Читать книгу UNHEROIC - Marcus Calvert - Страница 3

My cousin Tony was living proof that Fate’s a funny bitch. A boxing trainer for over fifteen years, he never missed a fight. When his first ex-wife was in labor with twins, Tony was in Pummelin’ Ray Gibbs’ corner. When his dad was being buried in Philly, Tony was in New Orleans yelling at Mighty Vin Rooks to keep his guard up. I figured that nothing short of The Apocalypse would keep the old man from a scheduled match.

But to everyone’s amazement, it was a ruptured appendix that finally put him down.

I happened to live an hour out of Vegas, so he called me from the ambulance. He begged me to drop whatever I was doing, get to Vegas, and back his fighter, an aging has-been who fought under the name of Louis “Beergut” Malloy. I promised I’d help out where I could. Tony gruffly thanked me and made me swear to call him right after the fight.

Tony taught me everything I knew but I was only in the biz for three years. I didn’t have enough wrinkles, ulcers, and winning fighters to earn respect – yet. Joey “Redhammer” Conroy, an up-and-coming middleweight with a mean left hook, was my only fighter. At twenty-two, he had a bit too much sass for his own good. But with a bit of time and wising up, the kid had potential. When I told Joey about Cousin Tony’s predicament, he wanted to tag along.

So I picked up Joey and we drove the uneventful miles to Vegas. Neither one of us had ever seen Beergut fight. Rumor was that everyone called him “Beergut” because he was a chubby guy with a huge gut. The odd thing I heard was that even though he was forty pounds overweight, he kept up with his training regimen and dieted like a fiend. But the weight just never went away.

Tony once theorized that it was a matter of bad genetics. Beergut’s old man was also a fat bastard – and a mean drunk to boot. Part of the reason for Beergut’s nickname might’ve been his long-standing reputation for avoiding alcohol. He’d never been known to even take a sip of champagne after a fight. In bars, he’d either have cranberry juice or ginger ale. They said he was afraid of ending up a fuck-up of a drunk like his old man, who ran his car into a ravine and died in the subsequent explosion.

Still, somehow, Beergut had managed to be a pretty good fighter in his younger days. He was 30-and-8, with 20 wins by knockout. Some say he retired because he gave up after taking 8 straight losses. That kind of losing streak would be hard for any fighter to get over. But Tony told me that he heard different. As far as he was concerned, Beergut was actually good enough to be a contender, even now, especially when he was motivated to win.

Back then, Beergut had a brother who was sick with some kind of bone cancer and he took up boxing to cover his brother’s medical bills. Things were great, at first. Those 30 wins he had were in a row – something virtually unheard of. He wasn’t that quick or that powerful, Tony explained. He just wouldn’t fall down. In the end, he’d win fights just by pummeling the other guy for nine or ten rounds. But on the night of the 31^st match, his brother died in the hospital. From then on, Beergut simply lost the will to fight and went through the motions.

That was sixteen years ago.

Now, Beergut had to be forty-five years old and way out of shape. Tony took him in out of pity, probably figuring that Beergut had come back to prove something to himself. While Beergut didn’t explain exactly why he came back, he stubbornly got himself reinstated and relicensed. He ignored the reporters who called him a “relic.” He trained relentlessly for five months then he beat the living shit out of six younger opponents in a row – all by knockout. He was being compared to Rocky in the sixth movie. Fans and bookies alike started taking him seriously.

Then, Beergut demanded a shot at the number one contender, Carlos Trivera. Trivera had crippled three guys in the ring so far. He was 40-and-1, with 24 wins by knockout. Not to mention that he was also twenty-one years younger than Beergut. I’ve seen Trivera fight and watched some damned-good fighters drop at his feet in under a round. I figured I could do right by Tony just to keep poor Beergut in the fight for one or two rounds.

Anything beyond that would’ve been a miracle.

Joey and I made it to the arena and signed in. We found Beergut in his locker room with a mostly-empty, half-gallon bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand – less than three hours before the fuckin’ fight! Oddly enough, he wasn’t so fat any more. In fact, his abs were rock-hard, his arms solid, and his chest looked pretty good. While he had some love handles and a poorly-aged face, Beergut looked like he had some mileage left in him. Too bad he was stone-drunk and passed-out. It took a few minutes of me slapping him around before he came to.

Then he peed on me, finished the bottle, and passed out again.

Some of Tony’s guys showed up and gave me the score. Apparently, Beergut’s only son (Mitch) had racked up a gambling debt with Louis Krylt – one of the local Vegas mob bosses. Beergut’s kid owed about two hundred and fifty grand. For some reason, Beergut didn’t have that much money on hand, even after his six recent wins. But when Krylt learned that this idiot welcher was the son of Beergut Malloy, Mr. Krylt did some math.

The bookies had Beergut at four-to-one odds to win (the odds probably would’ve been twenty-to-one a few months ago). Still, if Beergut managed to take Trivera down, Krylt could win a lot of money. And as a younger man, Krylt had seen Beergut fight and knew the punishment he could endure to help a relative in need. As a result, he put two million bucks on the fight and gave Beergut a very simple choice: win the bout or wait for the police to find his kid’s remains.

Tony probably knew this and didn’t tell me, knowing that I wouldn’t touch Beergut with a ten-foot pole. I lived on Krylt’s turf and the last thing I needed was to be on his shit list. But fuck it. I was here and I’d do what I could do. It took us another hour to wake him up. This time, Beergut made it to the bathroom, pissed in the toilet (more or less), and hopped in the shower. He was coherent as he dried off and got dressed.

Introductions were made and Tony’s guys scurried around, getting things in order. We talked strategy. Beergut agreed that he needed to avoid a straight-up slugfest for the first two rounds. While I didn’t think he could do it, I told him that on the third round, he should unload on Trivera with everything he had left. He seemed to agree with the game plan and sincerely thanked me for helping out.

With twenty minutes left before we went out, Beergut’s son showed up with a brown paper bag. Inside were two fresh half-gallon bottles of Jack Daniels! I did my best impersonation of Tony in a rage, yelling that he was about to take on a champion-level contender. Beergut ignored me, opened one bottle, and drank it down like he was a living drain.

Mitch explained that Beergut knew what he was doing. Joey and I watched him drop the whole bottle in under ten seconds, pull the other one out and guzzle it dry just as fast. He should be dead from alcohol poisoning by now. No human being could down three big bottles of Jack, in one hour, and not die. The bastard must have eight livers in him or something!

But after a really long third piss, Beergut seemed to perk up. Not only did he look completely awake, he looked kinda’ scary – like a Viking berserker about to go out and kill somebody. He got in my face, glared me in the eye, and told me to lace his gloves. I decided to stop preaching and get him ready. It was too late for me to do much of anything at this point. Even if this guy really was a mean drunk, he wasn’t good enough to take out Trivera. Fuck it, I thought to myself, as I laced up his gloves. Beergut’s not my fighter. And it’s not my kid’s life at stake. All I had to do was to give him advice and try to make sure that Beergut made it to the hospital alive when he lost.

The clock ticked. Beergut got meaner and meaner with each passing second. He was pacing the room like a caged beast. Even Joey – who feared no one – stayed out of his way. When a guy came in and announced five minutes to match time, Beergut gave him a wide, evil grin. Beergut chewed up a whole pack of breath mints and then led the way, humming an old Irish-sounding tune all the way to the ring. Trivera and his folks waited in the opposite corner. The huge, ugly Mexican wore a cocky smile.

I reminded him of our strategy. He nodded. The announcer and the ref stood at the center. Both fighters stepped up to him, heard the rules and slapped gloves. The bell rang. Then Beergut ran the fuck across the ring and smashed Trivera across the jaw with a hard right cross!

So much for strategy!

The entire arena went dead silent as Trivera hit the mat, half-dazed. The ref shoved Beergut back as the assembled crowd suddenly cheered. Trivera got up by the time the ref counted to six. Blood came out of Trivera’s mouth and his eyes filled with humiliated rage. Joey and I swapped “oh-shit!” glances. We had both seen that look in prior fights, right before Trivera exploded on some poor bastard.

Beergut was a dead man.

The ref resumed the fight.

Both men charged toward each other and started swinging as if they were being paid by the punch. Finesse and discipline went out the window. Anyone watching the match knew that this fight would be over in another round or two, tops. Trivera focused his punches on Beergut’s face, clearly intending to knock his IQ down a few dozen points. While Beergut took some nasty shots, he didn’t seem to feel it.

Still, even if he was too drunk to feel Trivera’s hits, he should’ve been stumbling around the ring. But three bottles of Jack didn’t slow him. In fact, he moved like a man half his age as he shrugged off Trivera’s best punches and returned the favor with some powerful body shots. They equally pounded away at each other – at first. But then one of Beergut’s uppercuts caught Trivera along the left side of his ribs. The blow lifted Trivera a few inches off the mat and popped the wind out of him.

Son of a bitch!

Without a hint of mercy, Beergut changed up and worked both sides of Trivera’s skull with some very basic fist work. Trivera’s defiant counterpunches either didn’t land at all or lacked any visible effect when they did. Then, Beergut smashed Trivera with another uppercut, right along the right side of his chin. This time, Trivera went down and didn’t move for the ten-count. Beergut roared with triumph as the ref held his arm up and declared him the winner. Paramedics and Trivera’s people rushed in to check on the poor, mangled ex-champion.

…and I kicked myself for betting two grand against Beergut when he was all passed out.