Read Online On the Ropes: A Duffy Dombrowski Mystery by Tom Schreck - Free Book Online
Authors: Tom Schreck
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even less so. He picked up on the first ring.
“Yeah …” That was his usual greeting.
“You know, you really ought to work on being more engaging.”
“You want to fight or not? The fight is this Saturday. That gives you three days,” Smitty said.
“Yeah, that’s all right. I kind of feel like fighting,” I said.
“Duffy, this boy is no joke.” Smitty’s voice was serious. “He can hit and you’ll have to be sharp.”
“I’m always sharp, Smitty—you know that.”
“I ain’t playin’, Duff,” he said.
Smitty gave me the particulars about the opponent, the travel schedule, and the other logistical stuff I needed to know about the fight. The guy I was fighting was named Tommy Roy Suggs. We were going to fly Friday after work, which was good considering how things in the office had been going. It probably wasn’t going to be a great time to ask for a day off. The fact that they raised my purse and were allowing us to fly meant they really wanted their boy and me to get it on. I was looking forward to fighting and the cash would be nice too.
I was in decent shape, not great shape, but decent enough to fight. In my line of work as a short-notice fighter, I can’t afford to ever get out of shape. Matchmakers liked me because I would take the fights when they needed somebody in a hurry and no one else was saying yes. It was something I accepted, but I never actually got used to it. Managing my emotions over the next three days would be hell.
Fighters get scared; they just don’t talk about it or focus on it. You really can’t and stay sane. For me, the anxiety will come out in other ways, usually manifesting itself in irritability and short temperedness. With the way things had been going, I didn’t think anyone would notice me get any crankier. There were some advantages to distracting myself over a pending fight, what with work being such a shit sandwich lately.
With three days left before the fight, there was really nothing physical left to do that would prepare me for it. The best thing I could do would be to watch some tape of the guy and get myself as mentally prepared as possible. The seven grand would be nice—getting hit by some hotshot who could punch wouldn’t. Getting hit by someone who could throw hard was on the list of things I thought about while I wasn’t sleeping that night.
It was that, getting dumped by my assertive, potential-lesbian ex-girlfriend, but most of all, it was about Mikey and Eli.
“Hey Duff—didya hear about the Polish Olympic hockey team tragedy?” It was Sam.
“The team drowned during spring training,” he said.
I heard him laughing to himself all the way back to his cubicle. I had gotten almost no sleep the night before, and I was really on edge. There were so many things eating at me that I had difficulty thinking, so I had bigger things to worry about than Sam. For starters, there was a New York State Client Death Form on my desk and two Incident Report forms with a yellow sticky from the Michelin Woman attached to the top one. It read:
Duffy—This needs to be
completed and on my desk
by the end of the day. Claudia.
She was a real joy. A client is dead and two close to it, and her concern is getting the state their fuckin’ forms. I wasn’t in any kind of mood for her bullshit today. The only redeeming thing going on today was that she’d be distracted by the board members. She likes to impress them, so she’d have on her newest polyester stretch pants and she’d be obsessed with making a good presentation for the day.
I saw Monique coming back to her cubicle with a cup of coffee in her special coffee cup with the Nefertiti head on it.
“Duff, I’m so sorry to hear about Walanda, Mikey, and Eli,” she said. “You must be hurtin’. If there’s anything I can do, please let me know.”
“Thanks ’Nique, I truly appreciate it,” I said.
She meant it. Monique and I weren’t exactly close, but we respected each other and I think
“Yeah …” That was his usual greeting.
“You know, you really ought to work on being more engaging.”
“You want to fight or not? The fight is this Saturday. That gives you three days,” Smitty said.
“Yeah, that’s all right. I kind of feel like fighting,” I said.
“Duffy, this boy is no joke.” Smitty’s voice was serious. “He can hit and you’ll have to be sharp.”
“I’m always sharp, Smitty—you know that.”
“I ain’t playin’, Duff,” he said.
Smitty gave me the particulars about the opponent, the travel schedule, and the other logistical stuff I needed to know about the fight. The guy I was fighting was named Tommy Roy Suggs. We were going to fly Friday after work, which was good considering how things in the office had been going. It probably wasn’t going to be a great time to ask for a day off. The fact that they raised my purse and were allowing us to fly meant they really wanted their boy and me to get it on. I was looking forward to fighting and the cash would be nice too.
I was in decent shape, not great shape, but decent enough to fight. In my line of work as a short-notice fighter, I can’t afford to ever get out of shape. Matchmakers liked me because I would take the fights when they needed somebody in a hurry and no one else was saying yes. It was something I accepted, but I never actually got used to it. Managing my emotions over the next three days would be hell.
Fighters get scared; they just don’t talk about it or focus on it. You really can’t and stay sane. For me, the anxiety will come out in other ways, usually manifesting itself in irritability and short temperedness. With the way things had been going, I didn’t think anyone would notice me get any crankier. There were some advantages to distracting myself over a pending fight, what with work being such a shit sandwich lately.
With three days left before the fight, there was really nothing physical left to do that would prepare me for it. The best thing I could do would be to watch some tape of the guy and get myself as mentally prepared as possible. The seven grand would be nice—getting hit by some hotshot who could punch wouldn’t. Getting hit by someone who could throw hard was on the list of things I thought about while I wasn’t sleeping that night.
It was that, getting dumped by my assertive, potential-lesbian ex-girlfriend, but most of all, it was about Mikey and Eli.
“Hey Duff—didya hear about the Polish Olympic hockey team tragedy?” It was Sam.
“The team drowned during spring training,” he said.
I heard him laughing to himself all the way back to his cubicle. I had gotten almost no sleep the night before, and I was really on edge. There were so many things eating at me that I had difficulty thinking, so I had bigger things to worry about than Sam. For starters, there was a New York State Client Death Form on my desk and two Incident Report forms with a yellow sticky from the Michelin Woman attached to the top one. It read:
Duffy—This needs to be
completed and on my desk
by the end of the day. Claudia.
She was a real joy. A client is dead and two close to it, and her concern is getting the state their fuckin’ forms. I wasn’t in any kind of mood for her bullshit today. The only redeeming thing going on today was that she’d be distracted by the board members. She likes to impress them, so she’d have on her newest polyester stretch pants and she’d be obsessed with making a good presentation for the day.
I saw Monique coming back to her cubicle with a cup of coffee in her special coffee cup with the Nefertiti head on it.
“Duff, I’m so sorry to hear about Walanda, Mikey, and Eli,” she said. “You must be hurtin’. If there’s anything I can do, please let me know.”
“Thanks ’Nique, I truly appreciate it,” I said.
She meant it. Monique and I weren’t exactly close, but we respected each other and I think
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