Norman Partridge - The Ten-Ounce Siesta

“Fuck you." Katt stiffened. “You’re not getting anything out of me, Baddalach. And put away that gun. I’m no kid. I’m not gonna shit my pants. I don’t care who you work for. I know you’re not gonna shoot me. I’m the motherfucking heavyweight champion of the world.”

They stood there for a moment, trying hard not to blink. Broken glass all around, but the china shop bit hadn’t worked. Jack could see that. The moment had passed and then some. Tony Katt wasn’t intimidated anymore. He’d slammed a lid on his fear.

Now he was starting to boil.

Jack glanced around the gym. He hated this kind of place. Everything was new. Hi-tech. Sanitized.

There was only one other way to play it.

Jack nodded toward the boxing ring. “If you won’t give me an answer,” he said, “I guess I could always beat one out of you.”

Katt smiled his baddest man on the planet smile. “You tangle with me, runt, you’d better pack a lunch.”

Jack took off his T-shirt. Katt made a point of laughing. “Looks like you’ve been enjoying the good life, Baddalach.”

“Lately I’ve been eating a lot of donuts.”

Katt tapped his forehead. “Some knot you’ve got there. Someone take after you with a ball bat or something?”

“No. I got butted with a machine gun.” Jack pointed to the bruise on his left shoulder. “This one’s from a bat, though.”

“You should take it easy, Dad.”

“Usually I do. I’m retired.”

“That’s why I’m going to be merciful.” Katt threw a pair of sixteen-ounce training gloves to Jack, pillows that wouldn’t hurt a consumptive kid. “I promise I’ll go easy.”

Jack tossed the gloves aside. “Don’t do me any favors.”

“Okay. It’s your call, champ.”

“Make it easy on yourself. How about some ten-ouncers?”

“Owww. . Jack, you are a brave boy. I guess a couple of testosteronic terrors such as ourselves don’t need any stinking headgears, either. Huh?”

“Unless you’re worried about that pretty little nose of yours.”

“I’ll be okay.” Katt tossed a pair of ten-ounce gloves Jack’s way, then selected one for himself. Jack wrapped his hands with protective bandages while Katt shadowboxed in the ring. The Tiger was slow, even for a heavyweight. Ponderous. Like Godzilla on Quaaludes.

But Godzilla was dangerous. One swat of his tail and half of Tokyo crumbled, ’ludes or no ‘ludes.

Jack climbed between the ropes and pulled on the gloves. They were red leather with white labels around the wrists that bore the name of the manufacturer.

“Reyes,” Jack said, reading the label.

Great. Jack had worn Reyes gloves the night a guy named Sugar Ray Sattler cut him to ribbons and took his title. The brand had always been bad luck for Jack Baddalach.

“Puncher’s gloves.” Katt smiled, throwing a series of short hooks in the air. “You said that I should make it easy on myself.”

“I guess I did.”

“You want rounds? This ring has a computer set-up. I can activate a clock from my corner. The computer will ring the bell and everything.”

“Let’s just do it the old-fashioned way. Come to scratch and let fly.”

“Suits me.”

They slipped mouthpieces between their lips-Katt’s was custom-made, while Jack’s was a gum-buster straight out of the package.

Well, beggars couldn’t be choosers. Not when they were calling out the heavyweight champion of the world. At least Katt hadn’t given Jack a mouthpiece with another guy’s slobber on it.

Katt rang an imaginary bell. “Ding ding.”

The heavyweight lumbered forward. Jack shook out his arms and bopped back and forth from one leg to the other. His bruised shoulder was pretty tight, but at least his left leg wasn’t bothering him. No thanks to Mudhoney’s bat. Plenty of thanks to Angel Gemignani’s talented fingers.

Katt slammed his gloves together and smiled his baddest man on the planet smile as he crossed the ring. Coming in, the champion flicked a left jab toward Jack’s head. The punch was pathetically slow. So slow Katt could have sent it by Western Union. Jack had no trouble getting under it.

He cut to the right, avoiding Katt’s power hand. If he could stay away from the champion’s right cross, he figured he’d be okay.

Jack juked around the ring, shuffling a little, his legs nice and loose now. Katt turned, thudded his gloves together again, smiled his ridiculous smile, and followed.

Jack nearly laughed. The heavyweight’s footwork was horrible. Tony the Tiger dragged his back foot behind him like it was stuck in a bucket of horseshit. Two more Western Union jabs and Jack was gone. He was wearing a pair of Wolverine work boots, but Katt made him feel like the Flash.

Katt slurred words through his mouthpiece. “You want to fight or what?”

“Bring it on.”

Katt did. Thudding his gloves, smiling his baddest man on the planet smile, he crossed the ring faster this time. Jack stood his ground, catching the champion’s jabs on his gloves, but he couldn’t stand in with the big man forever.

A wild right slammed his bruised shoulder as he moved away. Jack felt the power in the punch right down to the bone. Katt could bang, and then some. That was for sure. Barroom rules, he’d probably take anyone. But this was boxing. And until someone designed a ring that included a juke box and a pool table, Tony the Tiger was going to have to play it the Marquis of Queensberry way.

Katt turned, gloves down, ready to give chase. But Jack jumped in, surprising the heavier man before he could set himself, driving a series of hard jabs into Katt’s face before moving out.

Katt touched his nose. His Reyes glove came away stained with blood.

“You little bitch,” he said, slapping his gloves together one more time.

Smiling his smile beneath a scarlet curtain.

Jack waved him on. The heavyweight came at him just as before, swinging wildly. Against opponents his own size. Jack had never been very fast. But with Katt he felt like a welterweight. He double-jabbed hard to the champion’s face, dipped low, and ripped a right hook to the big man’s ribs, following up with a hook to the head that missed by a whisper.

And then he was gone.

Jack grinned around his mouthpiece. This was the guy who was pulling down millions for every fight. Jack had never made that kind of money. He wasn’t even in shape, and he was boxing rings around the chump-

Katt wasn’t going to quit, though. Jack had to give him that. The heavyweight snorted and wiped fresh blood from his nose. Another slap of his gloves, another smile, and the big man really came on, a blur of suntanned flesh and neon tattoos. Aryan Brotherhood swastikas, grim reapers, grinning skulls wearing Nazi helmets. Jack laid leather on all of them, but his punches didn’t slow Tony Katt.

The jab that had seemed so pathetic moments before caught Jack dead in the face. Once, bam, twice, bam , like a jackhammer rattling his skull. Suddenly Jack couldn’t remember how to get his mouth open, and he needed to breathe. . because his lungs were burning and the jab was coming again-

bam! bam!

And then Katt’s right hand slammed Jack’s bruised shoulder. His entire arm went numb. He needed to move. He had to get out of the way-

But he couldn’t. The ring ropes burned his back as he fell against them. If he couldn’t get off the ropes before he lost his balance. . If he couldn’t slip away before Katt had a chance to launch another punch. .

Katt grunted as he set himself. Again the right hand, but this time it was whistling toward Jack’s head, and the smaller man did sink back against the ropes because there was nowhere else to go.

The punch grazed Jack’s nose and Katt’s momentum forced him off balance. He stumbled toward Jack. .