up a package at Tubby’s Barbecue. What’s your position on Brunswick Stew and chopped swine sandwiches?”
“At strict attention, sport. After what you’ve told me about that joint, you better’ve brought plenty.”
His breath came easier now; round three and he still felt good. Not as good as the Cuban light-heavy in the tan headgear who faced him in the opposite corner, but good. Good for a guy who’ll never see the sunny side of fifty again, for sure, he thought. Not that young Pepe over there couldn’t murder me, but now I’m making him work for it. Or he’s making it look like I am.
“OK,” said Frank Sanchez, turning away from a neutral-corner conversation with another Cuban in an eggshell-hued Palm Beach suit. Peter Weller hoisted his gloves off the ropes and moved toward his rangy adversary. Slipping the kid’s opening jab and countering with one of his own, he moved to his left as he held up his end of their staccato exchange of lefts. If I’m careful, Pete thought, maybe I can surprise him with a combination; Pepe’s not used to my having much left for round three. He moved back to the right, still jabbing. The kid assayed a hook, not his best move, that Pete saw coming; planting his right foot, he bobbed his head back and to the right. Countering as the glove whistled past, the raised silver stitching of the EVERLAST label looking six inches high, Pete drove his right into the kid’s side. That’ll slow the rascal down, he thought as he took a step back, jabbing where he thought Pepe would be but catching some air of his own.
“Move EEN, Whaler, move EEN! Ju mees jour shance wid heen! See, he raddy now, bot for dot momen’ he was opeen for de oopercoot. Ju can’ score back on jour heels, mon!” Nodding quickly in acknowledgment at Sanchez, Pete moved back left, squaring his stance in readiness for renewed aggression from Pepe. No fighter, least of all a Latin, likes being embarrassed, even slightly, and Pete looked for a new opportunity in that. This, Pete thought, can be my best round ever with the kid. But the charge, if you could call it that, consisted of a flutter of rapid lefts, easily parried and indicative of Pepe’s increased respect for the old man’s right hand. “Time!” bellowed Sanchez. Backslapping the fighters simultaneously, he said to Pepe, “Cool out onna beeg bog, Chico. Dis Pete, he steel hov some e-stoff, sí?”
Loosening his headgear, the boy shot a shy smile Pete’s way. “Sí; ju sorprice me, Pete; I no geev ju dot shot no more.”
“Can’t blame an old guy for trying, Pepe; nice workout. Thanks,” Pete said as he caught his breath.
“Ju got some right hand for old mon,” Sanchez said when they were alone. Running his trainer’s eye up and down Weller’s powerful sub-six-foot body, he continued, “Pero ju old as me; why you do dees? Ju mi-ey get hit hard someday. Ees bayder ways to stay een tchape, mon.”
“Claro, Francisco,” said Pete with a grin. Pero lo necesito. Absolutamente.”
Tossing his workout bag into the old Buick limousine’s back seat, he slid under the steering wheel and hit the starter. The highly-tuned straight eight leapt to life with a roar that he was still getting used to. Can this be the same car, he thought as he drove out into the early evening on Miami’s Calle Ocho, that brought me down from Baltimore all those years ago? I never thought I’d see it again after Bisque, and never really wanted to once those damn Bishop twins got hold of it. Can’t imagine what it cost Jack to get it in this kind of shape. If Buick had built ’em this way in 1941, there’s no telling how many they’dve sold. But it’s one of a kind, and so is he. Can’t wait ’til the little pissant gets back down here. And Linda, not that we don’t have a few things to sort out among ourselves. I didn’t expect her to go after him the way she did when he first showed up down here, but that’s women for you. She’s got the goods on
“At strict attention, sport. After what you’ve told me about that joint, you better’ve brought plenty.”
His breath came easier now; round three and he still felt good. Not as good as the Cuban light-heavy in the tan headgear who faced him in the opposite corner, but good. Good for a guy who’ll never see the sunny side of fifty again, for sure, he thought. Not that young Pepe over there couldn’t murder me, but now I’m making him work for it. Or he’s making it look like I am.
“OK,” said Frank Sanchez, turning away from a neutral-corner conversation with another Cuban in an eggshell-hued Palm Beach suit. Peter Weller hoisted his gloves off the ropes and moved toward his rangy adversary. Slipping the kid’s opening jab and countering with one of his own, he moved to his left as he held up his end of their staccato exchange of lefts. If I’m careful, Pete thought, maybe I can surprise him with a combination; Pepe’s not used to my having much left for round three. He moved back to the right, still jabbing. The kid assayed a hook, not his best move, that Pete saw coming; planting his right foot, he bobbed his head back and to the right. Countering as the glove whistled past, the raised silver stitching of the EVERLAST label looking six inches high, Pete drove his right into the kid’s side. That’ll slow the rascal down, he thought as he took a step back, jabbing where he thought Pepe would be but catching some air of his own.
“Move EEN, Whaler, move EEN! Ju mees jour shance wid heen! See, he raddy now, bot for dot momen’ he was opeen for de oopercoot. Ju can’ score back on jour heels, mon!” Nodding quickly in acknowledgment at Sanchez, Pete moved back left, squaring his stance in readiness for renewed aggression from Pepe. No fighter, least of all a Latin, likes being embarrassed, even slightly, and Pete looked for a new opportunity in that. This, Pete thought, can be my best round ever with the kid. But the charge, if you could call it that, consisted of a flutter of rapid lefts, easily parried and indicative of Pepe’s increased respect for the old man’s right hand. “Time!” bellowed Sanchez. Backslapping the fighters simultaneously, he said to Pepe, “Cool out onna beeg bog, Chico. Dis Pete, he steel hov some e-stoff, sí?”
Loosening his headgear, the boy shot a shy smile Pete’s way. “Sí; ju sorprice me, Pete; I no geev ju dot shot no more.”
“Can’t blame an old guy for trying, Pepe; nice workout. Thanks,” Pete said as he caught his breath.
“Ju got some right hand for old mon,” Sanchez said when they were alone. Running his trainer’s eye up and down Weller’s powerful sub-six-foot body, he continued, “Pero ju old as me; why you do dees? Ju mi-ey get hit hard someday. Ees bayder ways to stay een tchape, mon.”
“Claro, Francisco,” said Pete with a grin. Pero lo necesito. Absolutamente.”
Tossing his workout bag into the old Buick limousine’s back seat, he slid under the steering wheel and hit the starter. The highly-tuned straight eight leapt to life with a roar that he was still getting used to. Can this be the same car, he thought as he drove out into the early evening on Miami’s Calle Ocho, that brought me down from Baltimore all those years ago? I never thought I’d see it again after Bisque, and never really wanted to once those damn Bishop twins got hold of it. Can’t imagine what it cost Jack to get it in this kind of shape. If Buick had built ’em this way in 1941, there’s no telling how many they’dve sold. But it’s one of a kind, and so is he. Can’t wait ’til the little pissant gets back down here. And Linda, not that we don’t have a few things to sort out among ourselves. I didn’t expect her to go after him the way she did when he first showed up down here, but that’s women for you. She’s got the goods on
Similar Books
Beerspit Night and Cursing
Charles Bukowski and Sheri Martinelli
Gallicenae
Poul Anderson
Thunder Running
Rebecca Crowley
Notorious Nineteen
Janet Evanovich
The Mason Dixon Line (A Horizons Novel)
Linda Morris
A Game of Firsts (The Forest of Hands and Teeth)
Carrie Ryan
Christmas in Transylvania
Sandra Hill
Web of Deceit
Katherine Howell
Freaky Deaky
Elmore Leonard
Touch & Go
Lisa Gardner