back, eliciting not even a grunt. Then Tino’s knee shot up from beneath him and hit Dewey squarely in the balls. A half second later, Tino’s right arm sprang loose from around Dewey, swinging wildly for Dewey’s face.
Dewey anticipated the move, raising his left arm, blocking Tino’s swing. Then, with his
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