The boards gave but little, thick and flush set as they were under the taught canvas which he had stretched with his own chump-hammering hands, years back, when Usef had sold him on the idea of being a boxing coach, had coaxed him back from the precipice of despair and set J-bar and Gans into the palm of his hands like two flickering candles of hope.
As comely as the traitress whore was, all the more so with her feigned look of disdain, it was time he set his eyes upon the far corner. There was no need to look for his opponent in this weirdly arranged fight between the long sought Black Zebra Killer of 1970s infamy and the long sought true black stooge, the Moral Eunuch of The Man, that the White Devil finally had malevolently enfolded under his leathery ghost wings. For this fool would come a lumbering, could be stopped by a blind Chinaman that knew how to jab. Rather, Poet glanced across the ring—as he circled warily by rote habit away from his corner to his right—interested in the comportment and effectiveness of his pupils. For he did not wish these fine boys long careers in the ring, but short ones, followed by a long career in the corners of other bread-winning men.
Gans was late getting the stool out from under that big corn-fed behind, paying too much attention to Noble's instruction to avoid the right hand that had pummeled him so. Gans' eyes sparkled with the need to correct this assessment and then darkened with the decision to withhold tactical information from his fighter out of sympathy for the opponent.
J-bar, the lesser fighter of the two, but far more mature, made certain the glove cuffs were secured and covered with a sweat band to prevent the Velcro opening and scrapping a sparring partner. Jones had likewise done well here. Also, J-bar gave the most useful and basic of instructions to the hulk that loomed over him, intent only on getting at Poet, "Relax and breathe, en listen up fo Mister Noble's voice as he be the caller."
Poet walked to center ring to touch gloves and instead the spiteful hulk let loos a terrific right hook punch, that seemed to have been conceived in Oakland, engineered into the rude semblance of biomechanics in Detroit, and finally thrown from D.C., when it should have been launches from Philadelphia out of a crouch. This all made no never mind in the end, for by the time the punch arrived in Baltimore the intended target was behind the apish shoulder of the thrower, tapping him on the ear to let him know he could have been hit.
Noble was screaming some military stuff at the hulk as J-bar objected, "That's measurin' or rabbit punchin'—have yo pick, Coach technically a foul, like you always sayin'. Keep it clean up in there!"
He felt a smile of joy crease his face as the muscle-bound left knee dipped to launch an Antarctic uppercut, which was as stillborn as the thrower's soul when Poet shifted to southpaw and passed the freight-train punch up into the empty space where he once stood back in the dim pre-history of this round. The man expended such effort that his mouthpiece flew out with that effort and Poet slyly slid it out of the ring with the outside of his left foot, as the equipment failure was obscured by the man's broad back, so his corner knew nothing of it and Jones dutifully snatched it up and stuck it behind her ear as a kind of trophy, her face beginning to widen in a worshipful—my Daddy can whoop all that raging ass—grin.
The Doctor was calculating his observations.
The traitress whore let her lips draw into a slight pout where she sat on the metal chair at ringside, even as her legs spread involuntarily, betraying her nature.
Noble howled, in the background, "Fucking jab, Jackson."
Poet now glided left in Southpaw and the fool raked his shoulder with a sweeping left hook, followed by a snarled challenge, said low under his huffing breath, "So Super Nigga afraid a Hulk Jackson—just a dance-en-prance nigga shinnin' shoes for—"
A shift jab was nothing he had ever tried with bad intentions before, never his style really, let alone out of a southpaw guard. But why not break out the entire Swiss Army knife when called open to silence such easy opposition?
Jackson went down like a 180-pound cracker cornerback with the courage to stand between Jim Browne and the goal line back in ancient times, when men were still men.
He stood, winked at the traitress whore, who suddenly became conscious of her widespread legs and slammed them shut like the jaws of a rat trap, which indeed they were.
He then turned to the startled men in the far corner and said, "J-bar, don't just stand there, bring an ice pack. Gan's, never let me see you withhold intelligence from a fighter again. Now go meditate on that while you give me twelve-hundred crunches and ten rounds with your shifty shadow."
He then turned to his corner, "The man needs attention and Gans is occupied with his penance. Please, lend a hand."
Sissy Usef, dressed like a tanned white fried chicken salesman, was standing at the door with a look of horror on his face and the cool Nordic killer had somehow gotten into the ring silently and was standing before him, "May I help you with your gloves, Sir? It would be an honor."
He extended his hands with a positive nod as the fellow expertly removed the gloves. "So, Agent, you are the boxer of this crew?"
"Krav Maga. I never have been able to get Jackson to jab properly. Perhaps you might give me some coaching tips—I'm the combatives and PT instructor. It was a pleasure to see you work."
"Gladly, Sir," he responded as the night whirled into an orgy of a boxing clinic, the entire time Gans' raw crunch grunts and slick-moving feet provided a rhythm section. Jackson was on his feet in seconds and was fine, taking a humbled part in the fistic clinic with the rest.
Finally, at the end of the session, as the summer sun dropped like a smoldering globe below the Accursed Window that faced opposite the direction of Mecca—such were the Islamic affectations of Usef—and having avoided directly instructing her all night, the traitress whore, aching for his attention, intentionally threw a jab that threw herself off balance and he stepped over to correct her with his hands, one on her chin, the other on her tail bone. "There, Woman, like that, with your head centered over your pelvis."
A dark bat of her slightly lashed lid and the slow bite of her lip, betrayed her anger, which was not the least bit assuaged by the Daddy wink he gave while he steeped away as if she were not every man's desire and put her scent from his addled mind.
The Doctor then approached him as people began to collect their things and Jones cleaned the gear. "Mister Poet, I admire your cerebral approach to senseless brutality. Might I arrange for private training?"
He looked into the fearless eyes of this sissy devil among devils, saw resolve there and then looked to Mister Noble, who nodded his assent. He then agreed with a silent handshake and the night was done, his mind unable to capture the remainder of it as he eventually slipped into oblivion in Usef's study above as the bought negro clown paced and expounded on the great windfall of money this government training contract was going to bring and also what a burden it laid on the overtaxed shoulders of poor, poor Usef, the Shayk of Fake.
