James Grippando - Last to die

“Theo, my man!”

It was Tatum calling out from the ring, cocky as ever, sparring with a young Latino who was about half his weight. It wasn’t his style to box pip-squeaks, but it was always Mr. Machismo with the twenty-seven-inch waist who liked to taunt the baddest dude in the gym. It was as if these muscle-bound weeds had something to prove, like those annoying little poodles in the park that took on the rottweilers. Sooner or later, the big dog was gonna bite.

For Theo’s benefit, Tatum wound up like a windmill, toying with his opponent.

Theo just smiled. He didn’t love everything about his brother, but he had to love him. Jack Swyteck, his court-appointed lawyer, was the one who finally got him off death row for the murder of that store clerk. But through it all, there was only one other person who’d stuck by him all the way. In a lifelong give and take of sibling love and hate, this was the one great un equalizer, the debt he could never repay. At least that was the way Theo saw it.

Theo walked toward his brother’s corner and leaned over the ropes from outside the ring. The unmistakable odor of sweat and old leather tingled his nostrils. He could hear the fighters grunt with each jab, feel the intensity of their concentration. Only the intellectual snobs of the world thought that boxing wasn’t a mind game.

“Ever wonder why a boxing ring is actually a square?” asked Theo.

Theo could mess with his brother’s head better than anyone-distract him with extraneous thoughts, watch him take a beating. Even from across the ring, Theo could see that he’d broken Tatum’s rhythm.

“You got your three-ring circus,” said Theo, his tone philosophical. “Olympic rings. Onion rings. Smoke rings. Ringworms.”

“Shut up!” said Tatum.

The little guy was gaining confidence, moving around Tatum like a gnat on a lightbulb.

Theo snickered. “Diamond rings, toe rings, nipple rings, navel rings, scrotum rings, even ring around the collar. All them is circles.”

“I said, shut uuuuuup!”

Theo said, “Then there’s a boxing ring. I mean, how is it that a ring has corners?”

Tatum took a quick jack to the jaw, which startled him. “That’s it,” he said as he landed a left hook that sent the gnat flying across the ring. “Get your ass in here, Theo.”

“Thought you’d never ask.” Theo climbed through the ropes. The wounded Hispanic kid helped him strap on gloves. Then Theo stepped farther into the ring with his usual style, leaving the mouthpiece behind so as not to rob himself of his most effective weapon-verbal taunting.

“International rules?” said Theo.

“Uh-uh. Knight rules.”

Theo had always moved better than his older brother, and that was especially the case this morning, as he was completely fresh. And he seemed to be particularly on fire when it came to casting confusion to the enemy. “Hey, Tatum. How many times a day do you think lightning strikes?”

Tatum didn’t respond. Theo connected with a left-right combination.

“Take a guess,” said Theo, ever-light on his feet.

“Strikes where?” said Tatum, grunting. The mouthpiece made him sound thick.

“The whole world. How many times a day?”

Theo could see him thinking, see his loss of focus on the fight for just a moment of weakness. He led with a hard right this time, landing another combination that jerked Tatum’s head back.

“How many?” said Theo.

“I dunno. Fifty?”

“Hah!” he said as he delivered a quick blow to the belly. Tatum’s eyes bulged, as if to confirm the landing.

“Guess again,” said Theo.

Tatum was clearly hurting; Theo was holding nothing back. Tatum said, “A hundred.”

“A hundred times a day?” said Theo, scoffing. “That your guess?”

Tatum took a swing, but Theo quickly stepped aside and popped Tatum with another head shot. Tatum stumbled but didn’t go down.

Theo allowed him to get his footing, just to keep things interesting. “Try a hundred times a second,” said Theo. “That’s how many times lightning strikes every day.”

They circled one another slowly, sizing things up, looking for an opening. Tatum came at him, but Theo beat him back with a numbing blow to the forehead.

“Here’s the tricky part,” said Theo, still dancing in the ring. “How many people you think get killed by lightning?”

Tatum didn’t answer. He seemed to be struggling just to stay focused.

“About fifty,” said Theo, answering his own question. “A year.”

Tatum staggered. That last blow to the forehead had been a direct hit. Theo said, “Every second of every minute of every day, lightning strikes the earth a hundred times. But only a few people get a good, direct hit all year long. What does that tell you, Tatum?”

“Stand still and I’ll tell you.” He took another swing. Whiff.

“When somebody says the chances of Theo Knight getting off death row, or chances of Tatum Knight staying out of prison, are about as good as getting hit by lightning, what does that tell you?”

He unleashed another combination, then backed away before Tatum could answer.

“What the hell are you jabbering about, Theo?”

“Don’t you get it? It’s not that lightning don’t strike. You just gotta be standing in the right place.”

“You’re talking shit.”

“I’m talking about missed opportunities. There’s all kinds of ways to miss opportunities. Ain’t that right, Tatum?”

Tatum just grunted.

“You can blow them all by yourself,” said Theo as he landed another punch, then pulled away quickly. “Or sometimes you don’t have to do anything at all. Opportunities just pass right by you. Because your older brother went ahead and fucked up everything for you.”

Theo could feel the old anger rising from within. With a flurry of punches he came straight at Tatum and pinned him on the ropes. He kept swinging, and Tatum could only curl up and defend.

“Enough!” shouted Tatum.

For an instant, it was as if they were no longer in the ring. They were on the street corner outside their aunt’s apartment in Liberty City, and Theo was pounding on his brother for having hocked their aunt’s wedding ring to buy some dope. Theo abandoned the boxing mode and wrestled his brother to the mat, locking Tatum’s head in a two-handed hold that could have busted his neck. Theo spoke directly into his brother’s ear in a low, angry whisper, so that no one could overhear. “I vouched for you with Swyteck. I told him you didn’t kill that woman.”

“I didn’t kill her.”

“Don’t lie to me!”

“I’m not lying, man. I didn’t kill her.”

“Swyteck was like lightning for me, you understand? You think a guy like me gets off death row without Jack Swyteck? You think a guy like me gets anywheres at all without a friend like Swyteck?”

“I hear you, okay?”

He shoved Tatum’s face into the canvas. “He’ll help you, too, man. If you let him. But the last thing he needs is another scumbag client who lies to him.”

Theo tightened the headlock. His brother grimaced and said, “No lies, I promise.”

“I swear, bro. You lie and embarrass my friend-you blow this opportunity I’m giving you-I’ll bust you wide open.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Did Sally Fenning hire you to kill her?”

“She tried.”

“Did you kill her?”

“No. I didn’t touch the bitch.”

Theo kneed him in the belly, then pushed him down to the canvas. “She wasn’t a bitch,” he said as he walked to the ropes. “She was a mother.”

Theo used his teeth to unlace his gloves, then pulled them off and tossed them into the plastic crate in the corner. He swatted the line of hanging punching bags on the way to the locker room, a boxing rhythm that matched his walk. At his locker, he dug out his cell phone and dialed Jack’s number, catching his breath as the phone rang five times in his ear.