Kornwolf (25 page)

By now, the roar of the crowd was made up of laughter as much as of wild cheering. Another chant for Roddy went up. Most of the house was on its feet …

In the ring, The Cobra was hotdogging: gyrating, crude undulations around the mat—like a Palm Street club rat working the disco—that scarcely concealed his evident caution.

From 1:15 to 1:03 not a single blow was thrown or landed. Roddy, having scored two knockdowns already—three if you counted the last as a double—appeared less rushed, more calm and deliberate.

Dropping his hands in a moment of quiet assessment, he shifted.

And that's when it happened: a barreling straight right cross to the chin. Roddy hit the canvas flat on his back. A cry of horror swept the club. Jack and Owen leapt out of their seats.

Roddy, propped up on an elbow at center ring, gazed into space for an instant, then, finding himself at the count of three, looked
over to Jones, in a neutral corner, and smiled with a nod, as though to say, “
Good shot
.”

A network commentator's voice carried over the din, announcing: “
Now we've got a fight, folks!
”

Roddy got up. He righted himself and nodded to Smoger, then glanced at Owen.

“Are you OK?” shouted Smoger at the count of eight.

Roddy turned back to him and nodded.

Resuming, he landed three jabs in succession. Clearly, his legs were still under him—even though his game had been thrown off abruptly. Jones seemed willing to settle for even.

In the last twenty seconds of the round, both fighters appeared content to wait for the bell.

Finally, the networks cut to commercials. Roddy came back to the corner frustrated. Jack got a look at him and knew not to worry. The kid was all right. He was simply angry. If not for the knockdown, he would've been given that round on the scorecards big, no question. As it stood, he had probably lost it, based on his solid trip to the canvas. But, no doubt, most of the crowd would much rather have been in his shoes by the break in the action.

“OK,” said Jack as Roddy sat. “That's why we keep our hands up. Right?”

It might've been a good thing he'd been knocked down
.

“Have some water.”

Roddy swished and spat in the bucket. Jack saw blood.

Syd applied a compress to Roddy's cheek.

Owen spoke up. “He's trying to lure you in.” He stopped and deferred to The Coach, as though to say,
Right?

After a moment's hesitation, Jack nodded. “That's right.” He looked from Owen to Roddy. “He's trying to wear you
out
, is more like it. He's leading you halfway around the arena … All I can do is repeat myself: you need to work him into the corners.
Then
start taking advantage of your openings. He's
way
too cagey to walk around with. He'll slip you all night if you give him the chance.”

“
Manhandle
this guy!” Syd chimed in. “All you have to do is get ahold of him, Roddy.”

He squeezed more water on Roddy's head. It rolled down his back and then into his pants, to the canvas, which Owen continued to wipe.

Jack drew back, relaxing for a moment. “Breathe,” he said. “You're doing well, son.”

Then Smoger was yelling: “Ten seconds, gentlemen!”

Jack leaned over. He whispered in Roddy's ear: “Don't take any shit from this guy.”

The opening moments of round three passed in a flurry of ineffective jabs, both fighters blocking, dodging and clenching, and both looking overwhelmed momentarily. Jones managed to land a decent jab at one point (2:35), but he ate as much leather in return in doing so, and set himself up for a solid left. Again, The Cobra's chin had been carelessly upturned, exposed, an invitation. It was hard to believe he kept making the same fundamental mistakes, over and over. Green Dog was either incredibly off this evening, or Jones wasn't listening to him—or maybe he just didn't know how to box. He was making some awfully basic errors.

He took a solid hook to the ribcage, but landed a lunging counter-right. This led into a flurry of blocked jabs and punches at center ring.

“Don't let him get his bearings!” yelled Jack. And for once in the fight, Roddy listened: he landed a menacing hook to the body. Jones staggered back, falling into the ropes. He took another jab on his upturned chin. Then he got caught in a clench.

Smoger stepped in. “Break it up!”

Jones took a swing on the break. It missed. There was booing.

Smoger called time-out.

Shaking his head, Syd leaned toward Jack. “He
really
is a snake, this kid.”

After dragging Jones down the road with a warning, Smoger signaled time-in. The action resumed.

Through a lift in the booing, Jack overheard a commentator speaking: “Jones seems less unorthodox now than simply confused.”

But as though in reply, The Cobra lowered a right down the pike that snapped Roddy's head back, followed by a crisp hard left to the body.

They circled each other. Roddy pressed forward with both hands up, honing for his distance. Jones retreated, committing to a hard left cross. Roddy slipped it. Jones followed through with an elbow first, then a head butt—smack—to Roddy's forehead. A gash opened up on it, splattering blood.

Smoger called a halt to the action and this time, finally, deducted a point. The doctor was called to the apron to wipe off and take a good look at Roddy's forehead. He did so, swamped in a chorus of booing. After a brief examination, Smoger was told that the fight could continue. He checked with Roddy. “Are you all right?”

Furious, Roddy thumped his gloves, squinting through partially blurred vision.

“Time in!” Smoger called, backing up.

At once, ignoring The Coach's cry to “Keep your guard up!” Roddy pressed forward. He threw a jab, then let fly with a haymaker, missing. The Cobra backed into the ropes and sprung forward with two hard lefts.

Roddy went down.

He rolled to his back and got up right away, both legs still under him. He gestured to Jack and Owen and Syd not to worry, then turned to wait out the count. At eight, his gaze was clear enough for Smoger.

But Jack could see that all wasn't well.

Roddy had taken this fight too soon, and that's all there was to it. It was evident now. Six months down the road, with good training, he might have been able to pull this out … But right now, he was drowning in ring rust. It would take a miracle to turn this around …

The action resumed at a blistering pace. Right off, The Cobra landed a hook, followed by two stiff jabs to the forehead. Roddy absorbed the punches fully. He countered with a trademark hook of his own, dropped to the body for a shot to the liver, then jammed a short right hand to the temple that lifted and set up the chin for an uppercut. Jones wriggled and flailed like a noodle. He pitched back into the ropes, but rebounded with a lunging right that caught Roddy square on the jaw.

This time he went down hard.

Howling, the crowd was back on its feet. Owen, Syd and Jack stood up.

Roddy looked dazed.

The crowd watched, horrified.

Jones leapt onto a turnbuckle, spreading himself to the roaring disdain of all. Roddy managed to get to one knee by Dale Smoger's count of five. He flexed, fell back and hesitated, then barely made it up to his feet. He was hurt. As Smoger beckoned him forward, his eyes were glassy. He barely responded.

To Jack's relief, though to most of the crowd's disgust and rage, the match was called.

Almost at once, a fight broke out in the balcony. Shouting went up on all sides. More bottles rained down in the ring—but on Smoger this time, and on Green Dog and Jones's seconds.

As Jack darted into the ring ahead of the network cameramen, edging them out, he caught a glimpse through the uproar of Jerry Blye, seated at ringside, laughing.

Even though, afterward, the crowd at the Dogboy couldn't agree on the grisly specifics, they would have to concur on several points. First and foremost among them being: the individual who entered the tavern that evening had a hairline down to his brow. Not an inch of the skin on his forehead was visible. Most of his skull was covered with hair. One patron claimed that it looked like a dirty old toupee nailed through the bridge of his nose. More clearly: “His eyes let off where the pompadour started.” He looked like a “hammerheaded Nixon.”

Another feature in little dispute was the smell he exuded. Everyone agreed that he stunk to have lost control of his bowels, with overtones of cleaning solvents. Moreover, his hygiene was visibly poor. His neck was marked with infected cuts. His clothing, a ratty old sport coat and field pants, was streaked with mud and torn at the seams …

Other details—his cryptic verbage, his darkly, otherworldly aura, his outturned nostrils and gnarled hands that were covered with coarse, bristly hair—would be subject to heated disagreement, as Lamepeter Officer Keiffer noted. Reports of his “glowing eyes” and his frothing mouth would be listed as “drunken conjecture.” After a point, collective memory folded on matters of visual detail. The stranger's behavior, however, was generally agreed upon, running, chronologically, as follows:

At approximately ten o'clock, the individual in question—variously referred to as “It,” “The Shitbeast,” “The Devil,” “The Corn Dog” and “Dutchies' Revenge”—entered the tavern. At that time, fifteen persons were present, including the bartender, Freida Baylor. A group at the counter was watching a boxing event on the TV, above the bar. According to Ms. Baylor, the “intruder,” as she called him, sat down and yelled for what sounded like food, though in some other language—“Dutch” (meaning: German, most likely) by the twang of it. He beat on the counter with a napkin dispenser. His manner was forceful, crude and belligerent. Baylor nervously gave him a menu … He pulled out a pile of dollar bills. He slid them across the counter toward her and, reaching over it, snatched up an unopened bottle of bourbon. The group to his left couldn't help but notice. He leered at them, snapping in “Dutch” again.

Everyone glanced away uncomfortably.

The intruder motioned to Baylor, jabbing the menu with one of his crooked fingers. He seemed to be placing an order for steak and potatoes. She took it, keeping her distance.

Next, he got to work on the bottle, pulling in horrible, slobbering gulps. He drank over half of the contents directly. His pallor was blanched when he came up, grimacing. Closing his eyes, he appeared to be choking back vomit. He belched, breaking into a smile.

Moments later, he snapped from his toxic rapture, shifting, annoyed. He was restless. He bellowed for service.
Where was his food?

“Coming,” Ms. Baylor assured him uneasily.

Looking around, he continued to shift on his stool, panting. He looked like a “madman.”

Beyond the counter, Ms. Baylor considered her options. Had she thought it would do any good, she might have called the township police. But as it was: this “asshole” had already been in the Dogboy on several occasions, and even though, every time, he had threatened the general peace to a legal extreme, complaints to the
sheriff's department had proven useless. No one had come by for hours.

And anyway, the cops were a “nuisance” themselves. And to add to matters, they didn't tip.

She wasn't about to go calling them now, directly in front of this jabbering lunatic. Nor would she try to eject him herself—not without someone to back her up. And certainly not without a gun …. Only one thing remained to be done: to sit there and wait for her boyfriend, a member of The Heathens, the “dreaded” biker gang, to arrive with a pack from their chapter, as per nightly custom, at 10:15.

“
Wench!
” The intruder slammed the bar with the empty bottle of Maker's Mark. He had drunk it in less than five minutes. “
Another!
” He stiffened upright on his stool. “
Another bottle!
” he yelled this time.

Suddenly baring his teeth, he squinted in irritation. He let out a sneeze. A cloud of mucus sprayed the counter. Again, he squinted and bristled and, this time, his body rocked forward upon release. His skull hit the bar. He squawked in pain, gripping his forehead. He nearly fell over.

Pulling together, he went for a basket of pretzels. He buried his face in them, chomping. Crumbs were scattered everywhere—all down the front of his jacket, across the counter. He tossed the basket over his shoulder and blew a glob of snot on the floor.

Then he caught sight of the television—the boxing match—and started to laugh.

While that was happening, Freida Baylor was standing at the end of the bar with her back turned—dosing a second bottle of bourbon with high-powered Valiums from her own prescription. Discreetly, she crushed the pills with a beer glass and dumped the powder into the bottle. A customer seated nearby saw her do so, but didn't object. He looked away.

By now, every soul in the bar was nervous, at best—too frightened to leave, in truth.

Baylor delivered the spiked bourbon.

Five minutes later, the intruder's order of beef and potatoes came up from the kitchen. Already into his second bottle, he didn't appear to be slowing down.

According to Baylor, he devoured his meal like a “God damned pig,” then ordered another, this time with “
double the mutton and beer
.”

No one had left the tavern, as yet.

At a quarter past, a couple came in: Dwayne Gibbons and Valerie Dollup, both in a state of intoxication. Gibbons, a regular Dogboy patron, was said to be particularly loud upon entry. Apparently, he and Ms. Dollup, a woman, by local renown, of “loose morals,” were arguing back and forth over something. The source of their conflict wasn't apparent.

They sat at the bar and continued to bicker for several moments, not looking up, until, finally, the uncanny silence around them began to creep in, dissolving their argument. It was actually Dollup, annoyed that she hadn't been served a drink, who noticed it first. As Gibbons continued to air his grievances, Dollup quietly scanned the bar, picking up on the lack of conversation, first, then spotting the wild-eyed stranger across the bar, staring at her … Grinning drunkenly, she elbowed Gibbons and pointed. Annoyed by the interruption, Gibbons, in a wavering stupor, looked up. His eyes were glazed, half-lidded and bloodshot.