The Manager (6 page)

CHAPTER TEN

I
truly enjoyed spending a couple of weeks at Bonita's place, although I wished it had been under better circumstances. As the days progressed and it became clear that Paul was going to require further rehabilitation, I realized that we'd soon have to leave her little cottage on the tree-lined street. It depressed me to think about heading back to the Pier and back to the grubby old gym.

As I expected, Bonita sat us down and told us she wasn't going to make the trip to New England; Louise needed her now more than ever. She needed someone to look after her children while she drove back and forth to Halifax, and she needed someone to be there for moral support.

I told Bonita not to worry about us, that we understood perfectly and that we'd take the train home to Sydney.

Tina told Bonita not to worry about us, that we understood perfectly and that she'd be taking the train to Boston.

“You can't do that,” argued Bonita. “I'm responsible for you two.”

“I'm eighteen,” declared Tina decisively, like she was joining the army or trying to get into a restricted movie. “And I can look after Ellie.”

“I can look after myself.” I lifted my chin. “
If
I decide to go with you.”

“You can come with me or not,” declared Tina. “Choice is yours.” She headed into the guest room to start packing her things.

“I'm sorry,” said Bonita. “I feel terrible because I promised you guys. But I can't leave Louise, not now.”

“I know,” I said.

“You don't have a driver's licence, do you?”

“No, I don't.”

“And Tina can't drive, of course,” said Bonita, prompting Tina to yell her response from the other room.

“She would if she could reach the pedals.”

Bonita wrinkled up her forehead as if to say, “I wish she hadn't heard that.”

“I saw that,” teased Tina.

Bonita laughed.

“Why did you ask if I had a driver's licence?” I asked.

“You could have taken Tina to Boston in Brandy. I don't need the car, because I'll be staying with Louise.”

“I wish I had my licence,” I replied, “but I can't afford a car anyway.”

“No, I guess you can't.” Bonita went into the kitchen to make us some lunch. She started cutting up a tomato, then suddenly threw down the knife.

“I've got an idea!” she said.

Tina appeared at the door to hear what it was.

“Jesse Mankiller. He has a licence. No car, but I do believe he drives, because Paul said he was looking for work and figured a licence would help him find a job.” She smiled. “He could take you girls to Boston in my car. I'd feel better if you weren't on your own.”

“He won't take me to Boston,” mumbled Tina. “And I refuse to tell him about my operation anyway.”

“You don't have to, Tina,” said Bonita. “Just convince him to fight those fights, make sure he wins and the three of you will wind up in Boston anyway.”

Tina gave a little sneer. “You make it sound so easy.”

“You said yourself that you could manage him. And he has what it takes to win. Why not give it a try? What have you got to lose?”

—

Bonita drove us over to the reservation that afternoon. Jesse came out of his family's trailer when he saw us pull in, but the greeting we received was icy at best.

“My mother's not good today,” he said, which meant we weren't being invited inside. His face was strained and his hair disheveled. “How's Paul?” he asked Bonita.

“About the same. It's going to be a while before he can come home.” She leaned against the car. “I'm sorry that he can't manage you anymore, Jesse. I understand you have an excellent career ahead of you.”

“No, I don't think so.”

Tina listened to him argue with Bonita and took in every nuance of their conversation. Bonita told him how great he was, and how much respect Paul had for his ability in the ring; he argued that fate was against him and that he had too many responsibilities anyway.

I waited and waited for Tina to jump in. I trusted that her response would be the perfect one. And it was.

“Hasn't it ever occured to you, Mankiller, that if you took home the purse in Amherst and Portland and then again in Boston, that you could get a better place for you mother? With a proper ramp?” She lectured him through gritted teeth. “And hasn't it occured to you that showing a bit of strength might be the very thing that your sister needs right now?”

Jesse said nothing. He shrugged her off.

Bonita didn't accept that. “Tina is an excellent trainer,” she insisted. “She's been coaching Flyin' Ryan at her daddy's gym.”

“Ryan Byrne?”

“Yes. He's looking for some titles himself, and when he wins them, Tina and her father are going to be in demand.” She put an arm around my sister, but I don't think she appreciated it much. “Tina's daddy was a world-class boxer, before the … before hurting his hand.”

“His hand?” Jesse forced himself to be polite to Bonita, but boredom seeped from every word.

“Forget about it,” snapped Tina.

“Okay, I will,” said Jesse. His eye caught Tina's. “What the hell do you care about my boxing career anyway? What's it to you?”

“Nothing. But I need to get to Boston and Bonita is offering us her car.”

“Why do you have to get to Boston?”

“None of your business.”

“Take a bus, why don't you?”

“Just might do that,” said Tina.

Jesse said goodbye to Bonita, then went back inside the trailer.

By then, a group of five or six boys had gathered around and, overhearing our conversation, had started up a mock boxing match behind us. The two oldest boys – they looked to be about eight or nine – were pretending to be Jesse and his opponent. The other kids were cheering and shouting.

“Pow, pow,” hollered the one who was supposed to be Jesse.

“Mankiller, Mankiller,” chanted the boys.

“Knock him out, Jesse!”

“He's down!”

They stood over top of the one who'd “lost” and gave him the count. But they only counted to three and did it way too fast.

“No, no, no,” shouted Tina. “That's not the way it works.”

My sister couldn't resist any match, even if it was just a child's game.

“Grab that rope over there,” she said, pointing to a length of thick yellow string that was hanging from the end of a rusty old canoe, sitting upright against the trailer next to Jesse's.

The kids dashed over and had it back in ten seconds.

“Grab that end,” hollered Tina. They pulled the rope around Brandy and a small fence that ran parallel to the car about six feet away. “Good,” she declared. “Now, there's your ring.”

“Are you a dwarf?” asked one of the boys.

“Yes. For that, you have to be the guy who gets knocked out.” She shoved him under the rope.

The plywood door to Jesse's trailer opened, and his sisters ran out to watch. A few more kids appeared out of nowhere. Now there was a regular gang. Bonita pulled a couple of lawn chairs out of her trunk, and she and I sat down to watch the event.

“Okay,” said Tina, examining the boys, then pointing to the oldest. “You're going to be the winner.”

“I'm Jesse?”

“Yeah, you'll be Jesse. What's your name?”

“Tyler.”

“Now, Tyler, you and your friend here are going to do everything I say and there'll be no real punches thrown, just the fake kind, okay? Otherwise you'll have me to deal with.”

“Got it,” they said in unison.

She told them how the rules of the sport work and how you have to give a guy the ten count – not three – and how to do it properly. Then she drew a line with her foot in the dirt.

“I want both of you toe to the scratch.”

“What's that?”

“That's an old boxing term that means both of you are to stand in the centre of the ring until the referee – that's me – tells you to start.” She sounded an imaginary bell then moved aside.

They went at it, and she stopped them again.

“No! You're all wrong.” She ducked under the rope. “Keep your chins down, that's the only way to keep from getting your block knocked off.” She pushed the boys' heads down. “Now use your strong arm – right if you're right-handed – use that for defense. Use it to block the oncoming punches. Your left fist is for punching.” She bounced around and showed them how to duck and bob. “And always think in combinations: left jab, straight right, left hook.” She demonstrated that, too. “And every once in awhile, give them something they don't expect, like a bolo punch.”

The boys started to laugh.

“What's a bolo punch?” asked Tyler.

“That's a flashy uppercut that is more about showing off than it is about power. Just to let your opponent know who's boss.”

The kids went back to their boxing match and already you could see a difference in the way they were sparring. Bonita and I started chanting, just like it was a real match, and the kids in the audience joined in too.

“Okay, boys,” said Tina, standing between them as a miniature referee. “Now I want you to learn the candy cane.”

“The what?” asked Tyler.

“The candy cane.”

“What's that?” asked his opponent.

Tina was about to answer when Jesse stepped over the rope, strolled inside the ring and answered for her.

“That's a body punch used by Sugar Ray Robinson. It's thrown with the right hand, slightly turned over and driven downward. Isn't that right, Miss MacKenzie?”

“It's your turn to show the kids some moves, Mr. Mankiller,” she said, joining Bonita and me at the sidelines. The boys enjoyed sparring with their hero, and I enjoyed watching him. Jesse seemed happy in that setting, in an old pair of sweats that were ripped at the knee, his body relaxed and comfortable.

He's absolutely gorgeous,
I said to myself.

And when I looked at Tina, I could tell that buried somewhere beneath the remnants of a lifetime of pugilism, there was a young woman. And she thought he was gorgeous too.

The afternoon wound down, and the kids went home for dinner, so we folded up the rope and Bonita put the chairs back into the trunk. I thought Jesse would head straight home too, but instead he opened up the car doors for us.

“Tina?” he mumbled.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for spending time with the boys like that. Thanks for not dismissing them.”

“I never dismiss anyone,” she said.

“Because …?”

“Because I've been dismissed my entire life and I don't like it very much.”

Jesse thought for a minute. “I wasn't dismissing you.”

“Look, I don't care, Mankiller. If you don't want to fight, you don't want to fight.”

Jesse glanced at the trailer, and I knew he was thinking about the money he could win.

“See you around,” said Tina, slamming the car door.

He opened the back door next to me. Then he ducked down to talk to Bonita. I felt his hair brush against the top of my arm.

“If the offer's still on, I'd appreciate the loan of your car.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“N
ow you girls will be careful, won't you? You know Mama. She would never let me forget it if anything happened to you. As it is, I don't know how I'll ever get up the nerve to tell her that I sent you off in my car with a stranger.” She poured us each a cup of tea. “I think Jesse's a good guy. I really do. I know that Paul and Louise think a lot of him, and there's no way they'd let you two travel with him if he was a bad guy.”

Bonita had risen early the next morning to prepare a lovely breakfast of fresh fruit and pastries, the polar opposite of the stuff we had at home. If I didn't have time to prepare something nice, Tina and my father would satisfy themselves with bargain brand cereal eaten out of a chipped bowl.

“You don't have to tell Azalea anything,” Tina said. “By the time you and Ellie are back at the Pier, I'll be settled in Boston and you can explain everything to her then.”

Every time she said the word Boston, the worst scenarios streamed like a movie through my mind; most of them involving my sister being chopped into pieces. I tried to think happy thoughts instead. I thought about Tina and Jesse and me and all the fun we were going to have. The freedom of it all!

“Paul is delighted that you are going to be there to coach Jesse. He says everything is set up for Jesse's lodgings, but what about you two?”

“We'll be fine, Bonita,” declared Tina. “There'll be no problems. And don't worry about Mankiller being girl-crazy – I'll watch out for Ellie.”

Yeah, thanks, Tina. Be sure to keep him away from me. I'd hate to have him try anything.

“Who'll watch out for you?” asked Bonita.

Tina smirked. “Oh come on,” she said. “I don't have to worry about men being interested in me.”

“Don't be so sure,” insisted Bonita, but we all knew she was just trying to be nice. She didn't press the point and inquired instead about Jesse's mother. “Who's going to look after her and the girls while he's gone?”

“I asked him that when he called last night,” said Tina. “His aunt – I guess she's his mother's sister – has agreed to stay with her for as long as necessary.”

“Good,” said Bonita, “then everything's set.”

“I need to pick up a few things at the pharmacy, and then we're good to go,” said Tina.

“You've got enough of that styptic salve to last a year,” I said.

“Right, but you're going to need some Adrenaline hydrochloride and Avitene.”

“What do you mean
I'm
going to need some Adrenaline hydrochloride and Avitene?”

“Oh, didn't I tell you?” remarked Tina, in her anyone-can-do-anything
voice. “You're going to be our cut man.”

—

The drive to Amherst was probably the best hour of life on earth I'd ever spent. Tina insisted on riding in the back seat, and when I asked her about seeing nothing but the back of my head, she made a face and mouthed “shut up” when Jesse wasn't looking. I think she felt stupid riding next to him. Or maybe just short. I don't know, but I loved it.

I saw people staring at us when we slowed down for stoplights, and I knew why. Jesse looked like a movie star, his long black hair blowing behind him. And that car! Brandy has to be the coolest automobile in Nova Scotia, and to be riding next to Jesse Mankiller with the top down – well, it was the closest to heaven I'd ever been. Even if it did mean being a cut man. I'd have agreed to clean out the spit buckets if it meant I could ride in Brandy with Jesse.

Tina said nothing all the way there. I wanted her to enjoy the experience, but she kept any trace of joy to herself, so not a shred of human being showed. She wrote things down into a little pad, and it all looked very important. She wanted us to think she was working on a strategy for the fight, but when I sneaked a peek, it was nothing but doodles. Hundreds of doodles.

Our first stop in Amherst was the motel, and that's when my stingy, penny-pinching sister decided to inform me that we'd be sharing Jesse's room.

“You will?” asked Jesse, with a seductive smile. I knew he was only joking, but once again my stomach did a back flip. Then he changed his tune. “Look, you girls had better get your own room. I don't want to be accused of anything. I've got damn near every father in Truro after me already.”

“Forget it, Mankiller,” said Tina. “And stop thinking with your— you know. If you took thirty seconds to think with your brain instead of your boxing shorts, you'd realize that Ellie and I will be a hell of a lot safer sharing a room with you than we would be on our own. You're a prizefighter, for God's sake. Start acting like a prizefighter, and stop thinking like a gigolo.”

That shut him up.

We didn't waste any time checking in; the fight was scheduled for that evening, and Tina wanted to get a feel for the location, the ring and the promoter. We did take time to eat a proper meal, though, for Jesse's sake, and after that, headed to the arena.

Tina barked orders as we marched through the hall looking for the dressing room.

“Enswell? Where's the enswell?” she asked me, referring to the metal thing that's kept on ice, then used to put pressure on cuts.

“Look, Tina,” I said sulkily, “I don't know anything about being a cut man.”

“You'll do fine,” she said.

And although it was reassuring to know she trusted that I'd do the right thing, I had a sneaking suspicion that when put to the test, I'd probably be better at cleaning the spit buckets.

Tina pushed open the dressing room door and found it full of naked and semi-naked men. All the fighters on tap for that night had to share one room, and they let out a big roar when we came in.

The promoter introduced himself, then escorted us out.

“I'm Mankiller's manager,” declared Tina.

The promoter couldn't stop himself from laughing; I don't know if it was because Tina was a young woman, or a dwarf, or both. Either way, he found the whole thing funny.

Tina did not.

“We'll need our own room,” she insisted.

“Forget about it,” he said.

“Then we won't fight.”

Jesse looked puzzled.

“Which will be too bad for you,” my sister continued, “because after what happened to my boxer in Halifax, the crowd is waiting to see what he can do.” She put down her bags and folded her arms in front. “Mankiller had that fight. Every sports writer in the province has made that clear. And that's the only reason you've managed to put so many backsides into seats in this crummy place tonight.”

The promoter said nothing at first, then he took us to our dressing room. It was a lot nicer than the first one.

Tina spoke to him about some of the details of the event, what Jesse's share of the gate receipts would be, and then asked to see the ringside physician. They went into a little room someplace, where she had to reveal the contents of her miracle salve – those were the rules. She didn't have to give the exact proportions – those will go to the grave with her – but she did have to disclose the ingredients.

While I unloaded our supplies, Jesse went for his weigh-in and returned ready to fight.

Tina wound gauze over Jesse's knuckles and gave him the dope on who he had to face in the ring.

“You're fighting Thunder Donnelly,” she said matter-of-factly. “I've seen him in Sydney. He's an outside fighter, keeps a big gap and moves fast with long-range punches.”

“Donnelly's good,” admitted Jesse.

“You're better,” insisted Tina. “Keep out of his way, let him throw some pitty-pat punches, then kill him.”

She wound tape over the gauze, across his fingers, down his hand and around his wrist. My sister had taped so many hands, she could do it blindfolded.

“Okay, Ellie,” she hollered, “start rubbing his thighs.”

“What?”

“You heard me. His thighs.”

I started to shake and Jesse winked at me playfully, which made me shake even more.

“Oh, for heaven's sake. Don't be such an idiot.” She got down on her hands and knees and kneaded the muscles of his thighs to show me how it was done.

“Hey,” teased Jesse, in a sexy voice, “this is sweet. Two girls massaging me. Keep it up and I won't be fighting anytime soon.”

“Shut up,” growled Tina.

She forced me to rub his legs, but I stayed much further south than she did; his knees were the best warmed up knees in the history of boxing.

“Let's go,” said Tina, putting training mitts on each hand and prompting Jesse to start jabbing. The next ten minutes was an unsettling combination of uppercuts, straight rights and left hooks tossed up with a healthy dose of my sister's screams, hollers and jeers.

She told him he was too slow.

She told him he was too weak.

She told him he wasn't working hard enough.

She told him he was nothing but another bozo on the bus.

Then she tied back his hair, rinsed off his mouth guard, slammed him in the middle of the back and assured him he had the bout nailed.

“Thunder's got a short right uppercut,” Tina told Jesse. “Keep him outside, and when he goes for your jaw, hook to his rib cage, then his chest, and when he drops his arm, go for his chin. And whatever you do, Mankiller, take your time. Stick and move, stick and move.”

When we headed into the arena, coloured spotlights shot at us from above like we were criminals who'd just scaled the barbed wire, and deafening music blasted from a huge long line of speakers. Unlike at Halifax, there were people cheering for Jesse this time; I could hear them shouting his name.

He looked fantastic as usual in his white trunks and robe, banging his red gloves together and snapping his long ponytail from side to side. Women were whistling and throwing themselves (not to mention their underthings) at him when he passed their seats.

Tina walked bravely behind; it was hard for her to have that many eyes staring at her, but thankfully, Jesse was the main attention-grabber that night, and most of the gapes were headed his way. I followed her, carrying the ice bucket, the enswell, the spit bucket and sponges. Tina had the salve and potions. And the knowledge.

Since everything I knew about boxing could be written on the head of a pin, I felt like I'd joined an exclusive club on forged credentials.

“Okay, Mankiller,” announced Tina. “It's time to rock.”