Going Fast Read Free

down his pen for a moment’s remembrance. A member of First Light Baptist Church, Henry is survived by his loving wife, Sophie, seven sons, and three daughters.
    â€œHildred,” he called to the kitchen.“Hildred.”
    â€œWhat?” she shouted back.
    â€œBobcat’s gone.”
    By the time that Ownie met Bobcat Clyke back in the 1950s, he was a tired old fighter who sauntered into the ring like a mangy bear. He had a taste for the hooch so he ran hot and cold. Bobcat was married to a fire plug just over four feet tall, a despot with a kewpie-doll face and the iron will of a claims adjuster. The Little General, they called her. Any time a promoter wanted Bobcat, they had to go through her. “There were days,” moaned Bobcat, a mere foot soldier in the General’s army, “that I’d be down in the cellar with a keg andthe devil and she’d be upstairs with the Lord and I’d know to stay put.”
    Once, Ownie recalled, Harry Fitzgerald was putting on a fight in Glace Bay with Bobcat as his headliner. Before the fight, Fitzgerald went looking for Bobcat but found only the Little General. “Bobcat is not coming out,” she announced. “Bobcat does what I tell him and he is not going to fight.”
    Fitzgerald was screwed because this was Cape Breton and a pissed-off crowd could tire-iron him, so he pleaded, “What would it take to get the Bobcat out?”
    â€œAnother fifty bucks,’’ replied the General, and that was that. Bobcat, Ownie realized, was just like him: a sucker for a pretty face, which, in the long run, wasn’t so bad. “Okay, Bobcat,” ordered the Little General, who had the biggest eyes Ownie had ever seen. “Get in that ring!”
    Bobcat climbed in, Ownie recalled, barely moving. In the third round, he went down like the
Lusitania
. The ref — it was Gil Doucette, and he only had one eye — knew there’d be a riot if the fight ended early, so he started counting slowly. Gil stopped at eight and pleaded under his breath, “Come on, Bobcat,
please
get up.”
    The crowd, mostly miners and steelworkers, was ready to rip apart both Gil and Fitzgerald if they didn’t get more. Another eight. “Get up, Bobcat,” Gil begged, fearing for his good eye. “Pleeease, I know you can do it.” On the third eight, Bobcat growled, “What wrong with you, man, you got no schoolin’? That’s your third eight.”
    Thinking about Bobcat and the Little General made Ownie sad, and he wondered if the best had passed, if he was doomed, despite his skill, to spend his days reliving history, enjoying the glory days with dead men. Was this it?
    Ownie was jolted out of his thoughts.
    Hildred had appeared in the dining room, wearing anapron over a cotton turtleneck decorated with snowflakes. On the apron, in silver letters, were the words
Sweet Dreams
, the name of the cake-decorating business that she ran from their kitchen.
    â€œDid you use one of my bowls for the dog?” she demanded.
    â€œNaaahhh.” Ownie was indignant. “Don’t be so foolish.”
    â€œIf the health department ever found out . . .” Hildred snapped.
    â€œG’won.”
    Hildred couldn’t stand to see him relaxing, Ownie decided, but at least she still was pretty. There was something to be said for that. He thought about poor Tootsy’s wife, who had a big rubber belly that hung down to her knees. She wore Tootsy’s old T-shirts and sweatpants stained with grease, but she had a kind nature, according to Tootsy. Last year, he had told Ownie with more than a touch of pride, she rescued a baby robin and nursed it back to health, feeding it with an eye-dropper.
    Ownie heard Hildred shout something, which he ignored. It was no wonder, he decided, that after he’d retired from the dockyard he’d returned to the gym full-time. Undisturbed, he could pass his time at Tootsy’s,