PULLING UP IN FRONT OF my gym, watching two guys with hard hats apply yellow Caution tape across each entrance and the front of the building, is not what I expected to find. What in the actual fuck?
I spot Evan across the street talking on his cell and open my door to step out. He sees me and my hands go up in the air asking the unspoken question as I make my way to him.
“City building officials. Say they’re yellow tagging the building due to complaints of uninhabitable structure. That’s all they’ll say.”
“We’ll fucking see about that.” I jog across the street and up to one of them. “Someone needs to tell me what the hell is going on.”
He turns sharply in my direction.
“Are you the owner?” I nod. “Here is the formal notice and the phone number you need to call is listed at the bottom.”
“And who is it I’ll be calling?”
“Our orders get handed down through the city building inspector and City Hall, sometimes the mayor’s office. It could be any one of those.”
I look over the paperwork and down at the number written in black marker. Why does that number look familiar? I jog back to my truck, seeking a place to get out of the wind when it dawns on me. That bastard.
He’s proving his point and proving it fast. First my job, and slowly my credibility as a contractor in this city, and now the only other thing I have, but something worth more than his or anyone else’s determined face value.
This gym was here when I was growing up and first started fighting. It was here when I was a teenager and Thorn got into fighting. And when Rush started in JV Wrestling and Mr. Jenkins said he was shutting it down because it needed too much work that he was too old to do, I offered to buy it so that it would be here for Rush, too. There is very little in this life that ever holds meaning, but the little that does means the world, and you gotta hold on to it for all it’s worth to you.
Sliding my phone from the pocket of my hoodie, I dial the number and it only rings once before he answers.
“Good morning, Hammer. How are things down in the West Loop?” He’d clearly been expecting my call.
“If you were going to get city officials involved to prove your point, why didn’t you save everyone’s time and stop me in your driveway that day?”
“When dealing with people of your educated social class, sometimes it’s best to break it down into terms you’ll understand. I figured painting a picture would be the best form of awakening.” He hesitates and what sounds like a heavy patio door sliding through a track echoes in his background. “As for Mr. Ivanoff, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”
I don’t know if it’s that I’ve dealt with so many people just like him, or if it’s because I’ve yet to pinpoint a motive for the motherfucker that sets off alarms, but I know he won’t give up until he gets what he wants.
“I don’t need you to ask questions. I need you to show up on the day and time I specify and do what you’re good at. Or I will do everything I’ve already given you a taste of and then some.”
“You’ll do good to leave the rest of my family out of this.”
“So, I assume we have a deal?”
“Get my fucking job up and running and the tape off my fucking gym, and then we’ll have some terms to discuss.” I end the call.
Sure, he could laugh in my face and not do a damn thing I asked, but he doesn’t care about this shit. This is all a means to an end for him.
Instead of ripping the tape from the doors and going against the word of a city official like I want to, I turn and head back to my truck, heading to Celia’s instead to make sure she’s okay.
I can count the number of times I’ve carried this feeling in the pit of my stomach on one hand. That feeling where loyalty and burden come together and the difference between the two blur until all that’s left is a knot of self-loathing.
When I make my mind up about something, I don’t change it. When I swore I wouldn’t fight again, I meant it. I had used my fists for the entertainment and financial gain of others for the last time. At least that’s what I told myself last week when I stormed out of Joseph Cameron’s house after telling him to basically go fuck himself.
But I underestimated his pull and just how far he was willing to take this.
I could spend my time and money digging and wasting time trying to figure out what his motive behind forcing me into this fight to save my brother is, or I can just swallow my pride and do what he wants. I don’t need to see him or know who he is to know my own ability and the fact that in the end, he’ll be the one regretting this decision.
I know that Cameron is going to make life hard. Putting off accepting this fight is probably going to cost me a couple thousand in revenue in the end, but I’ve got to ensure that his end game is, in fact, his end game. I can’t get sucked back into this life, continually owing a fight here and there for whatever reason he deems necessary. I said I was done a year ago, and here I am now, fighting to get Rush out of trouble. What will it be next? Thorn?
God knows that dude gets his ass into shit every time I turn around, owing dealers, getting into shit by the sanction for fighting in public and drawing attention to himself and the underground. Now that I know Cameron is involved, and he knows I know, who’s to say he won’t come back in six months holding something else over my head?
I’m done.
I’m getting too old for this bullshit, and have worked too hard to build up this company to piss it all away for some senator with a sweet tooth ripe with decay.
But I’ve never been one to do something half-ass, and this fight is no exception. I wouldn’t even know what being at the top of my game was if it weren’t for Casper Jenkins. It’s been a couple of months since he stopped by the gym since he sold it to me, and since Evan, his grandson, works the front desk, I’m usually up to date on his health.
The wooden steps to his front door creak from my weight and I’m startled to hear Casper’s quick reply.
“Who’s on my property?” His voice comes from the lifted window beside the front door.
“Stone Keeling, Mr. Jenkins. Mind if I come in?”
Instead of a reply, I hear the collapse of his recliner and the alternating shuffle of his feet and thump of his cane against the floor of the old house in Humboldt.
“Get in here, boy. What the hell you doing running around? Don’t you have work to do?” He spits his questions at me like alcohol to a flame, his demeanor not changed since the last time we spoke.
I chuckle. “Yeah, about like you keeping your damn window open when it’s twenty degrees outside.” I step through the door as he scoots to the side giving me room. “You forget how to get to the gym or you just don’t have any use for us no more?”
“Drove to that gym every day for thirty years. Doubt I’ll ever forget how to get there.” Closing the door behind him, he shuffles around me to get back to his seat. The inside of the house looks like it’s been dipped in a vat of browns, most of the items in their original state and likely their original place. Since Mrs. Jenkins passed a year ago, I doubt he’s moved anything. “Sit down, tell me why you’re here because I know it ain’t to shoot the shit.”
“Not really, but I was interested to know if you were still breathing.” I sit down on the old brown couch. “How are you, Casper, really? Evan keeps me informed, but I want to hear it from you.”
“I’m old. What more do you need to hear?”
I shake my head.
“We’re all dying, I don’t understand why people constantly want a damn update, like they want to mark down your death on the fucking calendar.”
“Or maybe they just want to make sure you’re taking care of yourself?” I say.
He throws his arm in my direction, putting the questions to a stop. “Get to the meat of it, boy. I could use some good gym gossip.”
“This isn’t really gossip as much as it is getting your ass back to the gym.”
“Is that right? You decide to stop being a pussy and get back in the circle?”
“It’s been decided for me. Got a few weeks before the fight.”
“And you think I need to be at the gym for what?”
“Because you’ve been there to help me train for every fight I’ve ever had. Didn’t figure this one was any different.”
He reaches for his pipe and lights the tobacco, that familiar smell hitting my nose.
“Then I guess we’ve got work to do.”
Pride spreads in my chest.
“I’ll have Evan bring me in the mornings. You started running yet?”
He knows me well enough to know that once I stopped fighting that I would quit running. I fucking hate running, but it’s necessary when training for a fight or else I’d never take the first stride.
“Yes, sir.”
He nods subtly, inhaling that damn pipe. I think we’ve all bitched at him about quitting over the years, except Thorn, who picked up the habit from him, I’m sure. The old house grumbles in the quiet around us, and I’m thankful his daughter lives next door. There’s some real punks in this neighborhood and it wouldn’t take someone long to take advantage of the fact that he lives alone.
“You know, I’ve always wondered something. Why have I been the one to work with you boys and not Jerry?” I look over at him, confused.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, why not Jerry? He knows everything I know and has a hell of a lot more energy to do this type of shit than I do anymore.” I scoot to the edge of the couch, turning my body to face him completely.
“Betting on fights doesn’t give him the knowledge to train. You train us because we need someone who knows what the fuck they’re doing.”
“Shit, boy. He hasn’t always been a spectator. I used to train him, too. He was one of the better fighters of his day.” What did he just say?
“Hold on a minute.” I stand, shoving my hands in my pockets because I don’t know what the fuck else to do with them. “I’ve never heard that mentioned before. He or Celia hasn’t ever told us that Jerry fought.”
“He damn sure did and I trained him. You think I’m a liar or what?”
“I’m not calling you a liar, I’m saying that’s news to me. And for what reason? Why would he send us to you to be trained, get us into the underground, and never once mention that he fought.”
“That’s something you’d have to ask him.”
I can’t imagine why he, or at least Celia wouldn’t mention that to us at some point in all these years. Not even in passing. Not even by way of advice or criticism, and believe me, Jerry never misses an opportunity to criticize.
If I didn’t know there was a reason behind it, it wouldn’t make me as angry as it does. But I know when something isn’t right.
“You need to shut that damn window before you get sick, or worse.” I walk toward the front door. “I’ll see you at the gym.”
When we were growing up, Jerry worked at a textiles factory that was closed after a major fire left it irreparable. After the fire was when I was introduced to Casper and started training to fight. I get it. We were broke, Jerry was out of work, and I had a skill and temper to fuel it.
What I don’t get is why, if Jerry was a skilled fighter himself, would he not train me? I can’t help but think I may have learned a thing or two from him—that it may have given me a reason to respect him.
The next day, I don’t go to the house to find him. I go to C.C. Ferns Coffee Shop because that’s where he goes every day when his shift ends with a couple of the other guards on the graveyard shift. I’ve only come here to find him a couple of times before, so the look on his face says he knows I’m not here for coffee.
I slide into the empty bench in the booth across from him.
“The other guys still here?” I ask, jaw clenched. He shakes his head.
“They just left. I was about to make my way to the house, too. But I take it this isn’t a friendly visit.”
My response is quick. “Why did I have to find out from Jenkins that he trained you—that you fought period?”
He doesn’t even look at me as he takes his time, sipping the last of his coffee from the cup in his hands. “What does it matter if I fought or not? It doesn’t have any bearing on you.”
“No, it doesn’t. But it would’ve been nice to know that we had at least one fucking thing in common. Why would I even have to ask that? Do you not see how that would be pertinent information?”
“I did what I thought was best.”
“There’s been plenty of times that I didn’t understand your reasoning behind shit, but I think this takes the cake. I mean, damn, Jerry. Are we really that insignificant to you?”
He finally looks up at me. “If that were the case I would’ve let your little bad ass get thrown back into the system.”
“Then why not get involved?”
“Maybe I wanted you to do it for yourself. Maybe I didn’t want you to feel like you had expectations to live up to or to feel like I was throwing you into it because it was what I wanted you to do. Maybe I saw a little bit of myself in you and wanted you to walk your own path.”
“No, you threw me into it because you needed the money.”
“You’re exactly fucking right. It took all of us to keep our heads above water. I didn’t mean for it to become a permanent gig for you or Thorn either one, but we didn’t have much of a choice when they quit giving us benefits for the three of you.”
A pounding like the sound of bass drums begins in my head and I have to close my eyes briefly to keep my frustrated temper at bay. I consider everything he’s said.
“What did you have to go see Jenkins for, anyway? He come to the gym?”
It’s hard for me to even answer such a simple question while siphoning through such a pile of information.
“I went to his house. Got a fight in two weeks. When did they stop our benefits?”
“A fight?” He scrunches his brow at me.
I nod, not feeling the need to elaborate. It’s a fucking fight, enough said.
“He say he’d come help you train?”
“Who knows how reliable that is. He’s getting too old for it, but I’ve got too much shit going on to do it without push from somewhere.”
He nods, thumb running the rim of his empty cup.
“When did they stop our benefits?” I ask again, confused as to why he didn’t answer in the first place.
“After the adoption was finalized.”
In the days between my mother’s suicide and our emergency placement with Celia and Jerry, I had this feeling I never could understand, and one I’ve never been necessarily proud of. I was anxious, excited, hopeful. I loved Mom and I knew she had issues she couldn’t deal with alone that eventually led to her taking her life, but the prospect of having a mother that wanted us made me happy. I hated myself for feeling like that.
My jaw clenches in secession with my chest, that familiar feeling coursing through me now. But why? What the fuck does it matter if they adopted us, I’m twenty-seven years old, a grown-ass man. It doesn’t change the way I fill out paperwork. It doesn’t change my birth certificate. It doesn’t change my life.
That’s why it makes me angry at myself for letting the thought bring me any sort of happiness or hope. Jerry fucking Sorrels is legally my father. Has been for years and I’m just now finding out. Sure, there’s a list of shit I could ask him right now, but fuck that and the lump in my chest.
“I know it doesn’t amount to much now, but I could help if you don’t have any other options,” he says.
Something about this whole day feels foreign and exhausting. I don’t like this shit.
“Look, I gotta get to work, but you know where the gym is. Come if you want.”
That feeling grows as I scoot out of the booth, the look on Jerry’s face reflecting his distaste for the experience, too. Guess we’ll see if he shows.