Sean Beaudoin - Welcome Thieves

“Exactly. It’s like you’re sleepwalking, Champ. Jab and stick, jab and stick. Christ. What did you train all those years for, huh? Or did that turd Funches take a dive?”

Abe Golem put Mr. Fancy down and they shuffled off to take more bets.

“Don’t pay no attention to him,” Nurse whispered, kneading Primo’s shoulders. “Just fight your fight, got me? Fight your fight.”

THE DOCTOR UNTIED his mask and strapped on his sympathy, explained the unexplainable in a rush of jargon and honed concern. Gina was in a room with four other women, all of them sedated. Primo went across the street to a bar and had six whiskeys before getting into a fight with an enormous red-faced Pole, losing badly, only half on purpose.

THE BELL RANG. The Gobbler leapt from his corner and sank his teeth into Primo’s arm. Primo threw an uppercut that missed, a right that missed, a kick that missed. The Gobbler gnawed some leg before slipping back out of range.

“Jesus, Throw in the Towel Already” lowered to (3–1).

Wanna thrive, gotta come da fuck alive! the Albatross used to say, back when he still talked.

Even had it tattooed across his chest.

For once, the crazy bird was right.

Primo dropped all pretense of technique. He charged, forced the Gobbler into a corner, and threw a roundhouse lifted straight from the movies. All windup and shoulder. It caught the Gobbler flush in the mouth. It was a better punch than he ever hit Funches with. It was a better punch than he ever hit anyone with. Primo’s knuckles ached inside their wraps. The crowd fell silent. The Gobbler woozed back and grabbed the ropes with one hand, reached into his mouth with the other. For a comical second he rooted around, eventually pulled out a tiny razor tooth. He held it up, whimpering, while it gleamed like a diamond under the lights.

Nurse whistled.

Mr. Fancy and Abe Golem stopped collecting bets.

Primo cocked his left.

And then the Gobbler went Completely Insane.

He screamed and frothed and showered the crowd with bloody spit. He pulled out his nose stick, tossed it over his shoulder, and charged. It was a jabbering, bug-eyed attack. Primo countered without thought.

They met in the air, like a pair of rams.

And bounced off one another, falling to the canvas.

“Oh, my god,” moaned a stock analyst in the front row, jumping up and down. He’d put ten grand on “Fighter Ditches Rationality as Working Concept” (163 — 1) and wanted to collect. So did all his pals. Mr. Fancy tried to explain how insanity was relative and wondered if the gentleman was indeed a trained psychoanalyst and therefore capable of making such a determination. “No? What is insane, really, anyhow? Are not our great artists and philosophers still wrestling with that question? And so, unfortunately, your bet is No Good.” The analyst argued. Abe Golem loomed. The entire section came to the guy’s defense. The bet was good. It had to be paid. A chant began. Mr. Fancy saw what was coming and changed his verdict. “Fine. Everything is fine. Really.” He tried to open the canvas bag, but Abe Golem fumbled with the chain and by then it was too late. A riot began. Someone in gabardine stabbed Doc Nob. Mr. Fancy disappeared beneath a lofted chair. From the top row, the thin, reedy voice of an Internet entrepreneur requested help. Abe Golem grabbed a lawyer by the collarbone and swung him like a three iron, trying to clear a path toward his boss.

Primo, dazed, forced himself to stand. The Gobbler began to slink forward on all fours. Primo warded him off with a series of kicks.

“What’re we doin’, Nurse?”

He glanced back, but Nurse was no longer in the corner. The stool was knocked over and some idiot was wearing the spit bucket on his head.

The Gobbler inched closer.

Primo tried to gauge the odds of making the same side door that Buddy Vox had just slipped through. A path opened where a section of crowd had their backs turned, surrounding a trio of Beverage Girls making a brave stand, shoes in either hand, razor heels swung in wide arcs, carving suit.

Primo saw himself vault the ropes. He’d find Nurse, grab her by the collar, sprint into the gap.

It was a long shot. It was the only shot.

He pivoted, flexed, took two steps.

And then slipped in his own blood.

“Da Champ Eats Shit” (16 — 1).

The gap closed.

The Beverage Girls disappeared under a wave of French cuffs.

Primo managed to get on one knee as the Gobbler sprang, landed squarely on his back. The weight drove Primo flat. A rib cracked. The crowd roared, a vibration welling through the canvas and into his chest. Primo, pinned, thought about Gina. She would be at home, on the couch. If Therapy Fred had a remedy for her now it would be Next time, marry a winner.

Sirens wailed. A fire started, smoke billowing toward the rafters. The sprinkler system went off, a deluge of rusty water, like rain in the Amazon. Nurse was lying in the aisle, on her side, staring at nothing.

“Show’s over,” Primo rasped, unable to move. “Nada mas.”

No answer.

“Comprende?”

The Gobbler’s teeth clicked and gnashed. A powerful stink wafted from his gums. Rotted lamb and scorched metal. Ruin.

“Yeah, I comprende.”

“Wait, you speak English?”

The Gobbler leaned forward, whispered in Primo’s ear.

“I’m from Jersey, asshole.”

“Not Brazil.”

“No, papi.”

Primo exhaled. There was still a chance. He could offer the guy money, maybe tip him to Nob’s stash.

“Thank Christ. They said you were a cannibal.”

The Gobbler giggled. His fingernails dug in.

“At least they got one thing right.”

Primo tried to reach back and get a grip, but his gloves were wet and the thumb was useless. Arcs of pain, like camera flashes, exploded in his head. The Ring Girls were a blur and Abe Golem’s shoes were a blur. Someone screamed, and then someone else joined in, hitting the same desperate note. Rain gently pattered. Smoke settled in the corners. Primo pressed his cheek against the canvas, inhaling the smell of rubber and sweat, while the Gobbler ate parts of him he couldn’t afford to lose.

The warehouse takes up an entire city block. St. Cloud is the manager. He used to be infantry but got kicked out for asking and telling. Now he’s an artist, wears a snake around his neck. Sometimes you can see the bulge of a mouse beneath the coils. He waits on the dock while Jake and Tiffany Marzano back another load of donations in.

Workers circle, push and shove, make claims on the haul. Everyone at the warehouse is allowed to steal one thing. But it can only be one thing, and you have to be consistent or St. Cloud decides you’re greedy and it’s a pink slip. A skinny blond does furs. The dock guys handle stereos. There’s someone for comic books, screen prints, silverware. A guy in a trucker cap prices Italian shoes, ships them to New York in bulk.

St. Cloud does toasters.

Jake hops out of the truck and presents him with a vintage top loader, chrome and Bakelite, looks like it fell off Sputnik in 1962. St. Cloud mounts the toasters in galleries with names like Char-O and Count Van Der Slice . When one doesn’t measure up it goes on the scrap pile. All around the warehouse are different piles: sweaters, coffee makers, Les Baxter albums, sofa cushions, boom boxes, reading glasses.

No one steals reading glasses. It’s a wide-open niche.

THEY HEAD OUT on another run. The truck smells of Tiffany Marzano, so Jake smells of Tiffany Marzano. Even with the windows down. There’s a sleeping bag in the hold. Cans of chili roll with every turn. When Jake asks Tiffany Marzano if she’s living in back, the truck veers into a motel courtyard, lurches to a stop.