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ENGINEERING THE APOCALYPSE by Kimberly Parish Davis WELL DONE! Fiction
ENGINEERING THE APOCALYPSE by Kimberly Parish Davis
The old man commanded the cheeseboard. His companion, a slight woman in a wheelchair would nod at the Cotswold or the gruyere and he’d feed it to her. Trays of canapés circulated around the room, and the old man, by dent of his extraordinary girth, dissuaded casual nibblers from approaching that end of the buffet table. A few people watched them from nearby tables. They couldn’t hear the conversation—if you could call it that. The old man spoke softly to the woman and she replied with nods or scowls—the only means of communication that remained to her since the accident that had all-but killed her and robbed her of her career.
The old man, her lawyer and frequent companion since the settlement, said, “Tommy’s a born fighter.” He’d told her earlier that week that the money from the settlement was not going to last the year. He hadn’t told her how much money had gone directly into his own bank account.
Emily Preston nodded. She was just about lucid. The doctors had finally balanced the cocktail of drugs she took so that she could spend at least a few hours a day awake.
“You know it isn’t always some bully goading him into fights at school.”
She looked at her lap.
“Kid’s like a berserker. Push the right button and he’ll fight to the death.”
She scowled.
“I mean that metaphorically, of course, Em.”
Her eyes filled with tears, and the corners of her mouth turned down.
Pristine in his silk shirt and waistcoat, gold watch chain artfully draped around his great round middle, the old man said, “He’ll be fine, Em. I’ll see to that. Let him do this for you. Pretty soon, sacking groceries isn’t going to cover the medical bills.”
Her tears spilled out, and he made a show of gently wiping them away. Her approval in front of an audience was essential. Emily’s son Tommy could set the boxing world on fire with the right manager, but at seventeen he needed his only parent to sign a release.
Finally, she nodded.
“Fine. That’s just fine Em. I’ve got the papers in the car.” He lifted two fingers to signal the waiter drifting by with a champagne tray.
Tommy Preston was good-looking—six-foot-two with sandy blond hair and ripped—a surfer to melt the hearts of the betting public. His good looks would draw millions out of the white establishment if he lived up to his promise in the ring. The old man built the boy’s reputation quickly with carefully selected opponents and he made sure the right people were looking every time a brown-skinned fighter hit the canvas at Tommy’s feet. “The Angel” seemed an innocent moniker at first, but the old man’s strategy soon became apparent.
Tommy was sitting in the old man’s office cooling off after training one afternoon when the phone rang.
“I don’t know, Carlos. He’s just a kid.” The old man made a wide-eyed open-mouthed gesture and pointed at the phone. His voice stayed smooth and even. “Give us another year. Your boy has what, twenty-five pounds on him?” He gestured as if reeling in a big fish. He had to make sure the hook was well and truly set. “You do that.” He disconnected and jumped out of his chair and did a little cha-cha-cha.
“Who was that?” Tommy jumped up, excited without knowing what had happened.
“Carlos Mendoza. Diaz’s manager. They’ve been watching you. He wants a fight.”
“No fucking way! El Diablo?” Tommy bounced on the balls of his feet, punched the air and whooped.
“Easy, killer. He weighs damn-nearly two-hundred pounds. Your one-seventy-five ain’t gonna get it. I don’t care how fast you are.”
The match was eight months coming, time for Tommy to bulk up, time for the old man to whip the sports commentators into a frenzy over “The Angel” fighting “El Diablo,” a lightning fast Mexican named Eduardo Diaz who was on track to become the cruiser-weight champion. The fight was billed as “The Apocalypse.” Vendors sold haloes and horns, but anyone could tell who backed which fighter without those props. The racial lines were clearly drawn. All the city’s off-duty police were hired to keep the crowd under control the night of the fight.
In the dressing room, Tommy said, “You placed the bets?”
“Of course. The win. The fight to finish by round six. A knockout.” The old man didn’t tell the kid he’d actually bet on El Diablo to win with a KO by round six. His work here was nearly done. The odds were slanting heavily in Tommy’s favor, so when the kid went down, he’d be rich.
Tommy nodded.
Rounds one, two, and three looked close, and the old man found himself sweating in the front row next to Emily, who’d insisted on coming, though he’d tried to dissuade her. In the end he’d thought, What the hell? Maybe it’ll kill her when the kid gets knocked out.
The bell rang at the start of the fourth round, and El Diablo came out of his corner slow. Tommy’s fans went wild as he laid into the Mexican with a barrage of jabs to the body, but El Diablo had drawn Tommy in using Mohammad Ali’s old rope-a-dope, and when the kid was nearly spent, El Diablo’s lightning fast right hook followed by a series of left jabs sent Tommy staggering across the ring. The ref called the round.
The old man was on his feet yelling. He ran over and whispered in Tommy’s ear, “Next time he clocks you, go down.”
“What?”
The bell sounded for round five.
Go Down? Tommy shook his head. He was finally mad. He moved like a dancer, and to quote one commentator, “The Angel rained down on El Diablo with the full force of heaven bringing him down in Round Five.”
Emily turned and caught the eye of a bookie by the back wall. He winked.
