Zombie D.O.A. (58 page)

I looked around for an escape route and there was none. The section of highway we were on had a steep embankment to one side and an equally steep drop to the other. There were cars and trucks for us to hide behind, but if the chopper decided to open up with its guns, let alone its rockets, we had no chance. I looked towards Joe and he shook his head and averted his eyes.

“Mr. Thursday,” a voice repeated, “I’ve been instructed by Mr. Pendragon to bring you to Pendleton immediately.  On the other hand, Mr. Pendragon can go and fuck himself. Give ‘em hell, Joe!” The chopper ascended and then banked and accelerated away from us. Joe obviously still had friends on the inside.

“Somebody up there must like us a lot,” Joe said. “And I don’t mean just that chopper pilot.”

We continued east and by the time we crossed the L.A. River it was almost dark. The highway did a split here and we veered right. “This is where we pick up some wheels,“ Joe said. “How you feeling sport?”

“I’m good,”

“Not too tired? You look bushed.”

“I’m ready to push on if that’s what you mean.”

“Good, good.”

“Why the sudden concern about my well being?”

“You look a little piqued, that’s all. We haven’t eaten all day.”

“I’m fine.”

We walked a bit further in silence with the dark gathering around us. We hadn’t seen a Z in some time and when I mentioned this to Joe he shrugged and muttered something under his breath. We’d now reached the off ramp and before we descended, Joe stopped me with a hand to my chest.

“When was your last fight again, Chris?

“What, you mean pro fight?”

“Yeah.”

“That would have been Casey “Kid” Cohen at the Paradise Ballroom.”

“You win?”

“Forth round TKO. Why all the sudden interest in my boxing career now?

Joe ignored the question, “And you’re still in pretty good shape right?” He said, shuffling his feet and throwing a few shadow punches at my abdomen.

“I guess. What’s this about Joe?”

“Let’s walk and talk,” he said, pushing me towards the off ramp.

“So what’s it we need to talk about, Joe?”

Joe was silent for a while then he said, “Remember how I said, I could get us some wheels? Well…”

“Take another step and I’ll ice you motherfucker,” a voice barked from the darkness.

“Oh boy,” Joe said.

“Don’t shoot man, we’re here to see Julio.”

“And who the fuck say’s Julio wants to see you, white meat?”

“Just tell him it’s Joe Thursday.”

“Joe fucking Thursday. What kind of a name’s that, homes?”

“Tell him, I got a fighter for him.”

Suddenly, all of Joe’s questions about my state of health and boxing prowess made sense. “Joe, what the hell is this?” I said.

“Shh,” Joe whispered, “You want to get Ruby, we’re going to need some wheels. Don’t worry, they’re a bunch of Saturday night sluggers. You’ll take them easily.”

“What you guys whispering about back there?”

“You going to get Julio or what?”

“I don’t think I will, homes. We got a full card tonight anyway, so take off ‘fore I start shootin’”.

“Fine,” Joe said, “and next time I swing by this way. I’ll be sure to let Julio know I found him a former world middleweight champion and you wouldn’t let us through.”

It was quiet for a while and then the voice spoke again from the darkness, “Who you got back there?”

Joe elbowed me and I shouted out, “This is Chris Collins.”

“Chris “Cruisin’ Collins,” Joe added.

“Well, I never heard of you.”

“You heard of Julio Cesar Chavez?” Joe said.

“Yeah.”

“Well this guy beat him.”

“No shit,” the man said, and then after awhile, “Wait there.”

“Joe, what the fuck’s going on?” I asked.

“Relax,” Joe said, “These gangbangers run this fight club, kind of a friendly rivalry now that they have to work together to keep the Zs out of their neighborhood. This guy Julio is leader of the Zoots. He’s a bit of a sports nut, loves his golf, loves the fights and collects all kinds of sporting memorabilia.

“The rival gang is called the 38 Specials.  Each gang puts up a couple of fighters and they run a little tournament. You know how it is with these guys, lot of prestige riding on the outcome. So I figure we slip you in as a ringer in exchange for a couple of motorcycles. You bang some heads and we ride out of here to Yorba Linda by sunup.”

Joe really did have it all figured out. The only problem was, I was underweight, out of condition, nursing several injuries that hadn’t fully healed and hadn’t boxed or sparred in over three years. Oh and I’d also been walking all day in the blazing sun and hadn’t eaten hardly anything in twenty-four hours. Other than that I was in peak condition.

“Hey, Joe Thursday, how you doing you cocksucker?” a voice called from the darkness.

“Pretty damn good you spick motherfucker.”

“Ramon tells me you got me a championship boxer back there.”

“Chris “Cruisin’ Collins, in the flesh.”

“How come I never heard of this guy?”

“Are you kidding me? This guy whipped Oscar de la Hoya’s ass.”

“Thought you said it was Chavez.”

“Yeah well, what do I know? You spicks all look the same to me.”

After a while Julio said, “Come on down you white putana.”

“Fuck you very much you bean dip greaser.”

“I ain’t givin’ you two bikes for this pimp ass, white motherfucker, homes,” Julio said. “He won’t last two minutes in there with them .38’s. They’ll give him an ass-whipping like he ain’t had since his mama caught him playing with his self.”

“Trust me on this compadre, Chris here’s the one going to be handing out the ass-whipping.” Joe said, then to me, “Show him your moves.”

I was stripped to the waist, standing in Julio’s living room with a few of his lieutenants, plus his wife and several kids looking on. I did a half-hearted shuffle and threw a few hooks and jabs.

“See what I mean,” Joe said, “I’m telling you, this guy’s the shit.”

“I don’t know about this,” Julio said.

“Okay, okay,” Joe said. “How about I sweeten the deal?” He picked up the putter he’d taken from the golf course and presented it to Julio like it was a royal scepter.

“What the fuck is this?”

“This, my friend, is a putter that used to belong to Tiger Woods.”

Julio took the club and inspected it suspiciously. “This here’s a Callaway,” he said. “Everyone knows Tiger uses Nike.”

“This is from earlier in his career,” Joe said, “Which makes it even more valuable.”

“It’s all fucking bent, man.”

“What can I say, even the Tiger has his off days.”

“And it’s got blood on it.”

“Yeah sorry about that, had to use it on a Z.”

Julio thought about it for a while then passed the club to one of his lieutenants. “Okay.” he said, “I’m gonna stake you on this, homes, but only cause we friends. But don’t come cryin’ to me your boy gets himself dead.”

“But I still get the bikes right, Even if he gets killed?” Joe said, then grinned at me. I wasn’t sure I appreciated the humor.

We left Julio’s house in a convoy that consisted of three Porsche Cayman SUVs escorted by about twenty off-road motorcycles.  The streets of East L.A. were alive and buzzing with people.  There were fires burning in drums on every corner, and many of the street cafes and food stalls were open. There were also armed patrols out on the streets and occasional gunshots could be heard.

“Zs know not to fuck with our barrio,” Julio said from the front seat.

After a short drive we arrived at a large building with a domed roof, set in a park with a football field, a soccer pitch and a baseball diamond. Unlike the rest of the neighborhood this building was lit up and there was a crowd outside, a big crowd.

“When you said fight club,” I said to Joe, “I was expecting a punch up in some parking lot, not Madison Square Garden.”

“You’ll be fine,” he said, sounding a whole lot more confident than I felt. I’ve never been a nervous fighter, but that’s because I have always worked hard on my preparation. Right now I was not only in no condition for a boxing match, I was probably not even in great condition to mow the lawn. Plus I had a sneaky feeling that the guys I was going to be facing were not going to exactly be in my weight division.

This was confirmed when we entered the dressing room and I saw three guys that had to be heavyweights. Not quite up there with Big George Foreman in size, but close.  

Now, I should explain something about myself as a boxer. I am essentially a counter puncher, which means I like my opponent to bring the fight to me. I’m quick on my feet so I generally do well against sluggers, drawing them in and evading their bombs, then scoring with jabs and combinations. I’ve scored a couple of knockouts and TKO’s in my career, but that’s not really my game.

As a right-hander I also fight in an orthodox stance, meaning left foot forward, left-handed jabs, setting up the opponent for harder shots with the right. In the last year of my career, my manager Blaze had brought in a trainer who’d tried to convert me to a southpaw. It felt unnatural and I’d hated it at first, but being able to switch stances had won me a couple of fights, including that TKO against Kid Cohen I’d told Joe about earlier.

Today, I said a silent thank-you to Blaze and that trainer whose name had been Sully Seymour. My right wrist had not yet fully recovered from my run-in with Zelda back in Pagan. There was no more pain, but it wasn’t yet strong enough for me to be throwing big punches.

I changed into a pair of green shorts, similar to those I’d worn as a pro fighter.  When I asked Joe about boots and gloves he casually mentioned that there weren’t any because the fights were “freestyle”, meaning that kicking, head-butting, kidney punching and shots below the belt were all allowed.

“Fantastic, Joe” I said, “You’ve just got me into a brawl with some hardcore brawlers.”

“I have faith in you, amigo,” Joe said.

“You’ve never even seen me fight. How can you be so sure?”

“One loss in twelve as a pro, how bad can you be?”

“Two in twelve,” I corrected him, “And that was boxing, with rules and a referee, not some free-for–all.”

“Quit pissing,” Joe said, “You can whip these gorillas with one hand tied behind your back.” The three ‘gorillas’ he was referring to looked over at us with murder in their eyes.

“Thanks Joe,” I said. “Now you’ve gone and made them angry.”