Asylett Press...Binding Ties

Binding Ties
Michele Acker

“Who’s next?” Neal asked.

No one stepped forward. Not that Neal blamed them. Ruben had already defeated two other kids that evening and was looking for his third. He stood off to the side now, pounding his gloved fists together and glaring at the crowd. It was up to Neal to provide his next opponent.

“Well,” he said, hands on his hips as he paced in front of the thirty or so kids standing in a ring around the dusty room. Derrick and Tyler marched along behind him like obedient soldiers. “Has anyone got the balls to fight, or are you all a bunch of lily-livered cowards?”

He didn’t shout. There was no need. They heard him well enough. Besides, his words had their own kind of power. No one liked to be called a coward.

The crowd ranged in age from twelve to seventeen, but they all looked up to him, respected him. At thirteen, he’d been through more than all thirty combined. And had survived.

“If you’re so brave, why don’t you fight him yourself?” one of the kids yelled. Neal couldn’t tell who.

He shook his head. There was always an excuse. People loved excuses; it made them feel justified in their actions. Or inactions. Neal had experience with both.

He walked over to Ruben, laid a hand on his shoulder and looked out at the crowd. “Because I’m his coach.”

And because he was smarter than that. And because the big, stupid bully would do anything he told him as long as he found him kids to beat up. But he didn’t say all that out loud. It was the gang’s secret. Ruben and Derrick and Tyler. His gang.

Finally, a kid stepped forward and raised a tentative hand. “I’ll do it.”

Neal almost turned him down. The kid wouldn’t provide much of a show. He was their age, chubby, wearing too-large pants, last year’s sneakers and socks that kept sliding down inside his shoes. A real victim. The last kid Neal would have expected to volunteer, which was why he smiled and nodded and shook the kid’s hand instead of telling him to get lost. It took guts to step up when you knew you were going to lose. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Freddie,” the kid said, glaring at Neal as if daring him to laugh.

“Derrick, get Freddie, here, a helmet and a set of boxing gloves.”

A few minutes later, Derrick thrust the items into Neal’s waiting hands. Neal helped the kid pull them on. Though Freddie had wide, pudgy fingers and thick, shapeless wrists, the gloves were made for a man and fit easily, as did the helmet. The equipment, and the building they fought in, had been provided by Mr. Smith, Neal’s somewhat silent partner. The stocky, dark-haired man stood against the wall now, watching, guarding, frowning.

Neal wasn’t an idiot. He knew Smith wasn’t his real name, but if the man felt safer hiding behind an alias, Neal would go along with the charade. As for himself, he really didn’t care if he got caught. Jail couldn’t be worse than being kidnapped and tortured. Besides, as a minor, he’d probably get off with nothing more than a warning. It wasn’t like anyone got hurt, or anything.

The only thing he worried about was his mother finding out about the extra money he was making. She'd be sure to ask questions he wasn’t ready to answer. Not that he cared about her feelings any more. This whole thing, the reason he needed the money, was because of her. She’d lied to him for long enough. It was time for him to discover the truth.

After whispering a few words in Ruben’s ear, Smith moved through the small crowd collecting bets. Kids handed over their fives and tens and twenties. Whether earned through hard work or stolen from their parent’s wallets, Smith didn’t care, as long as they paid. Anyone who didn’t either pay or fight got thrown out. Permanently.

While Smith did his thing, Neal kept his eyes on the fighters. They stood at opposite sides of the circle shifting their feet and pounding their gloved fists together—Ruben to intimidate, Freddie to look tough. In Freddie’s case it didn’t work…he just looked scared.

Once the bets were in, the crowd grew silent, breathless, waiting for Neal to start the fight. He made them wait. He wanted to make sure they knew he had all the control. All the power. It felt good, this power, but Neal was careful not to let it get to his head. Power was a fragile thing and could be lost as quickly as it was gained.

When he felt sure they’d waited long enough, he raised his hand and signaled. The opponents came together with the slam of boxing gloves on helmets. Freddie got in the first punch, but there was no force behind the blow; like trying to chop a tree with a spatula. Ruben didn’t laugh, but his contempt was clear in the way he just stood there and let Freddie hit him.

He let boxing had only one rule. All blows had to land on the head. That’s why the helmet, for protection. The fight ended when one opponent either went down—and stayed down—or gave up. Ruben never gave up. He didn’t have to. Ruben’s fights never lasted more than five minutes and he always won. Always.

After a couple minutes, Ruben finally took his first punch. One slam against Freddie’s helmet and he was down. The crowd roared in anger. Neal sighed. He doubted anyone had bet on Freddie, but they’d wanted a fight and what they got was a slaughter. Smith wouldn’t be happy. The kid hadn’t even lasted five minutes. Neal should never have let him fight.

He was about to name Ruben the winner when the kid got to his feet. The punch must not have been as hard as it looked. Neal frowned. That wasn’t like Ruben. He never pulled his punches.

Freddie attacked, hitting Ruben fast…like a snail on crack. The blows were rabbity soft, but the sheer volume was enough to force Ruben to give ground. Ruben landed an occasional punch, but there was no power behind the blows. They barely rocked Freddie’s head back.

What was going on? Did Ruben get injured? Was that why he wasn’t fighting like usual? Freddie was nothing. Normally Ruben could defeat him without even thinking about it.

Neal started forward, intending to break up the fight, but a look from Smith stopped him. And in that moment, Neal knew. Smith had told Ruben to throw the fight.

He almost walked away, almost went home, but he forced himself to stay and watch. Watch Ruben—who never lost—lose to a fat kid who couldn’t go an hour without eating. Where was the justice in that?

Then he remembered. There was no justice in the world. It had disappeared the moment he’d been forced into the back of a white mini-van.

The crowd began to hiss and boo. They weren’t stupid, they knew something was wrong. They knew a con when they saw it.

“This is bogus,” one yelled.

“If this isn’t going to be a real fight, I want my money back,” another said.

“Me too!”

Then everyone picked up the chant. “We want our money back. We want our money back.”

At that point, Neal expected Smith to break up the fight, but he didn’t. Freddie continued to rain blow after blow on Ruben’s helmet while Ruben staggered backwards, pretending to be overcome. Neal had been around Ruben enough to know he was pretending. It was humiliating.

He paused for a moment, trying to decide what to do. Opposing Smith could be dangerous. He knew that. And while he needed the money, he also had a responsibility to his gang. They trusted him, looked up to him. Ultimately, he needed to decide who he owed his loyalty to—Smith or Ruben.

Having made his decision, he cupped his mouth and yelled, “Come on, you big coward. You gonna let some wimpy, little, fat kid beat you up?”

Derrick and Tyler saw what he was doing and joined in.

“Ya big coward!”

“You’re pathetic. Can’t even beat up a fat kid!”

The taunts worked as Neal knew they would. Ruben hated being called a coward. His shoulders tensed. His fist slammed into Freddie’s helmet and the kid went down for the second time. But this time he didn’t get up. He just lay there moaning and rubbing his head.

Neal smiled as he raised Ruben’s gloved fist, declaring him the winner. The crowd cheered.

Then he caught the look on Smith’s face and the saliva froze in his mouth. Smith would punish him for his defiance. That much was certain. He just hoped the punishment was something he’d survive.

A half hour later the place had emptied. The four of them, and Smith, were the only ones left. Neal could have skipped out, too, avoiding Smith’s wrath for the time being, but that would have only made things worse.

As Smith approached, he jerked his thumb towards the door and ordered the others, “Leave. Your friend and I have a few things to discuss.”

When they hesitated, Smith shook his fist. “Are you all deaf? I said get lost. Now!”

As they drifted away, Derrick looked back. “Dude, you gonna be okay?”

While Neal expected he was very much not going to be okay, he smiled and gave them the answer they needed to hear. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

After they left, Smith grabbed Neal by the neck and slammed him against the wall. “How dare you fuck me up like that? You got any idea how much money I lost on that last fight?” He banged Neal’s head against the wall again. “Well, do ya?”

Neal swallowed, trying to breathe past the constriction in his throat. “I’m sorry…”

“Sorry won’t cut it.” Smith abruptly let go, forcing Neal to grab at the wall for support. He drew back his fist. “I ought to take my payment out of your sorry hide.”

For an instant Neal cowered, terrified, his mind back aboard the stinking houseboat, huddled on the bed, waiting for the sting of a belt across his back. Then he remembered. He’d survived. And if he could do it once, he could do it again. Determination surged through his body. Smith no longer had the power to hurt him.

He thrust forward, right into Smith’s face. “Your threats don’t scare me. You want to hit me? Go ahead. I can take it. I can take anything.”

He pulled up his shirt and turned to face the wall exposing his back to Smith’s probing gaze. The scars were healed, but still visible as a network of pale stripes across his skin.

“You can’t do anything worse to me than has already been done.”

Neal lowered his shirt and turned back, catching Smith’s look of horrified fascination, an expression he’d seen many times before. That's why he always kept it covered, even in gym.

Smith lowered his fist. “I could do worse,” he whispered. “I could kill you.”

A shiver raced up Neal’s back. He almost desired the oblivion death would bring. “Go ahead. Do it. I don’t care.” It almost felt like the truth. “But if you’re gonna do it, hurry up. I haven’t got all day.”

Smith stared at him for a long moment, then grunted. “Here, take this.” He shoved a piece of paper into Neal’s hand, containing a list of names and dollar amounts.

Neal didn’t recognize any of the names. “What’s this?”

“It’s a list of kids who owe me money. Want to get back into my good graces? Collect it for me. I don’t care how you do it, just get it.” He turned to leave.

“Hey wait. Where’s my money? You owe me.”

Smith spun around. “Owe you? You lost me money, kid. You fucked me over. I owe you nothing.”

“That was only on the last fight. You still owe me for the other two.” He tilted his head and smiled. “You don’t want me to tell the police what you’ve been up to, do you?”

“I’ll just tell them it was all your idea. You turn me in and I’ll take you down, too.”

“And who do you think they’ll believe? I’m a minor, remember? I bet your criminal record is a lot longer than mine.”

Smith’s eyes narrowed. “Cheeky little bastard, aren’t you?” He quickly peeled three hundreds off his wad of cash and tossed them on the floor, forcing Neal to bend over and pick them up. “Better be careful, my cocky little friend, or you might find yourself on the bottom of the river.”

Neal straightened and shoved the money in his pocket. “Been there, done that.”

Shaking his head, Smith strode away.

“Hey,” Neal called. “Aren’t you gonna take me home?”

“You’ve got cash,” Smith yelled back. “Take a cab.”