turn to nod
thoughtfully in the heavy silence.
He pushed himself from
the wall. “I need to work off some anger. Would you be interested in helping
me?”
My mouth opened, but I
had no idea how to respond. What does he mean? My jaw hung lifeless for
several seconds. His eyes burned into mine.
“Sure.” A simple word
that would change my life.
“Meet me downstairs in
five minutes.”
***
We zoomed across the
Brooklyn Bridge. Trent drove fast and angry through the wet and gloomy night.
The tires skidded over greasy puddles, remnants of an evening storm, and
swished over the glistening asphalt. Dirty gray clouds hung low in the heavens,
hiding the moon and stars and turning the river into a solid sheet of
undulating black silk.
Leaving the bridge, we
raced along the waterfront until we came to a squat warehouse that seemed to
stretch for several blocks. The cracked and potholed parking lot was empty, the
surrounding chain link fences overgrown with grasses and weeds. The place
looked deserted except for a single harsh yellow bulb that shone above a
half-rusted garage entrance.
“Where are we?”
“Brooklyn.”
“I know that. What is
this place?”
“You’ll see.” He stopped
the car facing the garage door, the headlights shining on the chipped and
scarred surface. “Can I trust you?”
“Trust me with what?”
He hesitated, the
question hanging dangerously in the air.
“My secrets,” he finally
answered.
“Absolutely.”
He took his phone from
the front pocket of his jeans and typed out a brief text. The garage door
lifted with a grinding shriek and clank of metal gears, slowly revealing a
scene that seemed thoroughly surreal.
The warehouse was the
size of several football fields and brightly illuminated like an arena.
Vehicles of every description lined the walls, from clapboard pickup trucks to
rare million-dollar racers. A few people leaned on car hoods and chatted, but
the rest strolled in pairs or small groups toward the rear of the building. My
slim black cigarette pants, sheer mint green blouse, and demure beige flats
seemed overly formal in the sea of denim cutoffs, tight t-shirts, and flip-flops.
I looked at Trent. His
eyes were laser beams fixed straight ahead. He eased the car into a makeshift
parking space, popped open the passenger door, and pulled a duffel bag from the
back seat.
We followed the crowd
toward the center of light and noise. A periodic roar shook the rafters. As we
got closer, I saw a ring of benches arranged in staggered stadium rows around a
large circular wire mesh cage. Inside, two hulking shirtless men squared off,
their arms hanging tensely at their sides until one lunged at the other in a
fury of pounding fists. The second fighter fell to the ground as the crowd
stood and cheered.
I stopped in my tracks.
“Fighting?”
Trent took a few more
steps and turned back to me. “MMA, to be exact.”
“But…how…who…” I
stammered, trying to articulate my confusion. “Who is fighting?” I looked at
the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. “Are you going to fight?”
“You got it.”
“Who are these people? Is
this some kind of underground fighting ring?” I lowered my voice to a whisper.
“Is this legal?”
Trent laughed with open-mouthed
delight.
“Yes, this is some kind
of underground fighting ring. It’s mildly legal and mildly illegal.”
“What does that even
mean?”
“It means that we pay the
right people to look the other way.”
He walked a few more
steps and turned again to the oily spot on the warehouse ground where I stood
rooted with indecision.
“Are you in?” He held out
one hand, his fingers beckoning me forward. I grasped his hand without another
word. We headed together toward the ring.
Trent waved to a group
gathered on a middle bench as we drew nearer.
“Kat, this is Oscar
Calabresis and his lovely wife, Esmeralda. Oscar is my training partner at the
gym.”
Oscar sat with his knees
bouncing nervously and
thoughtfully in the heavy silence.
He pushed himself from
the wall. “I need to work off some anger. Would you be interested in helping
me?”
My mouth opened, but I
had no idea how to respond. What does he mean? My jaw hung lifeless for
several seconds. His eyes burned into mine.
“Sure.” A simple word
that would change my life.
“Meet me downstairs in
five minutes.”
***
We zoomed across the
Brooklyn Bridge. Trent drove fast and angry through the wet and gloomy night.
The tires skidded over greasy puddles, remnants of an evening storm, and
swished over the glistening asphalt. Dirty gray clouds hung low in the heavens,
hiding the moon and stars and turning the river into a solid sheet of
undulating black silk.
Leaving the bridge, we
raced along the waterfront until we came to a squat warehouse that seemed to
stretch for several blocks. The cracked and potholed parking lot was empty, the
surrounding chain link fences overgrown with grasses and weeds. The place
looked deserted except for a single harsh yellow bulb that shone above a
half-rusted garage entrance.
“Where are we?”
“Brooklyn.”
“I know that. What is
this place?”
“You’ll see.” He stopped
the car facing the garage door, the headlights shining on the chipped and
scarred surface. “Can I trust you?”
“Trust me with what?”
He hesitated, the
question hanging dangerously in the air.
“My secrets,” he finally
answered.
“Absolutely.”
He took his phone from
the front pocket of his jeans and typed out a brief text. The garage door
lifted with a grinding shriek and clank of metal gears, slowly revealing a
scene that seemed thoroughly surreal.
The warehouse was the
size of several football fields and brightly illuminated like an arena.
Vehicles of every description lined the walls, from clapboard pickup trucks to
rare million-dollar racers. A few people leaned on car hoods and chatted, but
the rest strolled in pairs or small groups toward the rear of the building. My
slim black cigarette pants, sheer mint green blouse, and demure beige flats
seemed overly formal in the sea of denim cutoffs, tight t-shirts, and flip-flops.
I looked at Trent. His
eyes were laser beams fixed straight ahead. He eased the car into a makeshift
parking space, popped open the passenger door, and pulled a duffel bag from the
back seat.
We followed the crowd
toward the center of light and noise. A periodic roar shook the rafters. As we
got closer, I saw a ring of benches arranged in staggered stadium rows around a
large circular wire mesh cage. Inside, two hulking shirtless men squared off,
their arms hanging tensely at their sides until one lunged at the other in a
fury of pounding fists. The second fighter fell to the ground as the crowd
stood and cheered.
I stopped in my tracks.
“Fighting?”
Trent took a few more
steps and turned back to me. “MMA, to be exact.”
“But…how…who…” I
stammered, trying to articulate my confusion. “Who is fighting?” I looked at
the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. “Are you going to fight?”
“You got it.”
“Who are these people? Is
this some kind of underground fighting ring?” I lowered my voice to a whisper.
“Is this legal?”
Trent laughed with open-mouthed
delight.
“Yes, this is some kind
of underground fighting ring. It’s mildly legal and mildly illegal.”
“What does that even
mean?”
“It means that we pay the
right people to look the other way.”
He walked a few more
steps and turned again to the oily spot on the warehouse ground where I stood
rooted with indecision.
“Are you in?” He held out
one hand, his fingers beckoning me forward. I grasped his hand without another
word. We headed together toward the ring.
Trent waved to a group
gathered on a middle bench as we drew nearer.
“Kat, this is Oscar
Calabresis and his lovely wife, Esmeralda. Oscar is my training partner at the
gym.”
Oscar sat with his knees
bouncing nervously and
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