15

Zebulon Sixkill and I went to the Harbor Health Club in the early afternoon. He looked great in a black tank top and sweats. The muscles in his arms and shoulders were startling, and bulged or relaxed smoothly with every movement. People looked at him when he came, the way people often looked at Hawk. Being a trained investigator, I concluded that he’d probably done some weight work.

“How much can you bench, Zebulon?”

“Z,” he said.

“Got it,” I said. “How much do you bench.”

“Four-fifty,” he said.

“Let’s start with half that,” I said.

“No fighting?” Z said.

“We will,” I said. “Just see how many reps you can do with two-twenty-five. The machine is fine.”

Z nodded and slid into the reclining bench-press machine and set the pin at two-twenty-five and did fifteen reps.

“How many can you do?” Z said.

I shrugged and got into the machine and did twenty-five.

“Jesus Christ,” Z said.

“On the other hand,” I said. “I’ve never done four-fifty in my life.”

Z nodded.

“Different approach,” I said. “You run?”

“Ten miles,” Z said.

“Ever do intervals?”

“Fast and slow?” Z said.

“Sort of,” I said.

“Football,” he said.

I nodded.

Mostly in deference to Hawk and me, and also with a nod to his own years as a ranked lightweight, Henry Cimoli had salvaged a boxing room when the club went upscale. Z and I went in, away from the bright, tight workout clothes and the mirrors and the chrome weight machines, and the upbeat listen-while-you-sweat music. There was a speed bag, a heavy bag, a little two-ended jeeter bag that even Hawk had trouble with, a couple of body bags, and an open space with rubber floor mats for sparring.

Henry Cimoli came in wearing a white satin sweat suit. And custom sneakers.

“Thought I saw you come in,” Henry said. “New sparring partner?”

“Sort of,” I said. “Henry, this is Z. Z, Henry.”

They shook hands. When they finished, Henry shook his as if it hurt.

“Nice grip you got there, Z,” Henry said.

Z nodded.

“Hawk still in East Bumfuck?” Henry said to me.

“Central Asia,” I said.

“When’s he coming home,” Henry said.

“Whenever he wants to,” I said.

Henry nodded.

“That would be Hawk,” he said. “You guys gonna box?”

“I’m conducting a little introduction for Z,” I said. “Wanna sit in?”

“He want to be a pro or just win the fights in the alley?”

“Alley,” Z said.

“Probably win most of those now, being so big and strong,” Henry said.

“Wanna win all,” Z said.

“But no one ever taught him,” I said to Henry.

Henry looked at Z.

“Okay,” Henry said. “I fought at one-thirty-two. Long time ago. I weigh about one-forty-five now. And, if you don’t know, I’d clean your clock.”

Z shook his head.

“Can he take a punch?” Henry asked me.

“Yes.”

“You’ve tested that?”

“Yes.”

Henry nodded.

“Wanna try it?” he said.

“Me and you?” Z said.

“Sure, open hand, we’ll just slap. Nobody gets hurt.”

Z looked at me.

“It’ll be instructive,” I said. “You won’t hurt him.”

He shrugged.

“Right here?” he said.

“Sure,” Henry said. “That’ll be your corner. This’ll be mine. Spenser will ref.”

“No need to worry about hitting him below the belt,” I said to Z. “He’s so short nobody can reach that low.”

Z stood in his corner.

I said, “Bong!”

Henry went into his fighting stance. Left foot forward, knees bent, hands high on either side of his face. Z came from his corner with his hands held loosely a little above his waist. He put out a left jab at Henry, who moved around it. Z followed with a right cross, and Henry moved around it. They went around the room that way for more than a minute, with Z throwing openhanded punches, and Henry bobbing and weaving just enough to make him miss.

Z was breathing hard.

“Stay still,” he said.

Henry grinned at him.

“Okay,” he said, and stopped.

Z closed with him. Henry leaned and rolled and bobbed without moving his feet and Z still couldn’t hit him. Z was arm-weary. His hands were low. He tried a left. Henry checked it with his right, and stepped around it. Henry put two open-right-hand punches into the body, and as Z wheeled toward him, Henry put an open left hook onto Z’s chin. Z shook his head and tried a right. Henry checked it with his left hand and put an overhand left onto Z’s jaw. Z lunged at Henry, trying to grab him. Henry put out a left jab that Z ran into, and then rolled around Z so that he was behind him. He hit him a couple of times in the kidneys. And as Z turned wearily, his hands down, his voice rasping, Henry slapped him left, right, left, right on the cheeks.

“Bong,” I said.

Z stared at Henry.

“Annoying,” I said. “Isn’t it.”

“Do that to you?” Z said.

“No,” Henry said. “I couldn’t. He knows how. He’s as quick as I am, and he’s in shape.”

“And me?” Z said.

“You, Kemo Sabe, are quick enough,” Henry said. “But you don’t know how and you’re not in shape.”

“Kemo Sabe?” Z said, and looked at me.

“Henry speaks many languages,” I said.

Z studied Henry for a minute.

“You’re a big, strong guy,” Henry said. “And you got nice natural reflexes. I don’t want to close with you until you’re ready to puke.”

“No wind,” Z said.

Henry nodded.

“And you don’t know how to fight,” Henry said. “Ever been a bouncer?”

“Yeah.”

“Figures, they like guys like you,” Henry said. “Big, scary. Stop a lot of fights before they start.”

“And most of them are drunk,” Z said.

“Like you were,” I said. “When we fought.”

“Drunk’s never an asset in a fight,” Henry said.

“I don’t need to be drunk,” Z said.

“Sure,” Henry said. “Guy like you... You grab some guy, don’t know any more than you. You slam him up against a wall, give him one big punch on the side of the head. Fight over.”

Z nodded.

“Been winning fights all my life,” Z said. “Never had a problem until the other day.”

Henry nodded toward me.

“Then you ran into him?” Henry said. “And he knew more than you.”

Z nodded.

“Well,” Henry said. “There you go.”

Zebulon Sixkill IV


After the second game of his junior year, Harmon Stockard called Zebulon into the football office.

“What’s going on, Z?” he said.

“What?” Zebulon said.

“Coach Brock says you’re not in the weight room much anymore, and when you do show up, you dog it.”

“I work hard, Coach,” Zebulon said.

“They tell me you are ten pounds heavier than you were last spring.”

Zebulon shrugged.

“Against Oregon last week you carried twenty-eight times and gained forty yards. Against Michigan this week, you carried twenty-three times and gained fifty-one yards.”

Zebulon didn’t say anything.

“You used to explode into the line,” Stockard said. “You hit the hole so quick Turk had to hurry to get the handoff out there.”

Zebulon was silent.

“Now the hole closes before you get to it.”

“Maybe guys aren’t holding their blocks,” Zebulon said.

“Hell they aren’t,” Stockard said. “Turk’s turned and holding the ball and looking for you and here you come a step later. It’s all it takes. It’s the difference between everything and nothing.”

Zebulon looked at Stockard and looked away. He didn’t speak.

“You are throwing it away, kid,” Stockard said. “You were a first-round lock.”

Zebulon shrugged.

“I’m going to start Rollie next week,” Stockard said. “I’m gonna sit you until you’re ready to play.”

Zebulon nodded. They both sat for a moment. Then Stockard got up and came to stand in front of Zebulon.

“Goddamn it, Z, you’re special, you got a chance to be Riggins, Csonka, Jimmy Taylor.”

Zebulon didn’t know who those men were.

“Don’t let it go,” Stockard said. “Most people never get the chance. You got the chance. Don’t let it go.”

Zebulon shook his head as if there was something in his ear. He stood, and in standing, pushed Stockard a step back from him.

“Fuck this,” Zebulon said.

He walked out of the office. Stockard watched him go. Kid was the best he ever coached. Stockard wanted to save him but didn’t know how. He couldn’t let one of his players shove him, for crissake. Kid was always kind of sullen. No, that wasn’t fair. Kid was always very quiet. No excitement. He was so good. It came so easy. But he seemed to have no rah-rah. Play this game, you needed a little rah-rah. Rollie wasn’t as good as Z. No one was. But Rollie was good. And he was excited with it. And excited with the game. Maybe if it wasn’t so easy for Z. After the Arizona State game, Stockard took a deep breath and cut him.

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