Six: Training Dummy

The best thing I can do after killing two criminals is to lay low and avoid any trouble that might attract the police or the criminal’s buddies. This isn’t all that hard to do around here, as the streets aren’t teeming with trouble.

Besides, I’m basically a homebody. I do go out to the gym in the morning and, of course, I had to get back to work at some point, even though the chief had told me to take all the time I needed.

Today, I did both of these things, waking up early and making my way bleary-eyed to Barry’s Gym before work. I can and do work out at home, but Barry has a heavy bags and wooden wing chun dummies, as well as space to spar.

Unfortunately, the couple of guys I spar with hadn’t gotten up that early, so I hit and kicked the heavy bag like it called my mother a bad name. I was more careful hitting the wing chun dummy, building slowly, finding the rhythm of strikes until my mind cleared and it was smooth, automatic. Even the bruises left on by the bullet impacts ceased to ache, but my awareness of this triggered my epiphany. What I had done, walking into Colón’s lair like that, was foolish. At the minimum, I should have been armed. Of course, Baldo would have found it when he frisked me, so I probably should have had backup. But where do you find backup when you’re planning a little vigilantism?

I’m doing tai chi now, I realize, my body seeming to lead my mind into its natural routine. The door opens and Alex Cooper walks in. He’s about my size with long black hair, trim build, and scar on his clean-shaven lip where a beer bottle clipped him in a fight once. Alex is a multiple-time black-belt from Los Angles, and had won some tournaments before running afoul of the bottle and the law in said bar fight. The first time I met him, I started another one because I thought he said his name was Alice Cooper, because he talks somewhat soft. Of course, smartass that I am, I made the obvious jokes, which I’m sure (now) that he’d heard a thousand times. When I put him on the ground inside of thirty seconds, he relented.

Coop liked to spare with me because I came at martial arts from a different angle, the street angle. I’ve been in a couple of tournaments, but they don’t interest me much, what with all the stupid rules. He had lived his life in an arena governed by rules, which don’t apply on the street. I had told him after our scuffle that the only thing that mattered was what you could do to the enemy and what you can stop him from doing to you.

“That Sun Tzu or something?” he had asked.

“O.S. Card,” I had replied.

At any rate, we found ourselves at the same gym and he was man enough to know I could teach him something. Today he walks in and warms up a little on the wing chun dummy. Like me, he’s smooth and fast, but despite what the seatbelt commercials tell you, when it comes to fighting, you can’t learn that much from a dummy. I put gloves on and shadowbox in the ring, waiting for him. He finishes his warm-up, dons his gloves and headgear, and enters.

“What’s goin’ on, Spears?”

“Your ass on the mat, Coop,” I say, grinning.

He’s trained and toned, but he’s been trained to pull punches and follow rules. I’ve been trying to give his muscle memory Alzheimer’s so he can learn how to really fight. He’s getting better and I’m still hurting, so it takes me a minute to get him. I curl and take his left to the body. It’s not a good idea. He hits me square in the bruises the bullets left. I catch him behind the knee with a kick. I’m proud of his defense, because he almost recovers, but I’m still going to finish him. His balance upset, I topple him with a leg sweep, mount, and finish him with a tap to the chin. He grimaces in the pain of another loss, and perhaps from my blows. I help him up.

“You’re getting better.”

“Doesn’t seem like it.”

“I didn’t say you were getting much better,” I say. His smile is sheepish, but I like him because he doesn’t let ego get involved.

A couple of other dudes floated into the room during the fight, local street gangsters that try to be tough. The big black guy, his arms covered in tattoos is named Sherman, but goes by the name Tank Daddy, which I thought was actually somewhat clever. The littler white guy, I never learned his name, but thought of as Brougham, as in Cadillac, because of his shiny gold grill. His shiny teeth remind me of Colón’s, momentarily, but I’m getting better at swallowing that image. The thugs are probably good enough for what they do, but they usually give Coop and me wide berth. By now, even Coop is significantly better than they are. They’re street fighters, so they have the instinct. Coop’s getting the instinct, but his discipline is superior.

Their attitude is different today. Brougham’s studying us intently, his lower lip tucked under his gold overbite. He sees me looking at him looking at me and shuffles away to weakly poke at the heavy bag. Coop and I go through some stretching, but I keep my eye on Brougham and Tank Daddy. I know what’s coming, and I must say that I’m surprised after all this time. I had thought that these two would have challenged me earlier. But he has a hungry look about him, and he’s eyeing me like a rare steak.

“Yo, man. You pretty nasty in there,” he says. There’s no hostility in it, more like—what—curiosity?

“I am.”

“Was wonderin’ if I’d give you a go.”

I don’t know why he wants to do this. Tank Daddy usually just pumps iron and doubles the heavy bag with his punches. I know he can punch. I say “sure” because my own curiosity is aroused enough. I recognize there’s a lot of ego involved in sparring with the Tank, that it’s a primitive comparison of who is more of a man. But there’s also the fighter’s desire to test his craft. I am both primitive and scientific.

Though I usually don’t, I put on sparring pads and headgear, and ask Tank Daddy to do the same. I don’t want this guy doubling me up like the heavy bag. He’s about forty pounds heavier than I am. I don’t want to work the fire department tonight with broken ribs. Bruised is painful enough.

He is in a boxer’s stance and he’s in great shape, at least in terms of musculature. Boxers who are in shape are still formidable opponents, no matter what marital artists will admit. “Get them to the ground,” they say. No shit. Trick is, getting them there with one’s head still attached and in tact. The main advantage I may have is speed; I’m probably faster than my larger opponent. He also doesn’t look like much of a runner, so I might be in better shape than he. In an extended fight, the guy with the best conditioning usually wins. If he’s kept his head intact, that is.

Tank Daddy has seen my sparring before, though he hasn’t really sat and studied me. I don’t worry about it, as I rarely use my full repertoire against Coop. Tank Daddy wastes no time, coming in hunched, leading with jabs. I move around his left, grab his wrist, and elbow him in the headgear twice. Off balance, I collapse his knee with a kick. He falls and I go with him, control the arm and wrapping him in an arm bar. He taps.

On his feet again, he says “Damn, man. Ain’t nobody put me down that quick before.”

“Just luck, I guess.” I know he wants another shot at the champ.

We square off again. This time he fakes with the left and tries to step behind a right. It’s a good punch, but I slide around it again and punch him in the head. He’s tough and barely needs to shake it off, and he’s learned. I don’t get a follow up shot as he pushes me back with a backswing of his right. He steps forward again, and I put my shin on the side of his knee quickly, twice. He staggers and I drop an elbow to the side of his head, driving him down. He rolls out and up to his feet, breathing hard. Not in such good cardio shape after all. Still, while I might be ahead on points, I really don’t think I would have hurt him. His headgear makes it hard to judge.

Tank Daddy comes out of his stance and leans back against the ropes in the ring.

“Whew, man. That’s enough for now. Got a date tonight and don’t want to catch a knee to the nuts, youknowwhatImean.”

More than you know, I think, but I nod and let him leave with some dignity. Besides, the wind cracked behind his punches, and if he caught me with one I’d be in la-la land and unable to work tonight.

I take the pads off and grab a towel to mop the sweat off my forehead. Brougham is on his cell phone, speaking furtively into it. He unconsciously looks at me as he does so, and I get an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I say good-bye to Coop, grab my gear, and leave the gym without showering. On the way out, I resist stopping by he mirror to see if someone has drawn a bull’s eye on my back, but I can’t shake the feeling.