David Levien - Where the dead lay

The door to the Francovic Training Center was wedged open, Behr saw as he approached. It was just a matter of time-or timing rather-until he caught up with and got face to face with the man, and Behr wondered if this was it. As he stepped inside, there was the must in the air, acrid and familiar. The fluorescents’ glare was blunted this time by the daylight spilling in through the windows. Behr heard grunts and muttered instructions and saw that an advanced gi class was underway. Half a dozen black belts, including Behr’s old buddy Big Boy, were in white gis practicing throws.

As Behr crossed the weight area, he realized he’d have to walk past the edge of the mat to get to the office and locker room toward the back, and there was no doubt the black belts would notice him doing it. He continued on his path, not breaking stride, when he heard it.

“Ho! Where the fuck are you going, spiffy?” Behr stopped and turned. It was Big Boy, breaking off from the class and moving in his direction. Behr was far from dressed up, but the nickname, as it were, had stuck.

“Like I told you last time, I’m here to talk to Francovic,” Behr said. He suddenly had the sensation he was in a school yard or college bar.

“Like I told you last time, what the fuck for?” Big Boy said. “And it’s Mr. Francovic until you have one of these,” Big Boy thumbed his black belt.

“Why don’t you go back to your training and stick to things that concern you, Garfield,” Behr said. It wasn’t much of a zinger anywhere else, but to go through life carrying some extra pounds in the town where Jim Davis, the creator of the cartoon cat, lived, it was a pay-dirt shot.

“Why don’t you take a suck on my cock?” Big Boy said and pushed him, hard.

Big Boy’s hands thumping off his chest sent Behr white hot with anger. The momentum of the shove took him a step backward, but he caught himself and moved to push back and it was on. Big Boy caught his wrist with one huge hand, and the other fed up under his triceps and jerked him forward with a short-arm drag. The question with a big guy isn’t whether he’s powerful- they usually are-but whether or not he can move. Upon locking up, Behr saw, or felt rather, that this dog knew how to hunt.

Big Boy stepped in smoothly and went to wrap an arm around Behr’s waist for a body lock, but Behr managed to catch the arm in a whizzer-his own forearm hooking deep under Big Boy’s armpit and ripping upward. Behr dropped his weight and swiveled his hips around, going low, as he would to hip throw, but then allowed his weight to pull down on Big Boy and collapse them both to the edge of the mat.

Behr needed to keep the arm and turn and fully face his opponent, but the kid was remarkably quick in taking the opportunity to jerk his sweated-up gi sleeve free and go for Behr’s back. Behr tried to sit out and square up to him, but Big Boy flattened out on top of him when he was midway through the move. He was heavy as hell, and Behr collapsed down to the mat on his right side, Big Boy on top of him.

The kid attempted to gain side control, going for a modified headlock around Behr’s neck and arm, but Behr framed up, using his forearms like the skis of a forklift to push Big Boy up and over his head and escape. Behr felt the young man’s hip bone impact with his face as he slid out from under him. He heard the crack and realized he’d broken his nose again for the countless time since the inaugural incident during freshman-year football at University of Washington, when a senior slapped his helmet down during two-a-days.

Behr was free, but only for a second. He flipped onto his hands and knees to get up, but Big Boy swung on him and he was forced to turtle in order to avoid it, and the blow rattled harmlessly off the back of his head. Before Behr could rise, though, Big Boy got an arm around his waist and threaded the other past his collarbone and looked to join his hands around Behr’s chest.

Shit, Behr thought. It was four moves away, but he was headed for something called a rear naked choke, which was every bit as bad as it sounded and would render him unconscious, and there was very little he could do about it.

“Do him, Brody! You got him!” the others in the school shouted, seeing the progression as well. Behr was vaguely aware of the other black belts standing around the edges of the mat cheering their buddy on, as Big Boy-“Brody,” he now knew- succeeded in joining his hands in a lock around Behr’s chest, and then rolled over, in a tight, economical spiral, taking Behr with him. Brody ended up with his own back against the mat, sitting up somewhat, while Behr was in front of him and lodged between his legs. Brody got his hooks in, his heels digging past Behr’s inner thighs, immobilizing him. Brody’s arms were still locked across Behr’s chest in a control position that would only last for a moment more before it was improved and Brody’s bent arm would form a V around Behr’s carotids. He reached back and raked for Brody’s eyes, getting a piece of something, but not a direct hit. The move failed, but Behr felt Brody’s head pull away from his just slightly. Behr didn’t immediately realize what a fluke it was, as he was busy trying to duck his chin and get a hand against his own throat in order to thwart the strangle. He wasn’t able to execute in time, though.

Behr felt Brody apply the hold. When a choke is sunk deep, it’s not about air, but blood. A person can last thirty seconds or a minute without air, but if the blood flow to the carotids is cut off, unconsciousness is abrupt. This one didn’t quite cut the blood flow completely, but it was just a matter of time until the large man’s arm wriggled in and found a true seat around his throat. Behr couldn’t get his shoulders to the mat, which is the first step in the escape, and had about three seconds before it was hello darkness. The lights on the gym ceiling were bright and stark in his eyes. He smelled the stink coming off Brody. He heard his own heart beating in his ears.

Things were getting dire in a hurry. Behr went for the eyes again. Brody pulled his face back slightly once more. Then Behr moved his hand around the back of his own head and found a crack of space. Brody’s head should have been pressed tight against his in a viselike seal, but instead there was just the tiniest bit of room. Boxing may be known as the “sweet science,” but jiu-jitsu is considered the “subtle science,” and neglecting the smallest detail can make a large difference. Behr’s hand slid through and he found the hand of Brody’s non-choking arm.

In knife fighting, in the absence of a clean killing stroke, the object is to cut the opponent repeatedly until he weakens from blood loss and opens himself to a vital strike. It was a theory Aurelio had mentioned as having a parallel in jiu-jitsu-the idea of going joint by joint, from smallest to largest, breaking them, until the man was immobilized. He hadn’t gone into much detail, as full breaks didn’t really apply in a controlled setting, but the thought had stayed with Behr over the past year, and it echoed deep in his unconscious mind now. Brody wasn’t wearing hand wraps or practice gloves, in which case there would’ve been no hope. There were no words, or coherent thoughts, or lofty concepts in Behr’s head now. Only desperation fueled him. His vision closing in as if he were entering a narrowing, unlit tunnel, Behr saw black spots in front of his eyes, but he got a hold of Brody’s pinky finger and snapped it like a breadstick.

Brody jolted and released his hooks in the onrush of panic that the pain of the damaged finger brought on, but he didn’t let off the choke. Behr moved on to Brody’s ring finger and broke that one clean and deep, too. Now the man wailed and Behr felt the strength go out of Brody’s mangled hand. The choking arm let off next. Oxygenated blood rushed back into Behr’s brain. He rolled face-to-face with Brody to counter the next attack. But there wasn’t one. Improbably, Brody began patting Behr’s shoulder with his good hand.