Japanese?”
Gil and I looked at each other.
I shrugged. “I don’t think so. How about Portuguese?”
“Nah. We were talking about getting someone who speaks Japanese in the corner who could understand what Nakano’s guys are telling him. So if they’re hollering for him to go for a choke, my corner can tell me, ‘Hey, watch out for the choke.’”
Gil nodded. “What’s the lag time on something like that?”
“Yeah, I know,” said Terry. “Plus, those guys don’t do a lot of hollering anyway. Just not in the culture. Kinda creepy.”
“Here you go,” Gil said. “You start to feel his arms or legs coming around your neck? Watch out for the choke.”
“You’re the best.”
“Good luck tomorrow.”
Turning away, Terry said, “You guys too. Hey, after party at Stinger.”
To me, Gil said, “It’s gonna be tough to dance with an ice pack on his throat.”
“Anything can happen,” I said.
“You seen Burbank yet?”
“I haven’t been looking.”
Gil, staring past me toward the door, said, “Shit, here comes Eddie.”
I turned and saw him coming in with four guys in nice suits with no ties and shirts open a few buttons to show tight T-shirts underneath. Benjamin and his smartphone were in the group, but I didn’t see Nick.
Eddie shook hands and half hugged his way through the room, moving fast so no one could hold him up. He looked like a piranha swimming through a pack of sharks with the sharks getting the hell out of the way. He spotted us and vectored in. “Woody, Gil, welcome. You get some sleep last night?”
“I did,” I said.
Good enough for Eddie. He said, “You’re lucky you already have a nickname, or we’d be calling you the Owl. Everyone I talk to, when I tell them who Junior’s fighting, they say, ‘Who?’” He’d probably been holding it in all day.
I feigned confusion.
He seemed disappointed for a beat, then got serious. “How we feeling?”
“We’re feeling good,” Gil said.
Eddie nodded at the Brazilians. “These guys in your corner?”
I said, “They’ll all be here tomorrow, but just Gil and Jairo, the big one, are going to corner me.”
“We’ll get them some passes. Benjamin, get them some passes.”
Benjamin went to work on his smartphone.
Eddie said, “Gil, I have some paperwork you and the other guy have to look at and sign, so catch up with me after the weigh-in, yeah?”
“Mm,” Gil said.
Eddie gestured at the purple drape. “The buzz out there is crazy. I put a few guys in the crowd with Woodshed Wallace shirts on, and they’re telling the Junior fans it might go down right here. That the two of you could flip the switch and start throwing in your skivvies.”
“I have shirts?”
“Yeah, they’re slick. Benjamin had his people designing them while we were at dinner, and they printed overnight. They smell like shit, but that’ll fade. It’s got your silhouette kicking in the door of a shed, and the flying boards spell out Woodshed, all splintered and nasty looking. You want one?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Gil? What size?”
“Four of each,” Gil said.
“I shoulda known better. I’ll have somebody bring them by. And listen, we’re going in the order of the fights for the weigh-ins, so you guys are second to last. I’m not saying be boring, but try not to outshine the main event.”
“Hard to do, fighting in skivvies,” I said.
“You’ll figure it out.” Eddie snagged a girl hustling by with a coil of velvet rope in her arms. “Sweetheart, when you’re done with that, get four of the brown T-shirts in each size and bring them over here to Woodshed Wallace, okay?”
“Who?”
They banged through the weigh-ins and stare-down photos, some of the guys down to their jocks to get within the limit. We could see most of the stage by standing at the
Gil and I looked at each other.
I shrugged. “I don’t think so. How about Portuguese?”
“Nah. We were talking about getting someone who speaks Japanese in the corner who could understand what Nakano’s guys are telling him. So if they’re hollering for him to go for a choke, my corner can tell me, ‘Hey, watch out for the choke.’”
Gil nodded. “What’s the lag time on something like that?”
“Yeah, I know,” said Terry. “Plus, those guys don’t do a lot of hollering anyway. Just not in the culture. Kinda creepy.”
“Here you go,” Gil said. “You start to feel his arms or legs coming around your neck? Watch out for the choke.”
“You’re the best.”
“Good luck tomorrow.”
Turning away, Terry said, “You guys too. Hey, after party at Stinger.”
To me, Gil said, “It’s gonna be tough to dance with an ice pack on his throat.”
“Anything can happen,” I said.
“You seen Burbank yet?”
“I haven’t been looking.”
Gil, staring past me toward the door, said, “Shit, here comes Eddie.”
I turned and saw him coming in with four guys in nice suits with no ties and shirts open a few buttons to show tight T-shirts underneath. Benjamin and his smartphone were in the group, but I didn’t see Nick.
Eddie shook hands and half hugged his way through the room, moving fast so no one could hold him up. He looked like a piranha swimming through a pack of sharks with the sharks getting the hell out of the way. He spotted us and vectored in. “Woody, Gil, welcome. You get some sleep last night?”
“I did,” I said.
Good enough for Eddie. He said, “You’re lucky you already have a nickname, or we’d be calling you the Owl. Everyone I talk to, when I tell them who Junior’s fighting, they say, ‘Who?’” He’d probably been holding it in all day.
I feigned confusion.
He seemed disappointed for a beat, then got serious. “How we feeling?”
“We’re feeling good,” Gil said.
Eddie nodded at the Brazilians. “These guys in your corner?”
I said, “They’ll all be here tomorrow, but just Gil and Jairo, the big one, are going to corner me.”
“We’ll get them some passes. Benjamin, get them some passes.”
Benjamin went to work on his smartphone.
Eddie said, “Gil, I have some paperwork you and the other guy have to look at and sign, so catch up with me after the weigh-in, yeah?”
“Mm,” Gil said.
Eddie gestured at the purple drape. “The buzz out there is crazy. I put a few guys in the crowd with Woodshed Wallace shirts on, and they’re telling the Junior fans it might go down right here. That the two of you could flip the switch and start throwing in your skivvies.”
“I have shirts?”
“Yeah, they’re slick. Benjamin had his people designing them while we were at dinner, and they printed overnight. They smell like shit, but that’ll fade. It’s got your silhouette kicking in the door of a shed, and the flying boards spell out Woodshed, all splintered and nasty looking. You want one?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Gil? What size?”
“Four of each,” Gil said.
“I shoulda known better. I’ll have somebody bring them by. And listen, we’re going in the order of the fights for the weigh-ins, so you guys are second to last. I’m not saying be boring, but try not to outshine the main event.”
“Hard to do, fighting in skivvies,” I said.
“You’ll figure it out.” Eddie snagged a girl hustling by with a coil of velvet rope in her arms. “Sweetheart, when you’re done with that, get four of the brown T-shirts in each size and bring them over here to Woodshed Wallace, okay?”
“Who?”
They banged through the weigh-ins and stare-down photos, some of the guys down to their jocks to get within the limit. We could see most of the stage by standing at the
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