in boxing comes less from muscle strength and more from the subtle shifting of body weight. Some fighters naturally have the knack of shifting their body weight just right so they maximize their power. If you don’t have it, you can have success by being crafty in the ring and by hitting the other guy more than he hits you. Without the shifting of body weight, it’s tough to get one-punch knockout power.
“Smitty-I’m trying,” I said. “I’ve been fuckin’ trying since I was fourteen.”
“Let it happen, Duff. Let your hip out, then snap it in at the right moment. It’s just like givin’ it to a chick,” Smitty said.
He’s used that analogy every day I’ve been in the gym since I was fourteen. Maybe if Lisa let me throw it to her once in a while it would mean something to me. Smitty finally changed up from the hooks and had me working some other combinations and moving. Moving and being crafty was my game, and it’s what keeps me in boxing. I get knocked out, but I rarely take beatings, because I know how to move. That’s why I can beat the local guys and the nobodies and can’t beat guys with one-punch power.
“You’re good for today, Duff,” Smitty said. “I ain’t got nobody for you to spar.”
“I was hoping to get some work in the ring. Ain’t nobody around?” I said.
“Nobody for you, Duff. If you really want to, do some bag work,” Smitty said. “You got to let me know about the deal in Kentucky.”
“I don’t want to go down there unless they come up with more money.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Smitty said. He was no Don King, but he knew how to work small-time promoters and squeeze the most money out of them.
I did a few rounds on the bag, once again pursuing the elusive right hook. As a lefty, I hooked off my right hand, and no matter how I broke it down, I couldn’t get the snap Smitty was looking for. I guess I was destined to hit like a bitch.
I finished up and was undoing the wraps on my hands and absentmindedly watching a couple of teenagers in the ring when I saw Kelley come in the front door. He occasionally dropped by the gym to hit the bags. He didn’t have any gear with him and he was still in uniform.
“Hey Kel,” I said. “Dropping by to watch the next heavyweight champ do some work? Hate to bum you out, but I’m finished for the day.”
“Duff, I got some bad news.”
“What’s up?”
“Walanda was murdered this afternoon.”
6
I showered and headed home, staring at the lines in the road, the sky, the street signs-anything that kept me from thinking. I felt guilty; I felt negligent and incredibly sad because I liked Walanda. She asked me for help and she asked me to protect her and now she was dead. I dismissed her fear and shrugged it off as the rantings of a crazy crackhead, which was the exact type of disrespect that Walanda hated so much. I felt like shit.
Walanda was a fuck-up, there’s no doubt about that, but she tried. It wasn’t long ago that she told me about her plans to go get training to become a certified nurse’s aid. That may not sound like a whole lot, but in Walanda’s world of multigenerational welfare and crime, it was huge. Sure, she was an addict, she was a prostitute, but she also cared about her kids, including this stepkid I never even heard of. For all her faults, Walanda never quit trying and though it wasn’t obvious to many people, I knew she was doing what she could to be better. When you come down to it, that’s about all you could ever ask of anyone.
I got to the Moody Blue and prepped myself for Al’s assault. Sure enough, as soon as I put the key in the lock I heard his paws hit the floor, move across the carpet, scratch across the tile, and then bounce off the inside of the door. I opened the door and he sprung up, again hitting me in the nuts, but at least this time I was prepared. Besides, Al, low-riding pain in the ass that he was, deserved a little slack today. I don’t know shit about animal psychology and my Muslim brother didn’t seem to be all that emotionally complex, but the guy did just lose his mom.
I cracked open a Schlitz and sat down on the good side of the sofa. Apparently, Al had a busy and productive day, because the remainder of the foam rubber that he started on yesterday was chewed up and spit out on the floor in front of the couch. I didn’t have the energy to get furious right now. I slumped into the couch, threw on the TV, and took another pull off the Schlitz. The local news was on, but they wouldn’t be reporting on a jail incident because the jail was pretty good at keeping stuff like that out of the media and even if it did get out, the press had a tendency not to care when people like Walanda got killed. Just another dead crack ho.
The thought of not taking Walanda’s phone call ate at me. When the fourth Schlitz gave way to the fifth, sixth, seventh, and, I think, eighth, it didn’t get any better. I was drunk, but the beer didn’t touch the feeling in my gut. I knew it wouldn’t, but I didn’t know what else to do.
Kelley told me it looked like it was just a battle over jailhouse dominance. Someone, or a couple of someones, caved in the side of her head with a mop wringer. She was found outside the chapel by one of the corrections officers and, to no one’s surprise, no inmate saw anything or knew anything. Kelley said that one of the COs told him that it might’ve been over cigarettes-either Walanda stole somebody’s or somebody stole hers. It’s the sort of thing that happens inside jails and prisons and I believe it happens so much because wherever people are, they have to struggle over power. More cigarettes means more power, just like more money means more power, or more stock shares means more power.
Just the same, the fact that she had called me, scared for her life, didn’t sit right with me. Still, it wouldn’t be much of a reach to figure the two events were mutually exclusive. After all, it’s not uncommon to feel in danger in jail, especially when you’re schizophrenic and addicted to crack. It’s also not terribly unusual to be assaulted in jail. The two could’ve just happened. All her yelling and carrying on about “Webster” made no sense.
There wouldn’t be much of an investigation. Walanda had no family around, she was a crack ho who didn’t vote, and she was a criminal. The DA wouldn’t exactly be overwhelmed with pressure to solve this one. That wasn’t right and I wasn’t sure what to do about it. Right now, I was getting bombed, so there wasn’t a whole lot I could do about anything. Going to bed made the most sense to me.
The next morning came a whole lot sooner than I expected. Having gotten Schlitzed the night before, I didn’t anticipate rising and shining. I also didn’t anticipate my Muslim brother, Allah-King, barking incessantly at the foot of my bed at 5:04 a.m. For reasons probably only revealed to Muhammad, the short-legged pain in the ass wouldn’t shut up. I yelled at him, I threw pillows at him, I tried to throw the contents of the half-empty Schlitz on the nightstand at him-none of it mattered. He was a barking machine.
I sat up in bed and got one of those waves of wishy-washiness that comes with an overindulgence in that product that made Milwaukee famous. Trying to think of anything to stop the racket, I stepped out of bed to get the long-eared beast some food so he’d shut up. I was slightly dizzy when I got out of bed and when I stepped toward Al, my bare foot splatted into something slippery, sending my vastly hungover body to the hard tile. I had a good idea of what it was without looking, but, like a bad car wreck, I couldn’t not look. Sure as shit, it was between my toes and because of the fall, all over my foot.
All through this, Al never stopped with the racket, though I swear to God, I thought I heard him laughing through the barking. I hopped to the bathroom to stick my shit-foot under the showerhead, and for some reason the sight of me hopping threatened Al. He growled and jumped at me, again striking me in the nuts and sending me sprawling, shit-foot and all, into the bathroom wall. I now had a streak of dog shit throughout my house, poo between the toes, and a bump on my hungover head from the second of two falls in the last forty-five seconds. This is not what I consider nursing a hangover.
I cleaned my foot, mopped the floor, fed the beast, and took a shower. I couldn’t bear the thought of going to the office, but I had to. The Michelin Woman was gunning for me and any unexplained absences would surely do me in. Walanda’s death would be a big administrative deal not because ol’ yellow teeth cared about Walanda’s loss of life, but because she would have to oversee the filling out of forms that would have to be filed with the state. On top of that, an incident such as this would undoubtedly mean an emergency meeting of the board.
The board was comprised of the biggest group of phonies and opportunists I’d ever met. They got on the board because it was politically correct for them. For some, it meant a tax deduction, for others, help with the
