Going Fast by Elaine McCluskey Page B

in, smiling as though everyone had been waiting for him. He pulled up a chair next to Scott, ready for the show. He nodded at the woman. “Theresa met Donnie when he was doing community service. He got one hundred hours.”
    Scott looked at Theresa and then at Donnie, who was following his chest into the ring. His head seemed to be attached to an invisible string coming from the ceiling.
    â€œHe okay now?” Scott asked.
    â€œOh yeah,” Johnny smirked. “He’s an expert on the spin cycle.”
    Turmoil stripped to a white cotton T-shirt from Champion Management.
    â€œChampion Management,” Johnny chuckled. “I heard thatthey’re a bunch of chisellers. I know a waitress who hooked up with their lawyer, Douglas. She says he’s cheap as hell.”
    Ownie set the timer and the two men moved slowly in the ring, shuffling, touching gloves. Turmoil was half a head taller, but Donnie was, in Ownie’s words, “wrapped tighter than a Christmas surprise.” It was well known that Donnie had a weakness for women
and
a nasty disposition. When he had sparred with one of Tootsy’s former fighters, he had punched the guy’s lights out and then
insulted
him. “You couldn’t do nothin’ with me,” Donnie had scoffed. “And I had sex twice before I came in here today.”
    â€œTurmoil should be able to handle him easy,” predicted Johnny. “Donnie’s only a blown-up cruiser.”
    Turmoil raced out, throwing punches.
    â€œHey, man,” Ownie shouted. “Pace yourself. It’s not amateur hour, you’re not training for three rounds.”
    â€œMan,” Ownie muttered, trying to process Turmoil’s performance in the ring. “You’ve got amateur written all over you, and not even that good of an amateur. You’re not getting the power because you’re not delivering right.”
    Pop!
Donnie’s jab struck Turmoil like a snake. Johnny shrugged surprise while Turmoil shook his head and moved forward.
    Pop!
Donnie got through again.
    An old man was sitting ringside in a wooden chair. He laughed uproariously, like this was funnier than Fibber McGee and Molly, better than vaudevillian braggarts and blowhards. He slapped his leg and stomped a white leather shoe. He needed no introduction. In his prime, before his hair was as white as his shoes, before Fibber met Throckmorton Gilder-sleeve, Suey Simms had racked up one hundred and thirty fights, starting as a feather and working his way up to welterweight. He had fourteen bouts in Madison Square Garden, the mecca of boxing, the amphitheatre for gladiators such asJoe Louis, Ali, and Duran. “Suey Simms was in the ring for twenty-five years,” he liked to say. “Long enough to get an indexed government pension.”
    â€œIce!” Suey hissed each time Donnie’s jab connected. “Iiiiice.”
    The old man, who was wearing a red scarf and a plaid tam, continued to cackle. Johnny nudged Scott, and Theresa freed her lip, relieved. Turmoil looked at the dirty canvas, eyes wide and disbelieving, as Suey doubled over in a fit of coughing, stomping one leather shoe until he caught his breath and hissed again, “Iiiiice.”
    Three minutes ended with a buzz.
    Ownie climbed into the ring, showed Turmoil something with his hands, and then climbed out. Puzzled, Turmoil stared at the canvas again. The corners of Donnie’s mouth curled into a smirk, like a flower opening to the sun. No one was paying his board, lining up fights, or hiring a trainer, no one was promising him a four-by-four; he was just a local fighter, as common as clay.
    â€œIt’s all right,” Ownie said to no one in particular, convincing himself. He turned to Scott, who pretended not to notice Donnie’s smirk. “It’s nothing we can’t fix,” Ownie told the reporter. “You see, some fighters soak everything up; they just want to learn, learn,