Under the Skin

daring me to land a punch, smiling around his mouthpiece.

He popped me twice more with the jab and then drew his right hand way back and began whirling it all around like he was winding up a haymaker. He looked over at the rats in the front row and waggled his brows like he was saying Watch this now.

He shouldn’t have taken his eyes off me. I leaped and grabbed him in a headlock and started punching him in the face as hard and fast as I could.

For a second the rats went mute—and then all them were shrieking “Foul!…Foul! ”

He twisted and pulled and we reeled around the ring every which way but I kept punching and punching, feeling his nose give way, vaguely aware of Watkins trying to pull me off him.

Otis tried to punch me in the balls and I hit him even harder. I forced his head lower and then clubbed him behind the neck and brought my knee up hard in his face. He sailed back into the ropes and flopped down, losing his mouthpiece, his nose pouring blood.

Like any pro fighter who gets knocked almost unconscious, his instinct was to get on his feet fast, to beat the count, his body trying to get off the canvas even while his brain was still bouncing around in his skull. He got to his hands and knees and fell over on his side, wallowing like a drunk, trying again to get up.

Watkins had me in a bearhug from behind, pulling me back from Otis and cussing me. I said to let go but he didn’t—maybe he couldn’t hear me for all the racket the rats were making. I stomped on his instep and that did the trick. He let out a yelp and hopped over to the ropes to keep from falling.

Our gloves weren’t taped, so I clamped one in my armpit and yanked my hand free of it, then pulled off the other glove. Otis was up now and he swayed against the ropes for a second and then his eyes focused on me. Blood was running over his mouth and off his chin.

I raised my taped hands and gestured for him to come at me. For a second I thought he’d do it—but he must’ve read my eyes, and he wasn’t stupid. He spat a mouthful of blood on the canvas between us and stayed put.

“Some fun, hey?” I said.

“Fuck you,” he said, his voice thick.

He managed to climb down from the ring without help, then walked stiffly across the gym and into his little office and closed the door.

Watkins was tearful with pain, sitting on the canvas and holding his foot. The rats had shut up and were gawking at me. They backed away as I stepped out between the ropes.

I got a towel from the stack and started for the showers—and caught sight of Rose turning away from the gym door.

When I went to the office a little later, Sam was in the outer room chatting with Mrs. Bianco. He grinned big when he saw me. Mrs. Bianco looked pained.

“Well hell, Kid, I can see why Otis got you a little peeved. You looked in the mirror lately?”

Of course I had. And seen my swollen ears and eyebrows, the large mouse under my right eye.

“I hear you might have a little trouble finding sparring partners from now on,” Sam said. He put up his fists and made a bob-and-weave motion, then slapped me on the shoulder. “Jimmy the Kid! By hook or by crook, goddammit, he don’t lose.”

Mrs. Bianco nodded toward Rose’s office and I went on in.

Rose looked up from some papers in front of him. His face had no expression—which meant he was mad as hell and trying to hide it.

“Good thing Otis had better sense than you and walked away,” he said. “We don’t need headlines about somebody getting crippled in our health club. A health club is supposed to be good for your fucken health. Guy gets the shit beat out of him in a health club in front of a bunch of witnesses—especially a guy supposed to be in charge of things—well, word gets around, people say, What the fuck kinda health club is that?—know what I mean?”

It wasn’t a question so I kept my mouth shut.

“You want to use the gym from now on, you do it at night, when there’s nobody else there—except maybe me. And no more sparring, not with nobody. Let’s give Otis and the squarejohns a chance to settle their nerves.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Okay,” he said. “Heard anything that might connect to Dallas?”

He always could switch the subject that fast. One thing done with, on to the next.

“Nothing,” I said. “I’d say Sam called it right.”

“Maybe so. Stick around the Club for another coupla days. If Dallas don’t move by then, I got some out-of- town jobs need your attention.”

“Just say the word.”

Then I thought of Daniela, and the idea of leaving town for a while lacked its usual spark.

I was at the door when he called out, “Say, Kid,” and I turned.

“Next time we’re in the gym, teach me that move with the knee.”

“Sure thing, Don Rosario.”

She answered my knock on the Avila’s door at exactly six- thirty—and her smile fell away when she saw my face.

“Ay, dios. Que…What happened?” Her hand started for my face and then withdrew uncertainly, as if she were afraid of causing me pain.

“Sparring at the gym,” I said, clarifying the word for her by raising my fists and tucking in my chin. “Boxeando. I should’ve known better than to spar with a pro.”

“Pro?”

“Professional.” I told her the sparring had gotten a little too intense, that an amateur should never get intense with a pro. I said I had used bad judgment. “It looks worse than it feels,” I said.

She gingerly touched the mouse under my eye. When she put a fingertip to my bruised lip I kissed it. Her eyes widened—and then she drew her hand away when Senora Avila called from the kitchen, asking if I was at the door.

The senora came into the room, drying her hands on a dish towel—and then saw me and said, “Ay, hijo—pero que te paso?”

I had to explain again about the sparring. She shook her head and said men should not fight for fun, that there was already too much real cause for fighting in the world. She asked if I would like something to eat, if my mouth did not hurt too much. I thanked her and said I’d already eaten. I’d seen her husband at the Casa Verde before I left. Gregorio was having his weekly neighborhood poker game in the kitchen, the radio tuned loudly to a Mexican station out of Houston, the icebox packed with beer, the counter full of bowls of fried chiles and chicharrones. Back during my first weeks in La Colonia, I’d accepted the group’s invitation to sit in on the game, but right from the start I sensed the other men’s nervousness and I could tell that none of them was playing his best— except for Gregorio, whose best wasn’t worth a damn anyway. They weren’t raising me when they should’ve, they weren’t calling my bluffs. After an hour of play I made some excuse and took my leave, and although I was invited to the game every week for weeks afterward, I always begged off, and finally they were able not to ask me anymore.

Daniela went to the sofa to fetch the straw bag containing her towel and other things. I was wearing my swim trunks under my pants and my towel was in the car. Just then, Rocha entered from the hallway, his head bandage freshly changed but still held in place by the sillylooking ribbon. He paused when he saw me—his eyes running over my beat-up face—and then busted out laughing.

“Felipe!” Senora Avila chided him for his amusement in my disfigurement. “No es cosa comica. No seas tan bruto, por amor de dios!”

He just laughed harder. For a second I had an urge to go in there and bust his nose for him, see how funny he thought that was. He slumped against the wall and bumped his head slightly and winced and put his hand to the ridiculous bandage but kept on laughing.

And then I just couldn’t help it and started laughing along with him.

The women looked at us like we’d lost our minds. Daniela gawked at the senora and the woman shook her