The Young World Page 13

  Me: “Thanks.”

  Ratso: “My pleasure, Donna.”

  Jefferson: “So where do you fit in? What do you charge for all the lubrication?”

  Ratso: “Who, me?” He looks like he hasn’t given any thought to it. “I do it because I’m a people person. I love humanity. I never charge for my services.”

  Nobody seems to buy this, so Ratso adds, “Of course, any consideration you might offer, I would see it as a generous donation toward other travelers in need whom I may be able to help in the future.”

  Jefferson: “Got it.” He frowns, and I can see he’s thinking about telling the guy to shove off. He looks at me. I make an “oh, come on” face, batting my eyelashes. He sighs.

  Jefferson: “Fine. We’re looking for a week’s food for five people. A bunch of equipment. Maybe a gun for me, if we can afford it. And ammo.”

  Ratso: “How much ammo?”

  Jefferson: “Too much.”

  Ratso: “I like the way you think. Going on a trip?”

  Jefferson: “None of your business. Just help us find what we need.”

  But we don’t have nearly enough money for all the food we need, let alone guns and ammo. Ratso haggles for all he’s worth, and he beats the prices down a lot, but we’re still looking at a good thousand dollars.

  Ratso looks sad—guilty, even. Like he’s let us down. Then—and you can practically make out the lightbulb above his head—“I’ve got an idea.”

  Jefferson: “We’re open.”

  Ratso: (Turns to the girl who sells MREs.) “You’ll stay at that price for a couple of hours?”

  Salesgirl: “Things change.”

  Ratso: “An hour? Pretty please?” He holds out his hand to shake.

  The food seller nods. Shakes his hand. Ratso is off like a shot.

  I see her wipe her hand on a cloth as we turn and follow him.

  Ratso leads us out of the crowded stalls to a corner of the hall, then past an old subway entrance that’s gone dark and down some big ramps.

  A floor below the Concourse, there’s a whole other level. It’s all flat arches and dark brick, really claustro to the phobia. There’s no sunlight at all, and it’s lit up by a hodgepodge of work lights, desk lamps with the shades gone, old halogen torch lamps, hanging bulbs, crash-landed upside-down chandeliers. The light and the shadows are coming from every direction, so everybody looks like they’re in a club in some kind of crappy rap video. There are even some strobe lights flickering away.

  What makes it seem more like a club are all the bars and restaurants—if you can call them that—lining the walls.

  It seems like there’s a bunch of different businesses or whatever, because the theme changes every thirty feet or so. Like, there’s a hookah bar, there’s a place called the Ashram Galactica that is done up all fancily, there’s a place that’s all pink, there’s a pub-themed place called the End of the World, complete with a hand-painted sign. There’s even, judging by all the boys, a gay bar, the Regrette Rien, whatever that means. Peter really wants to stop for a drink, but Jefferson won’t let him. They have some kind of movie-quote exchange.

  Peter: “I’m starting my approach.”

  Jefferson: “Stay on target.”

  Peter: “They came from behind.”

  Me: “What the hell are you guys talking about?”

  Peter: “Oh, never you mind, missy.”

  Then I hear a roar from deeper in the crowd. Above a bunch of shouts, I hear a whine that doesn’t sound human.

  Me: “What’s that?”

  Ratso: “That’s my idea.” He wades into a sea of backs, toward something glaring in the background.

  Whatever is back there, I don’t like the sound of it. People are screaming their voices ragged; I hear thumps and whines and angry music.

  Me: “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

  Jefferson: “There you go.” He dives into the crowd, following Ratso.

  CHAPTER 23

  I FOLLOW RATSO into the crowd. There’s a treacly mash of sound in the air, a soup of chatter and shouting and grunting that the curves of the Guastavino brickwork turn into tides and eddies.

  Everyone’s face is turned toward something lit up in the diesel haze at the center of the scrum of bodies. As I get closer, I can see a big, round podium with a bunch of powerful lamps cranked toward it.

  I see a flurry of motion and then there’s a THUMP, and my view is blocked. I push forward to get a clearer view.

  There’s a slender kid on the platform in a hockey mask and a cobbled-together outfit of leather and football pads. The white plastic is smeared with blood, the padding torn. He’s leaning over, catching his breath, while he eyes his opponent.

  It’s a German shepherd, its maw rimmed with blood, drooling with exhaustion. Around it, in various attitudes of death, lies an assortment of other dogs. Many of them still have tattered old collars on, like the shepherd does.

  “Five minutes!” announces someone at the side of the ring—a kid in a frayed prom tuxedo. Some in the crowd cheer, and others groan in exasperation.

  “That’s the over-under,” says Ratso, smiling. Somebody just lost some money.

  The kid in the hockey mask straightens and raises a sticky wooden baseball bat. He stares at the dog.

  A girl next to me shouts, “Finish it! We haven’t got all day!” And the crowd starts to chant, “Kill it! Kill it!”

  The dog hesitates, cowering in the corner. It looks just like anybody’s pet, eyebrows twitching in a mute question.

  Then it seems to turn into a wolf. The curtain of its lips draws back, revealing black gums and yellow teeth, and it makes an angry lunge for the kid with the bat.

  It moves fast, but the kid is ready and brings the bat down on the shepherd’s back, knocking it to the ground. Then, as the crowd counts, he flails at the dog over and over, until it stops moving.

  Finally the kid pulls the mask off, and I realize that it’s a girl, about sixteen or so, freckle-faced, flushed with relief and triumph.

  “Jesus,” I say.

  “Don’t bring him into this,” says Peter, at my elbow.

  The crowd starts to disperse, money flashing between hands as bets are resolved. Some ring attendants in plastic aprons slosh water across the flooring and scrub it with rags, then spread sand over it.

  “We got ten minutes before the next event,” says Ratso.

  “I’m not betting on anybody killing dogs,” says Peter.

  “Oh, the next one isn’t a baiting match,” Ratso says brightly. “It’s man on man.”

  “Ow!” I’m gripping Ratso’s shoulder so hard it even hurts my hand. “What’s the matter?” We’re over by what used to be some sort of food counter back in the day.

  “We’re not betting on people killing each other.”

  “Take it easy! Nobody’s killing anybody.” Ratso flexes his shoulder while he explains. “It’s to a knockout or a submission. Geez, do you think the whole world’s gone psycho?”

  “I could show you a few things,” I say.

  “Well, they might go full-on gladiator someplace else, but here it’s strictly Marquis of Queensberry. Sort of.”

  “So it’s, like, MMA or something?” asks SeeThrough. She’s got a predatory gleam in her eye. “How much can we make?”

  Ratso looks at a dry-erase board nearby. “It depends on the odds.”

  “Can you get me in?” asks SeeThrough.

  “In what?”

  “In a fight. How much does that pay?”

  “Depends. The fighters take a piece of the action. A lot more than just betting.”

  “Find out,” says SeeThrough. “I want to fight.”

  “You?” says Ratso. “Listen, no offense, but—”

  “Just do it,” I say. Ratso hurries off.

  “What are you doing?” Donna asks SeeThrough.

  “I’m trying to get us some money.”

  “You’re trying to get yourself killed,” says Donna.

/>   “I’ll be fine.”

  “You’ll be fine because you’re not gonna fight,” Donna says. “This is sick.”

  “It’s okay. You heard Ratso. Marcus Queens whatever. We need money, right? Do you have a better idea?”

  Ratso comes back. “I can get us a tag-team slot.”

  “Excuse me?” I say.

  “You know, like in wrestling. Two guys per team. When one of them is tired, he can tap out, and the other guy comes in. First team that taps out loses. The winners get ten percent of the take,” says Ratso. “Five hundred bucks guaranteed. Plus you can bet on yourself. Best thing is, the odds are against you.”

  Makes sense. SeeThrough looks tiny and hapless, still singed from her escape in front of the library.

  “I’ll go with you,” says Peter.

  “Forget it,” I say. “You’re missing half an ear. I’ll go.” I turn to Ratso. “Sign us up.”

  Ten minutes later, I’m trying to ignore the beating some kid is taking in the one-on-one match. My heart is going double time, and my shoulders are bunching up with stress.

  “Have you ever done this?” asks Peter. “Fought somebody hand to hand? Like you meant it?”

  “Uhh… not without a sword.”

  “All right. You’re gonna be fine.” SeeThrough looks me in the eye, her face serious. I think for a second about how odd it is that this little girl is coaching me. But only for a second. I remember how she took me down at the start of this trip.

  “I’ll try to win it quick,” she says. “That way you don’t even have to go in.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Take your shirt off,” says Peter. “You don’t want somebody pulling it over your head, like that dude.”

  In the ring, one kid has pulled the other kid’s shirt over his head, tying up his arms. Unable to see or move his hands, he’s getting pummeled.

  “Jeff, you don’t have to do this,” Donna says.

  “Please don’t give me a way out,” I say. “I might take it.”

  Ratso hands me a plastic jar of Vaseline. I don’t know what to make of it.

  “Put it on your cheekbones and your chin,” says SeeThrough. “It’ll keep the gloves from cutting you.”

  I do as she says. And I try to calm down. It’s one thing killing somebody in anger, when your back is against the wall. It’s another thing entirely to agree to batter a guy into submission with your fists. I’ve sparred before. Wash wanted to show me how to “take care of myself.” But I always knew he would stop if things got out of hand. He’d pull his punches; he’d keep it friendly.

  Wash would do this in a heartbeat. And he’d win, too.

  Wash is dead.

  I take my shirt off. Weirdly, in all of this, I still have time to worry about whether Donna thinks I look good. I spread Vaseline on my cheekbones and my eyebrows and my chin, copying SeeThrough.

  Ratso brings over some gloves. They’ve got a little padding around the knuckles, but the fingertips are open. SeeThrough tries on both pairs, but they’re too big for her. She hands me a pair. “Wear these. Otherwise, you might break your fingers.” I nod.

  “Don’t let them get your legs,” she continues. “If they know jujitsu, they’ll want to get you down on the ground. So, like, punch them and kick them and stay standing.”

  “Stay standing. Good idea,” I say.

  I’m hoping that the one-on-one fight will last a little longer, so that I can still my mind a little, but they’re down on the floor now, the stronger kid punching the weaker kid in the face over and over again until he stops defending himself. The crowd cheers as the referee stops the fight. Again, a flurry of money. They drag the loser off as the winner does a whole post-fight celebration thing that looks like he’s reenacting something he saw on TV. He waves to nonexistent cameras, kisses his fist, and points a finger up at the sky. But all there is up there is brick ceiling.

  He’s still high-fiving his buddies when the referee makes his way over to us.

  “Where you from?” he says.

  “Washington Square Park,” I say, without thinking.

  The ref nods and heads back to the ring.

  SeeThrough grabs me by the shoulder. “If you go in, keep your hands up and your head down. You ready?” she asks.

  I nod. “You?”

  “You know me,” she says.

  “C’mon,” says Ratso, taking us by the elbows and leading us to the edge of the ring. SeeThrough and I follow Ratso in, slipping through the chains that serve for ropes. Ratso says, “I’m gonna go place the bet. Give me the money.” It crosses my mind that he might just take off with our bankroll, but I put it into his hands anyway.

  “The odds could still get adjusted,” says Ratso. “Try not to look too confident.”

  “Okay,” I say, thinking that should be pretty easy.

  Our opponents slip into the ring. There’s a wiry red-haired guy, about sixteen, and a kid with a shaved head and a long scar running along his jawline. They look at SeeThrough like she must be joking.

  If she’s as scared as I am, she’s not showing it. She’s mad-dogging them, staring back at their smiles.

  The referee raises a bullhorn to his mouth.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” he barks. “Children of all ages! Grand Central Entertainment is proud to present an elimination tag-team matchup between the Clinton Claws and the Washington Square Wizards!” The crowd cheers.

  SeeThrough looks at me. Wizards? I shrug. The “Clinton Claws” are working the crowd, holding their arms up like gladiators. I look at the menagerie of hostile faces and raise my hand and wave. It comes off a little toddler-like.

  The referee continues. “There will be no stoppages, except for tagging in. Restart at neutral corners.”

  The ref gestures for us to come to the center of the ring. SeeThrough slaps me on the back, and we approach the Claws. One of them is zoning out, listening to an old iPod nano. I can hear metal leaking out of his head. The other is looking laser beams through my eyes into the back of my skull. I shoot them a wink and smile.

  The ref, a floppy clip-on bow tie hanging from one side of his collar, leans in and gives us our instructions.

  “All right, I want a fair fight, but not too fair. Everything’s cool except for eye gouging. That, I don’t want to clean up. Any questions?”

  “Yeah. What kind of pussy name is Wizards?” asks the red-haired kid.

  “You’ll see,” I say.

  SeeThrough and I return to our corner, where Ratso has reappeared.

  “Nice comeback,” says SeeThrough. She holds out her hand, and I slap it.

  “Kick some ass,” I say. “Please.” I step out.

  “So far so good,” says Donna as I join them around the ring post.

  SeeThrough shakes her head back and forth to loosen her neck as the red-haired guy gets out of the ring. The bald kid takes his headphones out and howls, flexing. His ropy muscles stand out under thin skin, and I can see all the cords straining in his neck.

  A bell rings. Cueball runs like a rocket for SeeThrough. She shifts sideways and flips her foot out and down. It looks as light as a dance move, but it catches him right on the knee. Suddenly, Cueball’s kneecap is sickeningly out of place, sliding around the left side of the leg while the skin sucks into the new arrangement of bones, and underneath, like a shrink-wrapped joint of meat, you can make out the knobs of the tibia and the femur kissing.

  A big “Ohhhhhhhhh!!!” from the crowd—appreciative, joyous. Cueball is in agony, curled around his knee, teeth bared.

  SeeThrough doesn’t hesitate. She steps up to him and stamps on his knee, then his face. With every kick, the crowd roars.

  Blood pouring from his nose, Cueball finally grabs SeeThrough’s leg. The desperate grab stops her for a moment, and he uses his weight to bring her down to the canvas.

  He pays for every moment, as she elbows him in the face again and again, but finally he’s able to make a stab for his partner’s hand.

  The ref
eree jumps in and ushers SeeThrough back as the red-haired kid enters the ring.

  He’s seen what happened to his buddy, so he’s cautious, even though SeeThrough is sucking air now, exhausted.

  “Let me go in,” I say. SeeThrough shakes her head. She steps into the middle of the ring.

  Red circles around, flicking little jabs at her face, which she tries to catch. Finally she grabs a left hand that Red leaves out too long. She turns the wrist, putting all her weight into it, but Red swings around and manages to fall on her, bringing her down to the floor, and SeeThrough loses her grip.

  Then he slowly forces her arm back, hyperextending the elbow. SeeThrough has lost the advantage of her speed and her skill—now it’s a contest of strength that she can’t win.

  When the arm goes straight, SeeThrough casts a look over to me. I reach through the chains for the tag. If she reaches over to me with her free arm, she’ll lose the only leverage she has.

  The wolves, riding the change of momentum, are howling for blood; they chant Red’s name and tell him to break SeeThrough’s arm off. Reddy keeps heaving on SeeThrough’s arm.

  She growls and reaches out, slapping my hand just as something audibly pops in the arm Reddy is holding. The referee dives in to untangle their limbs. SeeThrough curls her body over her limp arm, and I get into the ring as Reddy, a smile smeared over his face, backs up to wait for me.

  As Ratso jumps in and helps SeeThrough out of the ring, I try to block out the shouting of my blood. My arms are hot with adrenaline; they feel heavy. My breath is running out of me as fast as I can take it in.

  Red creeps toward me. I’m expecting him to rush for my legs, but he doesn’t. Maybe he thinks I know more than I do.

  I try to cast my mind back to those sparring sessions with Wash, and my kung fu lessons with Sifu, SeeThrough’s father. Keep your hands up. Fight at your distance.

  I can’t let him close with me. So when he starts toward me, I go into the motion of a roundhouse kick.

  Red takes the bait and lowers his hands to stop the kick, but it continues, then hooks around, and I catch him on the face with the sole of my foot—a perfect hook kick.

  He’s dazed for a second, and I think of rushing him, but I don’t want to get tangled up. Reddy sets himself again, and when I leave my next kick out there too long, he grabs it, rushes ahead, and drives me back into the chains.