Knockout

“What the hell is that?”

“Wheat grass.”

“Gross. Hey, Deacon?”

“What?”

“Crystal’s upstairs.”

“Crystal? Well, Lord, it’s been a while since we’ve seen her around.”

“She’s here with her daughter.”

“How old is her child now?”

“Five. Listen, they’re, um…I don’t know. She’s on the outs with Tony. Something’s up. I told her she could stay a few days.”

“If she needs money, help, we’re here for her.”

I looked at my uncle. He hadn’t lost any of his thick black hair. His eyes were a warm brown, and his nose had a tilt to the left, courtesy of “Left-Eye” McGill, a boxer Deacon had squared off against a long time ago. “I was hoping you’d say that, Deacon,” I whispered, and leaned down to kiss him on the top of his head, grateful for him. His given name was Nick, but he had found God somewhere along the way and became a minister by mail-order ordination. He was also the high priest of all things boxing, so the nickname fit.

I looked at my watch. “Dad should be calling in about twenty minutes.” I opened the sub-zero refrigerator, which was very clearly delineated. Two shelves for Deacon, stockpiled with okra, kale, parsley, wheat grass, carrots and piles of apples to use in his juicer. Two shelves for me, barren except for Chinese take-out boxes, Coke and a bottle of tequila chilling on its side. I opened up various cartons of takeout, sniffing each one.

“This one’s gone bad,” I said, dumping it in the trash. “But I think if I microwave the chicken and cashews from Tuesday night high enough to obliterate any bacteria, I’ll be okay.”

Deacon rolled his eyes. “I don’t know how it is you ain’t dead yet. I can see your gravestone. ‘Killed by Old Chicken.’”

“But I’m sturdy stock. Grandma lived until she was eighty-eight.”

“I got my hands on you too late. By the time you came to live with me, your father had already turned you into a junk-food eatin’, trash-talkin’, poker-playin’ hellion.”

I gave him my best you-are-so-full-of-shit look. “Deacon, you play poker with me.”

“Yes, but I do not curse like a navy seaman when we’re playing.”

I popped my Chinese food in the microwave, heated it and began eating out of the box. Ten minutes later the phone rang, and I ran toward it.

“Yes…I’ll accept the call…Dad?”

“Hey, Jack, how are ya, kiddo? Good to hear your voice.”

“I’m doing okay.”

“How’s Deacon?”

“You know, lecturing me about my taste for Chinese.”

“Best food on the planet, especially the second day. What I wouldn’t give for Chinese takeout right now.”

“If I could, I’d mail you some.”

He laughed his hollowed-out laugh. He was counting the days until his release—four long years from now. “How’s Keenan look?”

“Good. He’s in great shape, and Deacon says next week we’ll go into lockdown mode, have him move out to the ranch. That way we can keep him from that flaky actress he’s dating.”

“Is she still talking about having a baby with him?”

“Yup. I’m sure it’s a ploy to get at his multimillion-dollar take for this fight.”

“He needs to dump her. He’s too smart for that.”

“Let’s hope so.” Both my father, who was a boxing legend himself, and Deacon had watched too many of the guys they trained fall in with, as Deacon called them, “fast women and phony friends.” We all thought it was pathetic when people like Mike Tyson ended up declaring bankruptcy. Entourages, flashy clothes and cars. They bought into the life, and it ended up leaving them destitute with only fleeting memories of the good life.

“Want to talk to Deacon?”

“No, that’s okay. Tell him that Keenan needs to stop leading with his left every time he’s going to throw an uppercut.”

“Okay.”

“Listen, there’s a line of guys here waitin’ for the phone. Bye, Jack.”

“Bye, Dad. I love you. See you next visiting day.”

“Love you, too.”

He hung up, and I felt my spirits sink. My father was framed. Sure, everyone says that whole “I’m really innocent” routine, but in my father’s case, it’s true. We even know who did it: Benny Bonita. Which was why, more than anything, we wanted Terry Keenan to win and decimate his opponent Gentleman Jake Johnson. We may not have been able to prove my father was not trying to extort Benny Bonita—it was the other way around—but we could plaster his fighter’s face on the canvas and prove, once and for all, that the Rooney brothers—and one Jackie Rooney—were the best trainers and managers in the world. Even from prison my father was a better trainer, a better man, than the oily Bonita.

Later that night, Miguel Jimenez’s face had the consistency of raw beef. He sat, shoulders slumped, in the locker room of the arena.

“What happened, Miguel? Look at you. You have bruises on top of bruises. You look like the friggin’ elephant man!” I snarled.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He wouldn’t look at me, his dark black eyes darting away from mine.

“Oh, you’re gonna talk about it. Something happened in that ring.”

My uncle Deacon said, “Leave him alone. The kid feels bad enough he got knocked out without your big ol’ mouth rubbing it in, Jacqueline Marie.”

When my uncle uses my given name—instead of calling me Jack like the rest of the world—I know he means business.

“Fine. Just go shower, Miguel.”

I shook my head and stormed out of the locker room. Deacon followed me.

“Jack, Miguel’s just a kid from the barrio. He got an attack of nerves. He had an off night.”

I wheeled around in the hallway outside the locker room. “That was no off night, Deacon. It was a dive. He took a goddamn dive!”

Deacon stared me down. Suddenly, I saw a flash of recognition go through him; his eyes changed almost imperceptibly. He shook his head. “My God…I…Lord, I think you might be right.”