Mojo (Page 56)

And sure enough, out of the hallway danced the very same Huy I’d met at the Vietnamese pool hall. That’s why I’d seen him and his buddy Tommy walking into Gangland the first time I went there—Nash probably won so much money off them at pool they had to enter the rumble just to pay it back. But Tommy must have lost somewhere along the line because he was nowhere to be seen this time.

The two fighters settled into different sides of the ring while Rowan explained the rules: there would be one nonstop fifteen-minute round; fighters could use hands, feet, knees, elbows, and anything else on their bodies but no weapons; and barring a knockout, the winner would be chosen by the members of Gangland, which was pretty much the whole audience, except for me.

“Now, boys,” Rowan continued, “come to the center of the ring and shake hands.” They did it, and Rowan asked if they were ready. They nodded and stripped off their shirts. For little guys, they both had some pretty serious muscle definition. On Rowan’s signal, the audience started the backward countdown from ten. At zero, the fight was on.

Since Huy was Asian, I figured he’d come out with some flying karate kicks, but that didn’t happen. Instead, both guys circled each other, looking for an opening to throw a punch. Markelle launched the first fist, but Huy dodged it easily. Speed was the key to his fighting style. Every time Markelle threw a punch, Huy practically seemed to vanish, then reappear on one side or the other and pepper Markelle with sharp blows to the cheek. Markelle had a hard head, though, and never got hurt so much as frustrated with Huy’s elusiveness. The crowd booed. Apparently, they wanted to see more damage.

Finally, Markelle got tired of missing punches and tried to wrestle Huy down. Mistake. Huy dodged him again and Markelle crashed to the floor. Huy jumped on his back and jacked a few punches into the back of his head. I thought it was probably time to stop the fight, but the crowd had a different opinion. They cheered.

But Markelle wasn’t done. He bucked Huy off, and they continued the match on their knees, punching and slapping and spitting. It was ridiculous. At this point, even I had to laugh. The crowd yelled, “Get up! Get up! Fight like men!” but it was too late. Rowan blew the whistle to end the rumble.

Since nobody got knocked out, Rowan called for a vote from the audience while both fighters stood there sweating and huffing for breath. It wasn’t even close—Huy won again.

“Perfect,” said Nash. “Let’s go roll your money over on the next fight.”

I wasn’t so sure about that. I figured I should quit while I was ahead, but he argued that it would be bad manners to cash in early. That was a manners rule I’d never heard, but like I say, I never was much of a gambler, so I went along to put down my bet.

“Dylan’s going to double down on my man,” Nash told Tres, and Tres goes, “That’s what I’m talking about.”

But I’m like, “Double down? I don’t have any money to double down with.”

“That’s all right,” Nash said. “Trust me. I haven’t steered you wrong yet.”

“Well, okay,” I said. “But this is my last bet.”

Rowan announced the next two fighters as Dancin’ Dan and Robo-Troy. I’m like, Dancin’ Dan? Maybe I should introduce him to Rockin’ Rhonda. He was too young for her, though—a white dude with long stringy brown hair—while Robo-Troy was black and sported an Afro that could have housed several weapons if they’d been allowed. Both fighters were several inches taller than the last two but just as wiry. Stripped of their shirts, they looked like they could inflict some serious damage.

Like Markelle and Huy, they circled each other at first, but Robo-Troy was pretty quick to jump in and show how he got his nickname—his machine-like arms pumped quick, sharp punches past Dan’s defenses, landing with loud thumps and drawing red splotches on Dan’s face and shoulders.

On the other hand, Dan imagined he knew karate, but all his spinning kicks and roundhouses came off like magic tricks that didn’t work. He was definitely no Walker, Texas Ranger. And his head didn’t have the cinder-block quality of Markelle’s. After ten minutes, blood flowed from his lips and nose. My stomach didn’t feel so good. It must have been the combination of the blood, the champagne, and a bet that looked more and more lost with every blow.

Finally, Dan tried one too many flying kicks and ended up on his back with Robo-Troy on his chest cranking one robo-punch after another into what was left of his face. The crowd cheered. Not a single person showed pity on Dan. Robo-Troy had to do that himself. Before the finishing whistle blew, he stood, looked at Dan for a second, then stared into the crowd, disgusted. “I hope you got your money’s worth,” he said.

Dancin’ Dan tried to get up but couldn’t quite make it until Robo-Troy and Rowan helped him. His bloody face had the look of melted wax, his features smeared all over the place. “Woooo-hoooo!” he hollered. “Dancin’ Dan is a bad, bad man. He stings like a butterfly—” He paused to spit a gob of blood on the floor. “And floats like a bee.”

As Rowan and Robo-Troy helped him to the dressing room, I turned to Nash and go, “Someone needs to get that dude to a hospital.”

“He’ll be all right,” Nash assured me. “Guys like that, you can’t really hurt them.”

“What do you mean?” I said. “Guys like what?”

“You know—the Dancin’ Dans of the world.” He shook his head. “It is too bad he lost, though. I could’ve sworn he’d be the one to finally beat Robo-Troy. But I guess you can’t win all your bets, can you, Dylan?”