“ESPN. Basketball?”
“MMA. UFC. I’ll headline Madison Square Garden. You mark my words.”
Jack chuckled and Tyson got in front of him and thumbed over his shoulder. “Look, I don’t live far from here. One night. I’ll introduce you to my ma.”
Jack smiled.
On one hand he would have preferred a quiet room, solitude, a place to think but on the other, meeting someone who was local might have its advantages. Perhaps he might know a thing or two. Jack looked across the road towards the dingy inn with a sickly yellow neon light that was flickering on and off.
“All right. But just one night, and only if your mother is good with it.”
He waved him off. “Ah she’ll be fine. She’ll enjoy the extra company.”
They headed out of the Plaza east on Palace Avenue and walked for close to thirty minutes before they entered what Tyson referred to as a low-income neighborhood. Tyson’s mother owned a home off Gonzales Road; it was an ordinary suburb nestled into sandy foothills full of shrubs.
“Doesn’t look low-income to me.”
“It is if you can’t afford one of these homes. The only reason we have one is because my mom’s brother passed away recently. Before that we were living in the downtown but the cost of living there is too expensive. We were going to get a place out near the airport but my work is in town and the buses only run at certain hours.”
“What’s your mother do?”
“She used to clean houses but she had to give that up when it got too much for her. So I’ve taken over. It’s only a couple of hours a day so I had to find other work. But between that, running errands for a guy I know, and training at the gym, it makes for a long day.”
Jack nodded. “How long have you been training?”
“Three years. But I only got serious about it a year ago. There’s big money to be made.”
“On the amateur circuit?”
“Underground.” He looked around as if making sure no one was listening but they were in the middle of nowhere. It was a dusty road, dark and there were only a few lights coming from homes cut into the hillside. “It’s illegal. Jeremiah Pope runs this event every other night. The location changes, and it’s got drawbacks but you can’t beat the money.”
“Drawbacks?”
He dropped his head. “A friend of mine was put in the hospital two days ago. He’s in a coma. The doc said he might not come out but there’s a chance…” he trailed off as he sighed heavily. “Anyway, that’s the cost of the fight game. One day I’ll go pro and I won’t have to deal with any of that crap.”
“So why take the risk if your goal is to go pro?”
He laughed. “You know how many people in this city want to go pro? It’s not easy. There’s a lot of red tape you have to get through, fighters you have to knock down to catch the attention of scouts. And we rarely get them out this way. Those that do are looking for the cream of the crop and I haven’t even had a chance to show my worth.”
“Why?”
“I’m not ready. Well that’s what Jeremiah said.”
“Jeremiah?”
“My boss. Jeremiah Pope. He runs the fight circuit around these parts. He’s helped a number of upcoming fighters get to the big time. The guy is an asshole and yet he’s my ticket out of here.”
“Why not just move away? Go to a city where there’s better opportunity?”
Tyson chuckled. “It’s not as easy as that. That shit costs money. I haven’t got that. Besides, we’re already living a hand-to-mouth existence as it is and…” he trailed off again as if something heavy was weighing on his shoulders. He went quiet as they left the road and traipsed through shrubs and cut through the back of homes. A barking pit bull slammed against a fence, and Jack noticed several winos drinking out of brown paper bags.
“Here we are,” he said opening a gate into a small patio at the back of a house. “This is home. It’s not much but it’s a roof over our head.” He led him up to an old adobe flat-roof structure that had views of the Jemez Mountains from the front and the Sangre from the backyard. “Hey, Ma, I’m home.” Tyson fumbled with the lock on the back door then gave it a hard push and the weathered door opened. Stepping into the kitchen he crouched down to greet a small Pekingese dog who scampered over wagging its tail. “Shit.” Tyson pointed to a puddle of yellow nearby. “The dog is getting old, pissing all over the place.” He shook his head and called out to his mother again. “Ma, the dog pissed again in the kitchen.” It began sniffing at Jack’s ankles and he reached down and petted it before following Tyson in.
Tyson wandered over to the fridge and yanked it open. Jack caught a glimpse inside. It was practically empty except for a carton of milk, a head of lettuce, three beers, a chunk of cheese and what looked like the leftovers of pizza.
“Hey, you hungry?”
“I’m good.”
Tyson pulled out a beer and handed it to him. He twisted off the top as his mother entered the kitchen. She was black, early sixties and had tubes going into her nose and snaking behind her to a portable oxygen tank. She dragged it in looking tired and worn out by life. Jack smiled but she didn’t return the gesture. “Who’s this?”
Tyson got theatrical as he came over with a beer in hand and placed a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “This is…” He then realized he hadn’t asked him his name. Jack wasn’t keen on using his real name so he replied with, “Jack Weslo.”
“Jack Weslo. He’s a friend of mine. He needs a bed for the night. I said he could stay here.”
“Tyson, a word please.”
Jack immediately sensed her mistrust.
She turned and shuffled out into the
