Last Shot
Prior to his comeback fight, a boxer goes into a bar where two gringos in seemingly civilian clothes challenge him to an arm-wrestling match.
I brushed the unwashed curtain aside and went in.
Two men in baseball caps and sunglasses sat at the bar.
Way in the back an older paisano had a woman on his lap: he was running his hand up and down her leg while she threw her head back giddily.
I walked over to a table closest to the exit door, dropped my duffel bag on the floor and sat down.
At once, a fiftish-looking woman with deep dark circles under her eyes came towards me.
Hola, she said, her voice thick like the air outside.
Hola, I said, wary.
Never seen you here before, she said, you new?
Just got here, yes.
She glanced at my duffel bag then gave me a quick once-over and said:
Some kind of baseball player?
Some kind, yes, I said.
Hmm…
Yeah…
Well, are you going to buy me a drink?
Why not, I said. Get us two Modelos, please.
I don’t do beer, she said. It bloats me.
What do you want then?
Vodka and cranberry juice.
Ok, I said. Get your vodka; I’ll have a beer.
Alright, Valenzuela, she said. BRB.
I watched her walk away and go up to the bar. One of the two men said something to her and then they all turned to look at me.
They stood up and began walking towards me, the bigger one with a Modelo in his hand. The other one behind.
I sensed there’d be trouble and Tony’s words rang out in my head.
Don’t go near no bars—go straight home. You have to rest.
You were right, Tony, I thought to myself. I’m sorry.
Order a beer? said the big, broad-shouldered one.
The other one stood quiet next to him, smaller frame, eyes a darker blue.
Sí, gracias, I said.
No problema, amigo, he said. Mind if we sit?
I gestured toward two chairs with my hand.
Thanks, he said. We’ll keep it short so you can go back to your date, he added with a wink, then nodded with his chin at the fichera by the bar.
Right, I said.
What’s in that duffel bag of yours?
My gym clothes.
You a bodybuilder?
More or less.
Me too, he said and sat right up, his wide chest sticking out.
I nodded.
I’ll tell you what, he said, eager. You seem like a nice guy. If you beat me at an arm-wrestling match, we’ll let you leave no questions asked. How about that?
I looked at his partner—a stupid smirk was crossing his lips.
Really? I said.
Sure, buddy, he said. But you have to beat me fair and square—hand to table, got it?
Before I even said yes, the quiet one started clearing the table.
You ready? he said, bicep curled, bulging under his shirt.
Puta madre, I thought.
I sat up, rolled up my sleeve and set my arm on the table—his hand made mine look like a child’s
You have strong hands, he said. You sure you’re a bodybuilder?
I dabble, I said.
I see, he said.
You watch we don’t cheat, he said to his partner.
My pleasure, the partner said.
He wrapped his hand around mine and at the count of three pushed down. I felt my bicep tearing.
He kept pressing down, the back of my hand only a couple of inches off the table.
He looked calm, like this required no effort at all.
A glint in his eye announced what was coming. He let up a bit, but only to gather momentum. He suddenly leaned forward and pushed. For a moment I thought he’d snap my elbow out of its socket.
Finally, my hand smashed the table and then he raised his hands in triumph.
He said I was stronger than I looked. But now, as per agreement, they were going to ask me some questions outside.
OK, I said, rubbing my arm, thinking that for once in my life I’d used my brains and been smart enough to use my right hand instead of my left.
I hurt you? he said. Sorry, sometimes I get too excited, he added, smiling.
Right, I said.
C’mon, he said. Let’s go.
I bent down to pick up my bag, my hands tingling, my heart racing.
I knew I had to be quick and precise.
As I got back up, I threw a fake hook with my right. He tried to block it but I struck him with my left, nailed him square on the chin. He stumbled back dazed, then fell over a table with a bang.
The other one drew his gun and pointed it at me. I raised both hands.
He started calling his partner’s name in vain.
Did you kill him? he yelled, the gun still aimed at me.
Let me go, I said.
No way, José. You’re coming with me. Turn around, he ordered. You pull something funny on me, I blow your brains out, you hear me?
I stood quiet.
You fucking beaners, he said. Always causing trouble. Turn around, pendejo!
I turned. The man and the woman on his lap were gone.
My mind drifted back to Tony again. Why didn’t I listen to him? He already had that fight locked in for me, he’d come through. This was my last shot, he’d warned me.
So just as he was about to handcuff me, I pushed him back and turned tail.
I ran across the road and into the desert. He fired several shots before I could finally shake him. Didn’t stop until my legs gave, then I squeezed myself between some rocks and waited.
It wasn’t until I caught my breath that a pang shot through me.
I reached down under my shirt and realized it was wet.
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The bar scene, the arm wrestling, and the mention of baseball reminded me of "the old man and the sea" when the old man was recalling his youth. But this story took a different turn. Amazing work.
puta madre...don't mess around in bars is the lesson here I suppose. Nice writing Ricardo!