Tom Schreck - TKO

“You got folks, kid?”

“My mother, sir. My father passed away.”

“Sorry, Billy. Mom know you’re here?”

“She works an overnight shift and she doesn’t get home until after I leave for school,” he said.

“All right, Billy,” I said. “Training will be tonight at the Y in the boxing room. Be there at seven thirty p.m.”

“Yes, sir!” he said. He gave me an exaggerated bow, bounded down the steps, and started to run down the side of Route 9R.

I turned to head to the toilet, and Al was staring at me with a look that was half confusion and half amusement.

“Don’t ask me,” I said.

“Duff, I was just reading this book on World War II,” Sam said.

“I didn’t know you could read,” I said.

“Did you know there was a group of Polish kamikazes?”

“Uh, geez…”

“Yep-in fact, Kamikaze Kowalski flew over a hundred successful missions.” Sam laughed and went back to his spot.

I had just gotten in and was going through my stack of human-services mail. There were the letters from the county social services department, which would be about the reports I hadn’t sent them or info on my clients that I probably should read but won’t. There were two postcards announcing open houses at two other agencies to celebrate either their new executive director, which most agencies got every eight months or so, or to announce their new highly specialized program for left-handed Vietnam vets with carpal tunnel syndrome and genital herpes. There were two pieces of mail announcing conferences, including the Seventh Annual Women’s Symposium on Emotionally Unavailable Men and the state conference on Music Therapy with the Hearing Impaired.

There was also a letter with a hand-written address on it, which I opened first. It was a short pencil-written letter and the words were printed as straight as possible. It was from Howard, and it made the vein in my neck twitch a little.

Duffy,

I didn’t do what they’re saying I did. They want me to be blamed and they want me out of their lives. I’ve assured them I won’t talk but they don’t want to take their chances. I have to stay away.

You’re the only one I trust.

Help.

H.

I would’ve preferred registering for the Women’s Symposium; nonetheless, I had to deal with being Howard’s Labrador, and that meant some professional and personal obligations. Up until now, I didn’t have any firsthand knowledge that Howard was innocent, but by that rationale the guy was guilty until proven otherwise. That was the same assumption Michelin, Abadon, and the cops were making, and just because I was hesitant to follow along with their assumption, it didn’t make me any better if ultimately I did the same things that they would do. Just the same, if I was wrong in my nobility, there was a chance that McDonough High could wind up being down another quarterback spot on the depth chart.

If Howard was the bad guy, which just about everyone believed, real lives were in danger. I had my gut instincts, but I also knew I had a tendency to go against the crowd just for the sake of going against the crowd. Add to that the fact that I had no respect for the Michelin Woman, I couldn’t get a read on Abadon, and in general I wasn’t a big fan of cops, and-I had to admit-I could’ve been being adversarial for the sport of it. On the other hand, I respected Monique, Kelley, and Trina as much as anyone, and they felt that it was most likely Howard who was doing the slicing and dicing.

I called Claudia’s extension, well aware that it would ruin my day. She came out briefly and then called the police. Within minutes, Detective Morris, the Larry Bird guy whose name I found out was Mullings, and two uniformed cops came to my office. Larry Bird gave me a dirty look but Morris did most of the talking.

They wanted to know when it came, who touched it, did I handle it, did I write on it-they asked just about everything except did I blow my nose in it. Then they took the letter with these fancy tweezers and dropped it in an evidence bag and asked me if they could get my fingerprints so they could tell mine from whatever prints were on the letter.

I agreed mostly because going to the police station would get me out of the office and get me to the gym sooner. They sent me to where they book real criminals, and some cop named Murtagh took my prints without any enthusiasm in about ten minutes. I was in and out of the police station in no time and fit with a perfect excuse not to return to the office. With the fight on Saturday, an extra nap would come in handy and would be time well spent. The Michelin Woman wouldn’t bitch about me not coming back to the office because she’d assume I was at the station cooperating all afternoon.

I pulled up in front of the Moody Blue just in time to catch Marcia putting a letter in my mailbox. Her long, straight hair came down past her shoulders and rested on her peasant blouse. She wore army fatigues and a pair of the Birkenstocks, rounding out a look I hated. Marcia reminded people a lot of the folk singer Jewel, who recently went sort of glam with her look. I had hoped Marcia would follow suit, but she didn’t.

“Hey, Duff,” she said. “I left you a note.”

“A note?”

“I don’t know if it’s something I can talk about. My therapist-”

“Your therapist?”

“Yeah, I’ve been seeing someone.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. Every chick I saw wound up seeing a therapist. Usually right before she broke up with me.

“She thinks it would be best if I wasn’t in a relationship right now. I still want to be friends.”

“Friends, huh?” I’ve been around long enough to know that when your girlfriend wanted to be your friend, she was really telling you she didn’t want to have sex with you anymore. But, if she needed to talk with you to spew a bunch of therapist-induced drivel when she’s lonely, she wanted to reserve the right to call you. That would make me a kind of emotional tampon she could pull out once a month when she needed it.

“Yeah, we can be friends, right?”

“Sure,” I heard myself say.

“You don’t sound like you mean it.”

“I’m going to need a little time to process this.” I’ve learned that if you use the word “process,” women think you’re being a feeling kind of guy.

“Okay, that’s fair, Duff.” She sniffled and there was that awkward moment when you know something’s over and there isn’t anything left to be said. Actually, it was a bit of a relief because she’d been weirding out on me for a while. Just the same, it still left a sickish feeling. It had been about six months, which had been about my girlfriend duration for the last few years, and I’ve gotten a bit used to the whole breakup scene. A bit too used to it.

I was tranced out when I opened the door to the Blue and forgot about Allah-King, who kicked me right in the nuts as I opened the door. No longer in a trance, I bent over, grabbing my nuts while Al spun around in enthusiastic circles. I straightened up and Al jumped up and kicked me in the nuts a second time. They were two good shots and I felt my eyes well up just a bit. Tears ran down my cheeks.

I flopped on the couch, lying on my back to ease the pain in the nuttage, and Al jumped up with me. He awkwardly made his way up the length of my body and intermittently licked and bit my ears. It wasn’t exactly what I’d call recuperative relaxation, but, to be honest, I appreciated his company. Marcia was an emotional ditz and I knew we weren’t going anywhere, but I didn’t really need the reminder that once again a relationship of mine crashed and burned. Rationally, I knew it wasn’t a reflection on my worth. Rationally, I knew I would be fine, probably better off, and rationally, I knew it was an opportunity to meet someone better suited for me. Realistically, I was bummed.