Gloves

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Dick jerked awake, his wrists restricted, unable to grip the floor to crawl or pinch his nose.  He blinked twice as smelling salts were wafted under his nostrils followed by the overpowering scent of too many sweaty bodies cramped together.

"Easy there, boyo, easy.  You got yourself topsy-turvied by that last hook there."

Dick glanced up at the speaker: a weather-beaten man in brown pants that were missing one leg.  A make-shift patch hung over his left eye made of the ground-down bottom of a glass bottle. 

"Take your time," the man continued.  "Smatts rung your bell good.  Maybe you'll learn now to keep that chin tucked instead of sailin' it as high as the bolts and banner."

"Bolts...what?  Who are you?"  Dick asked.  His hands were encased in gloves of thick, cracked leather taped around the wrist.  The canvas floor below him shook from the crowd's outburst as he climbed to his feet.  "Where the fuck am I?"

The man surveyed Dick, rubbing his left elbow absent-mindedly.  "Hey, hey, look'a me.  What's your name, boy?  Don't know, do ya?  That's a spot of concern.  Rorky, aye, Rorky!  Come'ere."

A slender woman with an androdgonous face stood up from a rickety wooden table just outside the ring and approached.  The two talked quickly, whispers turning into hisses as they disagreed.  In the opposite corner the other fighter bounced on his toes, muscles defined and glistening in the sick yellow light.  A random spectator sprinted towards the ring.  Dick watched as the other fighter dropped the man with a single hammer fist to the top of the head.  Two men dressed in dark red vests dragged the unconscious body out by the legs.

"Oy, Dick!"

Dick turned.  The sallow cheeks of the woman puffed out, her dark eyes seemed to grow even darker.   "Bullocks, Cid.   Knows his name well enough to answer to it.  The fight goes on."

"Well boyo, looks like you're gonna have to finish this, either way," the old man said as he climbed between the ropes and out of the ring.

"Hey, Cid is it?" Dick asked.

"Ya?"

"Any advice?"

"Don't run.  It'd only be worse.  And try not to get punched in the face much...I thinks your brain pan's been rattled enough."

"Will this...will I remember?" Dick asked, eying the fighter.

"Not if you lose, boyo."

"And if I win?"

"One step closer to gettin' outta this maze.  That's what ya want, ain't it?  Bet your gut don't forget that.  Man can get knocked on the head from here ' til past the Judgement day and not forget what he truly wants."  Cid flipped his eye patch up exposing a hollow socket.  "Advice ya want?  Try not to think.  Your arms'll remember who they are before ya head does."

Dick nodded.  Somewhere someone rang a bell twice.  The other fight strolled towards the middle of the ring.  The bell rang a third time.

"Don't get punched in the face.  Don't get punched in the face," Dick muttered to himself as he circled his opponent, ducking and retreating the immediate barrage of fists.

Smatts lead with his left jab.  His right hand remained next to his jaw, feigning a vigilant guard.  By the tension in his shoulder, however, Dick knew the hand was being held for an opening, a momentary lapse when he could close the distance and deliver a knock out blow.  Another left shot out, which Dick side-stepped, countering with his own right hook that glanced off his opponent's temple.   Smatt inched forward, unphased.  Dick retreated and circled back around the ring.  He peeked out over the audience whenever he could afford the half second distraction, desperate to find a clock or a judge with a watch, anything to signal that the round would eventually end

Lowering his head, Smatts charged.  Dick's right foot caught on an indentation in the canvas, tripping him.  He saw Smatts close the distance between them surprisingly fast for a large man.  His right hand drew back, hips turning to add their power to the awful blow.  Dick, certain only that he couldn't take the punch, ducked.

The right cross sailed hopelessly over Dick's head.  Smatt's momentum carried into and then over Dick, who aided with a quick toss as he righted himself.   Both men flopped over the braided rope that encircled the ring and crashed down into the crowd.

"Get up boyo, get up and get him, kill kill KILL!" Cid screamed, hopping from one leg to the other and slapping his hands against either side of his head.   "Finish him!"

The world spun despite avoiding the last punch.  Dick climbed to his feet, swaying slightly.  He turned and made contact with wobbily right hook.  Smatts sneared as if annoyed and cocked back his own right hand.

"Shit," Dick mumbled and stepped behind a screaming fan.  Smatts' punch dropped the man to the ground and Dick took off at a sprint weaving between members of the crowd until he reached the other side of the ring.

"Baker, you fuck, you COWARD!" Smatt yawped. 

Despite the thick crowd, Dick tracked Smatts' movement as his shoulders and head stuck up among the average-sized men.  He shoved and jabbed at anyone near him, sifting through the crowd as easily as through sand.  Dick waited until Smatts turned to the thickest part of the crowd.

Then Dick sprinted back towards, diving in between the ropes and regaining his feet as quickly as possible.

"Smatts!" he barked.  "Smatts!"

The pugilist turned and spotted Dick inside the ring.  His mouth turned up at the corners at the sight of his prey.  The crowd parted as he rumbled back towards his arena, but Dick didn't wait for him to enter the ring.

Smatts lowered his head as he began to climb between the ropes.  Dick leapt to the corner and yanked with all his strength.  At first, the top rope simply groaned, but then it snapped and came loose from where it was tethered to the corner pole.  Keeping the rope in his left hand, Dick slid the few paces to the center.   Without a pause he looped the rope around Smatts' bent head and jerked it tight.  A surprised yelp escaped the big man and his hands began to bat and flail at the air.   Dick raised his right hand and brought it down across the bridge of his opponent's nose.  Blood erupted.  Dick hit him again and again until his hand throbbed as if it would fall off.  Exhausted, Dick collapsed to the canvas, releasing the rope and the now limp body.

No one cheered or clapped.  Dick panted, sweat stinging his eyes.  A gurgling sound leaked out of the pulp that remained of Smatts' face.

Rorky, clad in a long, flowing garb that resembled a royal, if disheveled rob, parted the crowd as she approached the ring.  Men bowed their heads, averted their eyes or removed their caps as she strode by.  Everyone did, except Cid who appeared hopping about joyously despite the creak of his aged and thinning legs.  As he turned and saw Rorky, Cid, with a noisy effort, leapt high, clicking his heels together twice in succession.

"I haven't seen you this happy since..." Rorky said.

"Since when, since when ya reversible cunt?!" Cid shouted back.

"I suppose never.  You are a foul gopher of a man, Cid.  Here," she said, turning to Dick who had made his way to the edge of the ring.  "I believe this belongs to you."  Her long garb crinkled then snapped as she threw it open.  The slick, black barrel of a shotgun emerged pointing at Dick.  Waiting for his reaction but seeing none, Rorky flipped the weapon around and held it out for Dick to receive. 

"Thanks," Dick muttered, the feel of the firm wood of the shotgun butt helping soften the rigid muscles along his forearms.  He glanced around the make-shift arena again, noting how the crowd had dissipated and regrouped into smaller cliques.  One of men who all wore brown bowlers with a grey and black feather tucked into the band; one of men who were all clean-shaven except for long, braided goatees; the last of men who all wore a blue sash

"Follow me, we'll get your man his prize," Rorky said.

"Aye.  Wait here," Cid said to Dick.  "Try to stay outta trouble, hear?  I'll get what ya earned and we'll scamp outta this ruddy rubble, maybe toss back a drink or two, find a spot of tail to complete your celebration.  How's that sound, boy-o?"

Dick smiled though it felt unnatural and stiff across his cheeks.  "Be quick about it.  That drink's sounding good about now," Dick answered.  Cid flipped up his thumb in affirmation and scampered after Rorky as she lead him out a side door and into a low-hanging tent that Dick could just see through a stained window.

Dick knew 18 men meant five reloads, more if the groups scattered quickly.  He knew two men could fit through the door shoulder-to-shoulder at the far end of the room, even at a full sprint.  By the sting of the wind when he breathed deep, he knew there was a body of salt water nearby.  The moon shone down through an unpaned window tucked high in the corner near the shadows.   Dick knew the sounds of his shotgun would echo and reverberate, waking anyone within a couple hundred yards.  The screams of anyone wounded but not dead would carry even further.

But the moment never came.  None of the men turned and rushed Dick.  No one eased a knife out of a pocket or changed a grip turning a walking cane into a killing club.  No one even tensed up, Dick realized.  He shook off the feeling that had clamped his jaw and drawn his heel off the ground.  Leaning against the ring, he felt soreness enter his muscles all at once, and his body began to ache in rhythm with his heartbeat. 

Though still on edge, tearing through his mind hand-over-hand for a stray memory or faint recollection, Dick felt comforted by his weariness and thought that might be a good sign. 

“Let’s not keep the champ waiting!” someone yelled.  A man jogged outside over to the tent Rorky and Cid had disappeared into.

“Fuck!” he yelled.

“What’d you mean ‘Fuck’?” another man answered.

“Fuck!  I mean, get the fuck out here!  Rorky got stuck!”

Dick was on the heels of the third man out the door.  He ripped aside the tent flap.  The handle of a hiltless silver blade protruded from Rorky’s exposed back.  The robes she’d been wearing were shredded, as if clawed through, hanging off her shoulder.  Blood pooled drop by drop on the sand below.  Waves slapped at a shoreline.  Through the other side of the tent Dick saw the water and immediately felt his energy return.

“Cid.”

“Yes,” Dick answered, turning around, not knowing who had spoken.  “And he’s off on the water.  We have to go after him.”  Only six men remained.

“How do you know?” the largest of them asked.

“Tracks lead that way.  He’s old, slow…relatively.  He had a boat waiting.  This wasn’t a whim.  What’s your name?”  The man stared back blankly.  “Right, one of Smatts’ nibbles seems to have left me with amnesia.  None of this is familiar so introduce yourselves…again, if I know you, and then let’s go get Cid and my prize.”

“I’m Roger,” the man said. 

“What is it, by the way?” Dick asked.

“What is what?”

“My prize.”

“Big bag of money and…,” Roger pointed towards the body.

“Rorky.  She was the prize?” Dick questioned.

“Yeah, you really don’t remember anything?  Suffice to say, you’ll notice before long, not an abundance of women.  They, and what they can give, are highly valued.  You were about to be crowned king of this little filth pot,” Roger said.

“I guess I’d be horny, too,” Dick said.

“It’s not just fucking,” Roger clarified.  “You got completely wiped, not even the basics laws of nature.  We’re going to have to have a long talk about the birds and bees and what that means in this world, Dick.  Women are very powerful.”

“Well this one’s dead.  Shouldn’t we be looking for Cid now?”  Dick started off toward the water.  The men trailed behind silently.

A rowboat met them on the shore and transported them out to a larger ship.  The smell of fish permeated the wood and every inch of the vessel, including the four-man crew. 

“Where to?” the captain asked as Dick and the other men climbed aboard. 

“Where’s the nearest city?  Some place big, busy, easy to get lost in with a lot of money.” Dick asked.

“Only place like that around here is Eck, down the coast 20 miles,” Roger chimed in. 

“Eck,” the captain muttered before barking a few swift commands to his crew who scurried about.  Shortly, the ship began cutting through the waves until a constant wind whipped over them.  Again Dick felt comforted as he stared out into the gullet of night. He passed the trip in silence, arms crossed, enjoying the steady calm he found in himself as he mulled through everything.  Cid, Rorky, the prize, a shotgun, and a small leather journal Dick discovered in the inside pocket of his jacket.   Inside were a handful of notes and sketches.  He recopied a few words.  The handwriting matched.   Still he felt steady.

One of the sailors spotted something in the water ahead and called for the captain to slow down.  A spotlight was turned on and meandered out over the water until the ship came within range.  It locked on the form: Cid balanced, legs crossed, in what looked to be the bottom half of a barrel, his right hand extended out clutching the end of a rope that hung down into the water.

“Well hello hello,” Cid called out.  “Dick, come on out in the dingy.  Let’s have a palaver, aye?”

“That my money?” Dick asked.

“Yup, smart boy you are.”  Cid cackled and jerked the rope for emphasis.  “Come on out.  Send that fishing pisser off.  They can come back in an hour.  We’ll be done by then.”

Dick knew he could fill the old man and his tub of a boat with holes.  He even thought if he stalled for another thirty seconds he’d be close enough to dive in after the rope and his sinking prize.  But he also knew Cid had gone to lengths to meet him in the middle of the ocean in what Dick suspected was a staged theft and flight.  If not staged, than at least covering some other agenda.  The idea that his amnesia may even be involved crossed Dick’s mind.

“I have two questions before that happens,” Dick said.  “First, is this all a dream?”

“No, you’re not dreaming, boyo,” Cid said, a twinge of sadness in his voice.  “Second?”

“Am I dead and are  you God?”

Cid laughed with his whole, folded-up body, bobbing so violently that some water slopped over the sides causing the barrel to sit a few inches lower in the water.  “No, no, no, you are very much alive.  And I ain’t no papa to ya.  Now come on in.”

Dick climbed into the rowboat and watched as the fishing vessel sailed off.  He knew they were over a half a mile away by the time they stopped. 

“Here we are, so talk, Cid.  What’s your game?  I’m out of theories of what’s going on.  How about some insight?”  Dick waited for him to speak.  Cid scratched at his neck. Two stars just above the horizon shimmered then were blacked out by a cloud and for a moment the world was so dark Dick couldn’t be sure that Cid was still there.  The clouds passed and Cid was still there, floating carelessly, rope in hand.

“If a man with two eyes can’t trust what he sees, a man with one has half as much to worry about, aye?”  Cid grunted a laugh, removed his glass eye patch and tossed it into the sea.  “I don’t have any answers for you, though.  I didn’t mean to speak as if I did.  Here.”  Cid handed Dick the rope.  He hauled a small wooden box wrapped in clear plastic up out of the water.  Inside the box were four large bundles of green and brown money.

"You think handing this over now will save your life?" Dick asked. 

“I’ve a suspicion tonight ends with me dead either way,” Cid continued.  “You’re not the type of man to let a death go unpaid for.  Not that debt, no.  You’d drink up the whole ocean before you did that.”

"Then why?  Why do any of this?  Why kill Rorky?  Why run if you had no intention of getting away?"

"And there, Dick boy, is the kicker.  Why, you asks?  Because you told me to.  Almost a week ago, when I told you about the Smatts fight," Cid said.