Santa Olivia

Loup eyed the dun-colored box doubtfully. “How?” “Fiber-optic cables,” Jaime said in a reverent tone, as hushed as T.Y. talking about comics. “Broadband wireless.”



The words meant nothing to Loup, but she liked hearing him talk. In her experience, all that computers were good for was playing the program of educational software that was supposed to teach her to read better. Usually it stopped working within minutes.



“The system’s degraded,” Jaime said. “Hardware, software. All of it.”



“Okay,” Loup agreed.



“But I bet it’s not everywhere.” He gazed into the distance. “I bet it’s still out there.”



She liked Jaime because he didn’t talk down to her and he wondered about things beyond Outpost. “I’ll find out for you,” Loup said. “When Tommy wins a prizefight.”



Jaime’s narrow shoulders stooped. “No one’s ever going to win one of those fights, Loup. They’re rigged.”



“Tommy will,” she said. “He’ll take me with him.”



“Yeah?” Jaime regarded her without hope. “Come back and tell me.”



“I will.”



He laughed, a short bark. “While you’re at it, tell the rest of the world we’re out here rotting in the desert. Because from what I understand, I think they’ve pretty fucking well forgotten we ever existed.”



“Okay,” Loup said steadily.



Jaime shook his head. “Weird kid.”



On Saturday, Tommy came to see her. He got permission from Sister Martha to take her to the fight. Already, in a week, Tommy looked taller and older than Loup remembered. Sorrow had made a man of him.



He stooped in the courtyard. “You doing okay, loup-garou?”



She shrugged. “It’s okay here. But I miss Mom.”



“I miss her, too.” Tommy hugged her in a warm, strong embrace, one she could return without having to be careful. It felt good. He straightened and smiled at her. “Come on. Coach gave Kevin his first prize match. He beat Miguel for it. Mig’s pissed as hell, he’s been waiting so long. But he lost fair and square, and I say Kevin’s got a shot. He’s a junior heavyweight, same as I’ll probably be.”



This time, they had a good spot in the square, near the challenger’s corner. Floyd greeted Loup with a cordial nod. Kevin McArdle, bouncing on his toes, rolled his head on his neck, loosening his muscles. He leaned over the ropes to touch glove to fist with Tommy, smiled at Loup. She smiled back at him, happy to see him.



The arc lights shone.



This year’s army champion shed his robe, baring a muscle-ribbed torso. He shrugged his shoulders a few times, stamped his feet, and shook out his gloved hands. Threw a quick flurry of punches into the air, then settled onto the balls of his feet, waiting. His blond hair was shaved bristle short. In the harsh glare of the lights, he looked nearly bald, patient and unhurried.



Tommy glanced at Loup. She shook her head. “You’re sure?”



“Yeah,” she said softly. “Four rounds. Maybe five.”



“No.”



“Yeah.”



“Well, I’m not betting against him.”



The first three rounds were good ones. Skipping on agile feet, Kevin ran rings around the champion. He landed solid body shots. His freckled skin gleamed. He feinted and jabbed, scoring point after point. The army champion waited for an opening.



In the fourth round, he connected with a high right cross off his rear foot. It rocked Kevin’s head back and split the skin above his left eyebrow, opening a deep gash. The soldiers roared. The referee paused the fight and Floyd managed to get the bleeding under control. He squeezed the cut closed and kept pressure on it, then iced it and applied a heavy-duty coagulant.



They finished out the round, Kevin’s eye swelling.



It didn’t last. In the fifth round, Kevin was visibly slower, while the army champion was just warming up. He worked the cut mercilessly, getting Kevin to lower his guard with a flurry of body shots, then snapping quick jabs at his head. The gash opened wide, bleeding profusely. A sheet of blood crept down the left side of Kevin’s face. He shook his head, swiping at it with one gloved fist. The champion clouted him hard on the ear with a right hook, and Kevin went down. He got up before the count, but the referee called the fight.



“TKO,” Tommy murmured.



The general made his way down to the ring. Loup watched him out of the corner of her eye. He seemed genuinely pleased with both men’s performances. Kevin McArdle grinned through the bloody mask streaking his face.



“That’ll want stitches, young man,” the general said. “But you’ve got balls.” He nodded at the coach. “Floyd.”



“Bill,” Floyd replied.



And that was that. Tommy led Loup away from the ring and bought them both ice creams. They sat on the low wall surrounding the square and watched soldiers and Outposters collect their winnings. The Outposters slipped away into the night, or at least the men did. The soldiers crowded into Salamanca’s to spend their winnings or drink away their sorrow at losing. A lot of them had women with them. Somewhere inside the nightclub, which had grown to encompass almost an entire block lining the square, a band was playing.



“My father took Mom there the night they met,” Tommy said.



Loup licked her dripping ice cream bar. “You ever go?”



“Nah.” He shook his head. “It’s for soldiers and women. Even Garza’s boys only show up there as muscle.” Tommy glanced down at her. “How’d you know this time? I really thought Kevin had a shot.”



She considered, finishing her ice cream. “I could tell that guy hit really hard.”



“Before he even threw a punch?” Tommy asked.



“He threw some warming up.”



“Yeah, but…” Tommy’s voice trailed off. Loup tried, but she couldn’t always explain how she knew what she knew, like how hard a fighter hit without seeing a single blow land. “I don’t think he hits any harder than Miguel. And Kevin beat Miguel.”



“Miguel’s lazy. And he’s impatient.” Loup sucked the last sweetness from the ice cream bar’s wooden stick. “This guy wasn’t. I bet Kevin will do better next time, if he doesn’t get punch shy.”



“You think Kevin can beat him?”



She tossed the wooden stick unerringly into a trash can. “On points, maybe. If he got lucky and went the distance. But probably not.”



“What about me?” Tommy asked.



Loup cocked her head at him. “Not yet, no.”



“Aw, c’mon!”



“Tommy, you’re only seventeen!” She lowered her voice. “I know Floyd thinks you’re a year older, but you’re not, okay? And you know what he says about bringing fighters along too fast. You’re gonna be the best one there. But if you try too soon, you’re only gonna lose. And maybe get hurt, bad.”



“That wouldn’t scare you,” Tommy observed.



“No.” Loup smiled. “But it should. You taught me that much, huh?” She hopped lightly down from the low wall. “We should go. They’ll be calling curfew.”



He steered her through the crowd, one hand on her shoulder. When they reached the church, the gate was already locked. Tommy rang the bell hanging there, and Diego came out to admit them.



“Hey, kid,” Diego said to Loup. “Better hurry. I won’t tell.”



“Thanks.”



“I’ll see you soon. We’ll go get burgers at Grady’s.” Tommy knelt to hug his sister. “You’re okay here? Really?”



“Yeah.” She nodded. “It’s not so bad. I’m learning to read again, and a bunch of other stuff. I think maybe Mommy was worried about that.”



“Yeah.” Tommy flushed. “Guess the gym wasn’t the best place for you, huh?”



Loup shrugged. “I learned stuff.”



“Stuff you can’t use,” he said. “Not like here.”



“True,” Loup said thoughtfully. “This week, I learned what fucking is. I mean, I kind of knew. I’ve heard the guys talk about it, but not exactly, you know?”



Tommy’s voice cracked. “What?”



“Pssst!” Diego whistled, swinging the gate closed. “Curfew, curfew!”



“Shit,” Tommy muttered, watching them leave. “Maybe the gym was better than the church.”



THIRTEEN



T.Y. managed to keep Loup’s secret for a little over a week.



She found out he’d spilled it when C.C. Rider walked up to her in the rec room and asked, “What would you do if I said I was going to beat the crap out of you?”



Loup stared at him. “What?”



“What would you do if I said I was going to beat the crap out of you?” he repeated, his tone cheerful and curious. Mack the Knife lifted his head out of a comic book. Katya and Maria stopped playing Ping-Pong and stared at C.C. He was a good-looking boy of twelve or so with thick blond hair and green eyes, and he’d never been anything but friendly toward her. Even now, he sounded perfectly nice.



“You’re crazy,” Loup said flatly.



“Here goes!” C.C. feinted a punch at her. She blinked at him, unmoving. “You warned her!” he accused T.Y., who entered the room at a run.



“C.C.… ,” he panted.



“For real, now,” C.C. warned Loup. His next punch wasn’t a feint. She angled her upper body a few inches to the right and let his fist sail past her head, then drove a quick right jab into his stomach. The air left his lungs with an audible huff. C.C. landed hard on his butt and sprawled, mouth agape, his chest heaving as he struggled in vain to breathe. He made choking sounds.



“Jesus!” Katya dropped her Ping-Pong paddle and raced to his side. “What did you do, you freak? Maria, get Sister Martha!”



“Wait!” T.Y. pleaded.



“He’s okay,” Mack said calmly. “Relax,” he said to C.C. “You had the wind knocked out of you. Just give it a second.”