Steve’s shorts: Mayhem, Murder, and Music’s TKO…
[Note from Steve: This is the last free short story in this series (there might be others forthcoming outside the series, of course). If you missed the other short stories in this series, they’re all archived in the blog category “Steve’s Shorts.” This one is inspired by Simon and Garfunkel’s “The Boxer.” (Fair warning: it’s rated R, or maybe PG-13 if you watch cable.) I was an S&G fan from their first album. Can’t say which version of “Sound of Silence” I like best (first or second album’s), but the duo started out in that sixties revival of folk music in the Village and made soft rock a new genre in music. Even back then, I spent time “counting the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike.” Hit after hit, but “The Boxer” was one of their biggest. I was sad when they split—that marvelous synergy disappeared from the national music scene.]
Jake Billings finished sweeping the floor of the gym, sniffed at the foul air, and locked up. The last punk had left. Always thinking boxing’s their future. He had once thought that. Not hard to understand for a kid living on NYC’s mean streets. Runner for the mob, pimp for the whores on 7th avenue, drug dealer—these were the kind of occupations awaiting a poor young man looking for a future. Boxing had seemed a safer place to be.
You start out fighting because you have to defend yourself. Even to stay out of gang life, you have to fight. They call you a faggot if you don’t join. They might bugger you if you don’t join. Some die fighting them. If not them, the cops, who think every poor kid’s a future danger to society. Cops aren’t much better than the gangs sometimes. Some are OK and try to help; others will beat the crap out of you if you look at them wrong.
They’d called him Basher Billings. He’d known how to fight. He had learned fast. Liked the fact that there were rules—it’s much safer when your opponent can’t pull out a gun or knife. His first four matches ended in three knockouts and one TKO. Then Sam, a good cop who hung around the gym, advised him to quit.
“You’re taking some hard hits, Jake,” the cop had said. He’d fought a bit in the Marines. “You’re going to turn your mind to mush. Even with a helmet, I’d have ringing in my head.”
“The big money’s still there to be had,” Jake had said. “It’s my way out of these neighborhoods.”
Sam had shrugged. “Don’t ever say I didn’t tell you.”
Jake had thought about it, though. But his agent Sid quashed the idea. “We have a big one coming up. Big money for both of us if you do what I tell you.”
Jake hadn’t liked the idea. The agent had someone talk to him, someone called Biggy. “Your nanna might have a little accident if you don’t do what you’re told, boy.”
Nanna Nina had raised Jake. He still checked on her whenever he could. The old lady had offered a poor boy unconditional love, taking him in after losing his father to gun violence and his mother to drugs, and trying to keep him on the straight and narrow in the worst circumstances imaginable. Jake recognized the bulge from Biggy’s shoulder holster. The threat of its use caused fear, but the mob enforcer’s fists were just as deadly as far as an old woman was concerned.
Jake turned out the lights and fumbled for the keys. Remembered taking that hit in the third round of his fifth fight. He’d been fumbling for his keys and other things ever since. His nimble dance in the ring had long ago been replaced with shuffling, concentrating on each step so he wouldn’t stumble.
***
Jake’s roommate was handicapped too, physically not mentally. He lived his life in bed or in a wheel chair. He designed computer games. He didn’t make a lot of money, but the company liked his work. Jake helped take care of him. It supplemented the salary he received from the gym.
“You seem out of sorts tonight,” Alan said from across the dinner table. Jake had made pasta. That matched their budgets, cooking skills, and tastes. “For an old boxer with his brains addled, how can you be depressed?”
Jake considered the question. He knew the one eye that drooped a bit and the scars on his face easily interpretable as wrinkles from old age made it seem like he was always considering some question. Alan called him a retard-philosopher. Alan was quick to react to all stimuli; Jake was slow. Basher Billings was forced to think as slowly as he now moved.
“Not addled enough,” said Jake. “I saw Sid today.”
“That asshole. What did he want?”
“Nothing concerning me. I’m nobody now, so he ignores me. He was talking to another eighteen-year-old and ogling the kid’s girlfriend.” Jake knew that Sid had been married twice. Number Two had thrown him out because he was a philanderer and also addicted to porn. Jake remembered some of the disgusting pictures. “Probably going to sign him. Just another kid wanting a better life to get out of the ‘hood.”
“To throw yet another fight? That’s crazy! Somebody should stop that jerk. I thought the Feds cleaned up the mobs.”
“No one cleans up the mobs. They have takeovers and mergers like big corporations. They’ve gone far beyond extortion and protection. Vices pay big, though, and gambling is a moneymaking one. Getting rid of the mobs is like trying to get traction on an icy sidewalk. Besides, Sid receives money from gamblers too.”
“How entrepreneurial. Maybe you should pay Sid back for what he did to you.”
“Not a bad idea. Nanna’s dead and buried now. I don’t have anyone left but you to worry about. I wouldn’t know how to do it, though. I’d like to get a gun and just blow him away, but I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in jail.”
“You’d rather spend it as a custodian in that stinky gym?”
“It’s an honest job. Between that and what I make taking care of you, I get by.”
Alan nodded. “I bet I can figure out a way to get you some revenge. It’s about time I helped you for a change.”
Jake smiled. “That sounds appealing. Tell me about it.”
***
After dinner, Sidney Johnson checked his wallet. Not even enough for a blow job. He didn’t feel like going back out anyway. He decided it was a DIY night, so he went to his computer. Let me think…I have it! He hadn’t looked at that one file in a while. He powered up the machine.
Sidney was five-five and developing a spare tire. He still got lucky with some women, but most told him to get lost. DIY or paid sessions were his steady diet now. The porn had always helped with the former. The mob money had always helped with the latter. He was a fighter’s agent, but he worked more for the mob and their bookies.
That kid had balked, though. Maybe because tootsie was around? She was a good-looker. He didn’t care if they were silicone or real—the kid had good tastes in breasts.
He stared at the computer screen. It said: “Hiya Sidney. You’re a real swinger. Want to see some real porn? Go to….” A URL followed. Has someone hacked into my computer and seen my protected files?
But he was tempted. His second wife had left him because of his extracurricular activities. He had his revenge, though. Her lawyer couldn’t find ninety per cent of his assets. Everything the mob sent his way was under the table. He was frugal too, so they couldn’t prove he spent more than he made.
He typed in the URL. What appeared seemed like a snippet from a raunchy computer game. He had some on his computer. Some woman with tits like melons was on top of a fat man. She and her boobs were bouncing up and down and cooing with pleasure. Not bad, he thought. Cartoonish, but good shit. The scene shifted. He now realized who the fat man was—a caricature of himself. Geez, I’m not that fat!
As if to confirm it, the well-endowed woman screamed his name and some obscenity about his member and reached back. He saw the huge knife just before she buried it into his chest. The wicked arc of that blade was repeated several times for good measure.
He hit the power button. Sweat was pouring off him.
Just a cartoon, just a cartoon! Someone was playing a bad practical joke. But that someone must know about his tastes for good porn.
His nightmares were filled with variations on the scene. In some, the knife found other parts of his anatomy. He tossed and turn.
***
“I thought over your offer, Sid,” said the potential recruit. “I don’t think I’m ready to go pro. I had a long talk with Jake.”
“Jake? Who’s Jake?” The kid pointed at the janitor. “Him? He’s a has-been, a real loser. Why would you listen to him?”
“Because he told me about how he had the same contract and how you screwed him. It was enough to come to my senses. You’re a jerk, Sidney. I’ll tell the other fellows to look out for you.”
“You can’t do that!” said Sid. “I’ll—“
“Have the mob work me over? I don’t think so. That old cop Sam’s got your number. And I got friends on the street. I told them what you did to Jake. They’ll hack you into little pieces if you try anything. If they don’t, Dolores will.”
“Who’s Dolores?”
The kid handed him a photo. He blanched. It was the fat woman. “She’s real?”
“You’re Mama Dolores’ best client, but you probably don’t know her. She runs a porn business out of a loft in the ‘hood. We know all about your little hobby.”
“I-I get lonely sometimes,” Sid said.
***
In two months, Sid found he had no clients. His friends in the mob lost interest in him. The money started drying up.
One Sunday night he was feeling lonely and depressed. He turned on his computer. This time when he logged on, he went directly to the site corresponding to the URL that flashed on his screen. Another computer-game broad, this one looking a bit like a Viking princess, fondled her boobs for him.
“Hello, Sidney, want some of this? Meet me at….” She gave the name of a hotel, room number, address, and phone number.
Sidney wasn’t completely stupid. He checked the address on Google Maps. The hotel was legit, a four-story building. Maybe a flophouse, but still? No, he wasn’t going to fall for it. It must be a trap.
He went to the bathroom on a DIY mission. The image of the woman was still fresh in his brain.
The next night the blond was replaced by a redhead. More my size. Are these Dolores’ girls? Computer graphics were getting so good they looked almost real, right down to the nipples. He opted for another session in the bathroom.
The third night, he couldn’t stand it anymore. He decided to take protection, though—a condom and a gun. What the hell? He’d just signed a new guy, a toughie from China Town, a martial arts guy not connected with the gym—some extreme-fighter type who needed representation in the illegal bouts around the area. It meant he’d mostly just hold the bets, but it was better than nothing, and he’d get his fifteen per cent of the winnings. So, he deserved to celebrate a bit.
He knew he didn’t have enough money for a prostitute. That’s why he liked porn—little cost involved. It wasn’t clear these babes modeling for the cartoons were asking for money, though. Maybe just precocious teenagers? Why would they want me? Kinky sex, maybe? I certainly won’t tell Daddy or Mommy. But the city was filled with frustrated women. Maybe they’re divorcees? As long as he didn’t have to make a commitment, he didn’t give a shit.
***
The desk clerk was in a wheel chair. “Mr. Johnson, we’ve been expecting you for some time. Here’s the key to number 312. Go right up. I’m sorry the elevator is broken.”
“How do you go up?” said Sidney, not relishing the idea of climbing three flights of stairs.
“I don’t. I don’t have to. The girls go up at night, and the cleaning crew goes up in the morning.”
“Do I owe you anything?”
“I take my cut. You’ll have to negotiate with Wendy.”
“Who’s Wendy?”
“Your host tonight,” said the clerk with a leer.
Will she negotiate before or after? he thought as he climbed the stairs. It didn’t matter. If she charged too much, he’d keep his pants on, turn around, and leave. But if it’s some desperate housewife or some sex-crazed teen, maybe I’ll get it for free!
“Come in,” said a sexy voice when he knocked.
He entered. The room was dark, but he saw that the woman named Dolores was sprawled naked on the bed. He shrugged and took a step forward when the room became a lot darker.
***
When he awoke, he was staring into the eyes of Jake Billings, the janitor. He tried to push his scarred face away but found his hands were tied to the cheap headboard.
“So you do remember me,” said Jake with a smile.
“Where’s Dolores?”
“I asked my friend Dolores to go. She doesn’t need to see this. Nice gun, Sid.” He waved the revolver. “A good one to carry for a man with penis envy, I suppose. You must have guessed this might be a trap. Thinking of your mob friends? They’re probably not too happy with you right now.”
“I came prepared. I didn’t know it was an old friend.”
“Old friend?” Jake’s lip curled. “Why would I consider you a friend after what you did to me? I’d kill Biggy too, but he’s already dead. Years ago. I’ve never been the same since I took that fall for you. How much did Biggy and his friends give you for that?”
“I can’t remember. I had to play along, you know. That’s just the way it is.”
“I know, Sid, I know. You couldn’t make a decent living otherwise.”
He put the gun to Sid’s temple and pulled the trigger. Sid jerked and Jake laughed.
“Alan and I talked about really doing it. How I could wipe my prints off, put the gun back in your hand, and fire again so there was GSR on you. It was fun to think about it. It’s more fun to watch you pee your pants, though.”
“Why, after all these years?”
“Because the fighter still remains.” Jake slashed at the cords with a penknife and tossed the gun on the bed. “Don’t think about shooting me. The gun’s full of blanks. And don’t ever think about representing another fighter, Sid. Next time I’ll just beat the crap out of you so you’re more addled than I am. And be completely incontinent.”
Jake walked out the door, leaving the stench of the urine and the dirty old man behind.
***
[Note from Steve: My father had three professional fights. My grandfather was smart enough to make him stop. I doubt that he could have painted his marvelous landscapes and still-lifes if he’d been as addled as Jake. Pro boxing, like NFL football, is a violent sport. At least the football players wear helmets….]
In elibris libertas….
