The Twilight Zone: Complete Stories (39 page)

“Feisty little old man,” he said softly. “Older they get—the louder they talk. The more they want—” he stared coldly at Bolie “—and the less chance they got to get it!”

Bolie looked at the fat man’s greasy, big-pored face, hating the sight of it. “How’d I get you tonight?” he asked.

Thomas feigned surprise. “Me, Bolie? Why I’m a bargain. I’m an expert on has-beens.”

Bolie nodded. “I’ve seen the boys you usually handle,” he said to the fat man. “Catchers, aren’t they? Guaranteed two rounds each. Shovel them in, shovel them out, then sew them together for the next time.”

Thomas laughed. “That’s the only way to do it,” he said. “Month or so from now maybe I’ll find you at the back door. Why not, Bolie? You’re long gone. You’ve had it. Wait’ll after tonight. You’ll want to get in the stable too. All you have to do is guarantee two rounds. Three, four prelims every month. Do that standing on your head, can’t you?”

Mizell stood up, touched Bolie’s arm, and felt the fighter’s whole body quivering. Bolie took a step toward the manager, shrugging off Mizell’s restraining hand.

“I thought the smell came with the cigar,” Bolie said. He shook his head. “You wear it all over you. You stink, Thomas.”

Thomas laughed aloud as if Bolie had just cracked a joke. “You tell ‘em, champ,” he said. “You tell ‘em.”

There was a knock on the door and a muffled voice called out, “Five minutes, Jackson.”

“He’ll be there,” Mizell said, though it was Thomas’s job to reply.

Bolie sat on the rubbing table and Mizell began to massage his back again. Thomas leaned against the wall near the door and looked a little longingly at the cigar butt on the floor. He ran his tongue across his teeth, probing and darting around inside for food particles or whatever other treasures he might find: His fingers drummed on the wall. He looked up toward the ceiling. He was very bored.

Finally Bolie said, “What about tonight? What should I look out for? I only seen this boy fight once. That was a coupla years ago...”

Thomas shrugged. “I ain’t never seen him.”

Mizell’s fingers stopped abruptly and he froze. This was a sellout. He wondered if Bolie recognized it as such, and then, looking up very slowly toward the fighter, he realized that Bolie understood it only too well. The colored fighter looked from Mizell to Thomas. He slid off the rubbing table.

“Bolie,” Mizell began placatingly.

Bolie shook his head, motioning Mizell out of the way. He walked across the room to where Thomas stood, his face a shade more pale. Bolie’s bandaged hands shot out, connected with the grease-stained checked sport coat of the manager and almost yanked him off his feet.

“You’ve watched him fight,” Bolie said in a low voice, trying to keep the tremor out of it. “You’ve seen him six times the past year. You piece of garbage, you, Thomas! You’re bettin’ on him, aren’t you?” He pushed Thomas backwards then cocked his right fist.

“Bolie!” Mizell screamed, running over to him and trying to get between the fighter and the fat man.

Sweat poured down Bolie’s face and his lips quivered. “It ain’t enough he sells wrecks by the pound. He comes in here for a dirty twenty bucks, supposed to help me and
then bets on the other guy!
”

He moved toward Thomas again, Mizell hanging on him trying to whisper, cajole, placate, anything to prevent Bolie from letting himself out. Bolie’s voice drowned him out.

“Thomas,” Bolie said, “I may be a bum upstairs in another ten minutes...but I’m gonna fight a beautiful first round right here.”

Thomas squirmed against the wall. He raised a shaking finger, pointing it at Bolie. “Bolie,” he squealed, “you touch me and I’ll have you up for ten years. I swear to you, Bolie—I’ll fix your wagon good—”

He felt himself lifted up by Bolie’s bandaged hands and flung against the wall. His body crawled with sweat and he couldn’t bring himself to look into the deep-set eyes, so full of hatred, in the black, scarred face before him.

Again Mizell stepped between them. “Bolie,” he urged gently. “He’s right. He’s a dirty blood sucker and he’s a sonofabitch but if you touch him, Bolie—you’ve had it.”

“Listen to him, Bolie,” Thomas screeched. “You listen to him, you crummy tanker you—”

Bolie saw only the fat sweating face, the piggish eyes, the creature who jobbed off flesh by the pound. Bolie didn’t care about consequences. He swung from the floor and it was only when he felt the agonizing bolt of pain shoot up his right arm that he realized he had hit something stronger and much more unyielding than bone or flesh. Thomas had moved aside and Bolie Jackson’s right fist had connected with the concrete wall.

Thomas scrambled for the doorknob and rushed out. Mizell grabbed Bolie’s bandaged right hand and studied it. He felt it in a few places, and Bolie winced at the touch, He looked up with wise, old eyes, the eyes of the expert on pain and human damage, and shook his head slowly.

“It wasn’t enough you had to spot him all those years,” he said. “It wasn’t enough was it, Bolie? Now you’ve got to walk upstairs with four busted knuckles.”

There was another knock on the door “Okay, Jackson,” the voice said from the corridor. “You’re on.”

Mizell let Bolie’s hand drop. “Well?” he asked.

Bolie took a deep breath, held up his right hand and looked over toward Mizell. “Well, nothing,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

Mizell’s lips were a thin line. He took the gloves hanging on the end of the rubbing table and very carefully started to put them on Bolie’s hands. The knuckles under the bandage were beginning to swell and it was only with effort that he could even get the glove laced on that hand. He said softly, “You know what I’d do if I was you? I’d rent me a bicycle and I’d pedal the hell out of here.” He pointed to the right glove. “That ain’t gonna do a Goddamn thing for you up there. Not a Goddamn thing.”

Bolie smiled and felt the tension ease off. He was dead and he knew it and with that knowledge came a resignation. “Poor little Henry Temple,” Bolie said as he suddenly remembered. “Poor Little old Henry Temple. I’m putting two strikes on all his magic. Two strikes.”

“Who?” Mizell asked as he draped Bolie’s bathrobe over his shoulder. “What are you talking about, Bolie?”

“Nothin’,” Bolie answered softly. “Nothin’ at all, Joe. There ain’t no such thing as magic.”

Mizell opened the door for him. They went into the corridor, going toward the ramp that led to the arena above. A hunchbacked little handler, who felt like crying, and a man of thirty-three, who was the oldest of the old and who let his steps take him toward the sound of the stomping feet and the catcalls, to the big, smelly, smoke-filled room where men had paid on the average two dollars and eighty-five cents to see more scars get cut into his face for this, the last time.

Frances Temple made a pretense of sewing on buttons as she sat across the room from the television set. Her little son’s face was pressed against the screen, his eyes tightly closed, his fists clenched, half obliterating the picture of carnage. The tired voice of a bored announcer feigned excitement and rattled inanely the clichés of fifty years of fighting.

“Another left and right.
Another
left and right. A smashing right to Jackson’s head. Then a left that catches him high above the cheek and we see the blood again. But he’s a gamester, this boy. He’s a real gamester. Yes siree, this Bolie Jackson is a real gamester. Three rounds it is and he’s still on his feet. Yes sir, this Bolie Jackson is a real gamester. Now Corrigan comes in stalking, flat-footed. He comes in stalking. He leads with a left. Another left. A smashing right that crosses over and connects with Bolie Jackson’s nose. Jackson folds into a clinch...” The voice went on, the drumfire of an antique machine gun, firing dud ammunition.

And in the ring Bolie Jackson had long ago stopped feeling fear. Through the red gauze of pain that surrounded him, he would see the fists of the other fighter probing at him and then landing. A left to the side of his head shook him down to his arches and he felt his knees go wobbly. He partially blocked a right and tried to get inside, but the other fighter, smart and ring-wise, stepped back and kept measuring him.

Bolie lumbered in, head down, both hands up in front of his face and then felt the raw, slicing agony of a six-ounce glove buried to the wrist in his stomach.

His breath went out of him, he choked, and then, from nowhere, lightning hit him between the eyes and he met the bruising shock of the canvas against his face. He was dimly aware that he was down. He heard the crowd roar and scream. The giant ring light beat down on him, revealing his agony in sharp relief.

“Please, Bolie...please, Bolie,” Henry Temple whispered into the television screen. “Please. Bolie, Bolie, Bolie... I wish you wouldn’t be hurt...I wish, Bolie, I wish.”

The tiny voice was an obbligato to the crowd roar that came from the set. It was a tiny, frail oboe set against the enormous brass section of human voices that cried out for murder and bloodshed.

“Bolie, I wish... Bolie, I wish.. .”

It was a chant. It was the beckoning to magic that was nothing more than the anguish of a little boy.

But suddenly something happened. The referee, swinging his arm down in measured arcs, froze, his face static, his right hand pointed toward the canvas and the sprawled figure of the fighter.

The crowd of people became mannequins. There was no motion, no sound. Everything had stopped as if captured on a photograph. Clapping hands were suspended in air. Jaws chewing popcorn were wide open. Beer cans stopped on the way to stationary mouths. Time had stopped moving. And then there was noise again. There were screams and shouts and catcalls and stamping feet. Smoke, that in that brief fragment of an instant had floated like a motionless cloud, again began to drift through the arena. In the ring the referee resumed counting.

“Seven,” he shouted. “Eight. Nine. Ten.”

His flat palms crossed one another in the traditional signal of the knockout.

Then he pointed toward Bolie Jackson who danced in a neutral corner, reached for the right arm and held it aloft as the crowd screamed its approval.

On the canvas a youngster named Corrigan, with a split jaw, a closed right eye, lay like the dead, as if his brains had departed without leaving a message. His somber-faced manager and handler scrambled through the ring ropes to lift him and drag him back to his corner. Little Joe Mizell hugged Bolie and kissed him on the cheek, as Bolie smiled happily and waved his right arm. No one noticed the look of absolute bewilderment in Bolie’s eyes.

Mizell put the bathrobe over Bolie’s shoulders and led him out of the ring. People slapped his back and cheered him again, then turned toward the ring, checking their program for what would be the next sacrifice!

In the dressing room Bolie was putting on his clothes. Occasionally he would look down it his right hand, flexing the fingers, folding it into a fist and striking his other hand. Mizell was cleaning up the room.

“Joe,” Bolie said. He held up his right hand. “You were wrong. Just bruised, I guess, huh? Hurt like anything, but somebody said I got him with it. Couldn’t have been broken after all.”

“Who said it was?”

Bolie gave him an odd look. “
You
said. It felt like it, too. I could feel the knuckles coming up through the bandages. I could have sworn it was busted. And when he knocked me down—”

There was a silence. “What? Mizell asked. “He did what?”

Bolie pushed his shirt into his trousers. “Knocked me down, Joe. When he knocked me down. I don’t even remember getting up. Next thing I knew, there he was at my feet.”

Bolie was waiting, his eyes asking questions. Mizell grinned and shook his head. “We was in different arenas tonight,” he said with a soft chuckle. “You didn’t get knocked down, Bolie. You was never off your feet.”

Bolie’s head cocked to one side.
“I wasn’t?”