Sean Beaudoin - Welcome Thieves

They stood close, breathing hard. She pressed her mouth to his. His hands left trails of sweat, began to pull at her blouse before wrenching away.

“Fuck.”

“That’s the idea, genius.”

A series of booms cascaded up the valley. Primo ducked, but Nurse didn’t even flinch. There was heavy machine gun fire and then a much larger explosion that silenced it all.

“Let me ask you something.”

Nurse exhaled, breath sterile, eyes glassy, higher than any kite would ever go. Primo was tempted to climb on up there with her, rest for a while.

“What?”

“You know any good cut men? I mean, now that you told Mr. Fancy you’re through. Anyone else you could recommend to stand at my back while I fight this Gobbler?”

She half-smiled. “Cut woman .”

“Right.”

“Someone fast and talented? With a wealth of experience? Maybe a touch exotic?”

“An empress in white.”

Nurse took his hand and held the swollen knuckles, kissed them one at a time.

“Yeah, I might could scare someone up.”

ON FRIDAY THE Old Barn was raucous. Every seat full, suits crammed into aisles and fire exits, four to a step, all of them screaming, nearly unhinged. Primo punched the air while bettors lined up to put money on “Immediately Raked with Incisors,” even at a prohibitive (2–5). Beverage Girls stepped like flamingos, no space for their stiletto heels. Men pushed and shoved in front of Doc Nob’s Olde Tyme Injection Booth, waiting to be pricked.

Buddy Vox, in a pink cummerbund, reached for the mic.

“And now, friends. . in the main event. . the Jewel of the Amazon. . the Prince of Peridontia. . the Little Stomach That Could. . pound-for-pound the most savage fighter to ever grace a Spectacle ring. . the Gobbler !”

A prolonged roar shook the rafters, as an orderly led the Gobbler in on all fours. He strained at the end of a steel chain, giggled and spit and swung his head from side to side. Buddy Vox held the ropes apart, but the Gobbler leapt over them and landed in the center of the ring, letting out a wail that sounded pre-Columbian. Prelanguage. The crowd went crazy. Money flew. Mr. Fancy snapped his pencil, trying to get down all the bets. “Calf Gnawed Like Hoagie” (2–1) was getting lots of play, as well as “Da Champ Cries Like a Little Bitch” (3–1). The sole nonbite wager in his favor, Primo noticed, was “Da Champ Pulls Off Some Tom Hanks Miracle” (100 — 1), which hadn’t gotten a sniff.

So much for his 20 percent.

Buddy Vox finished an extralong announcement speech. There’d been two stabbings at the last Spectacle and no one was happy about it. Souvenir knife sales were temporarily halted. “Please, no stabbing . Really. Are we kidding? No. Why does everyone think we’re kidding? We’re not. So take a second to sheath yourself. Also, go ahead and order a porterhouse. Tell your nearest server, ‘Buddy Vox likes it so damn rare’ for an extra 6 percent off. And now let’s have some fun!”

The crowd noise was almost painful. Primo leaned against the ropes, trying to concentrate.

“You keep movin’,” Nurse whispered from behind. “Move, move, move.” She put her lips against his earlobe. “He insane quick. Can’t stand and trade. Gotta get on your horse. Stay still, you’re done. Move .”

The Gobbler clawed the canvas, crouching and spitting. He was tiny. Maybe five-two but one solid muscle, like a bar of soap. His skin was a glistening teak, covered with tattoos and feathers, a stick through his nose and hair plastered to his skull with orange mud.

“You ready, Champ?” Vox asked.

Primo nodded.

“You ready Gobbler?”

The Gobbler grinned like a piranha.

“To ze victor, ze spoils!” Buddy Vox intoned.

THE DAY AFTER the Bulldog Funches bout, Primo and Gina walked down a path lined with cherry blossoms, other couples milling around an ornate wooden shrine. It was cool, a mild Pacific sun casting long shadows over crushed gravel and elaborate shrubbery. There were banners hung on wooden poles, simple drawings of tigers and bears, austere symbols in black ink. Gina asked an old man what they meant. He smiled broadly and bowed.

“Man don’t speak English,” Primo said.

“Neither do you,” Gina answered.

They watched him shuffle away in cloth sandals. The sun began to set. Two children played with paper birds, repeatedly folded, that seemed to hover in the air. No one here knew what Primo had done to Funches. No one here needed to.

As if reading his mind, Gina said, “I don’t want you to fight. Ever again.”

“Why?”

“It’s too dangerous.”

He took off the enormous sunglasses that hid the swelling around his eyes.

“Then I won’t.”

“You don’t mean it.”

“Try me.”

Gina threw her arms around his neck. Primo inhaled her scent, coconut and linen and a trace of sweat. She wore a kimono they’d bought at the Honshu market, tiny clerks showing how to wrap and tie. He lost his hands in the folds. It was such a cliché, but they’d met in eighth grade, by a locker, and immediately he knew. That quiet smile and checked skirt. She claimed not to be interested, said he was too big, too coarse, didn’t raise his hand enough. She was a virgin, her father a hard-ass with a racing form in his back pocket and a silver cross dangling from the rearview. Primo told her at a party he could wait. He’d train, live at the gym. She could pretend as long as she needed to, but one day he would lean over and brush his lips along her bare shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And he was right.

THE ENTIRE FIRST round Primo ran , barely managing to dodge the Gobbler, each pass a gnashing of teeth that caught only air, loud and wet and savage, missing by inches. The Gobbler’s movements were electric, tiny hops, cartwheels and back flips, all the while those teeth grinding like something with pistons and gears, chomp chomp chomp , like something built to extract marrow.

FOR A YEAR Primo and Gina shared a tiny apartment, one room and a kitchen. It didn’t matter. His gloves and trophies and equipment sat in a box in the closet. She hung tapestries, created walls, gave the illusion of space. Primo drank wine for the first time in his life. Gina read poetry and danced to scratchy Nat Cole records. They lay in bed while candles burned, fit seamlessly against one another.

IN THE SECOND round, the Gobbler began to find his range, quick little nips, shot Primo’s guard, scampered under his left, a series of bites and welts, all of them bleeding. The only punches Primo managed fell on the Gobbler’s back or shoulders, the tiny bastard too quick, somehow able to anticipate a blow and contort his least vulnerable part in its path. Primo backpedaled, giving up damage for breath, punching for space, not even trying to land.

TWO DAYS AFTER Primo found out Gina was pregnant, he bought the store. She got bigger and needed help getting off the sofa. Primo cooked terrible dinners and bid on new inventory and outfitted the car with a baby seat, top of the line. In the final trimester they went to the doctor’s. There was a test, just routine, then a complication, which wasn’t.

AT THE END of the third round Mr. Fancy climbed the ropes. Abe Golem held him by the ribcage until he and Primo were face to face. “What in fuck’re you doing, Champeen? I’m taking a beating here. “Twenty Percent Blood Loss” is paying three-to-one ! “Gobbler Flosses with Ankle” is ten-to-one and has already paid twice. You can’t let this degenerate beat you. I got no one left. Next week he’s gonna have to fight himself!”

“Fights himself and every bet wins,” Abe Golem intoned.