“Are you really that fighter, Rock Man?” Patty asked.
“Rack-man, lady, not Rock-man. Rack, like clothes rack,” he said, bouncing on his toes. “Speaking of clothes, you need some before you talk to me. That raggedy robe you got looks rented.”
Her face reddened. “What do you expect? You know what this is?”
“Don’t care, miss. I’m the greatest! Rachman Babatunde. Don’t forget my name. Tell all your friends,” he said again as he sent a flurry of fists whipping just past his own nose.
Goines sat up, recovering. “Ain’t this a mess! I know you, son. I saw your first fight against that English fella. What was his name . . . Landey? He knocked you down.”
“I got lazy,” Rachman said. “Bob Lanker. I knocked him out in the third. I would’ve put him out in the first, but his wife was there. I predicted the third anyway. All my fight predictions is true.”
The Gatekeeper said, “I can predict what will happen to you quite soon.”
“Oh, I’m ’bout full up with you blabbing everywhere like it’s a day’s work,” Rachman said. “You said you wanted the truth down here? Well, here it is. I’m so pretty. And I am the greatest. And you so ugly, you ain’t. I bet that face of yours is so ugly, you oughta be cremated.”
“An apt choice of words.”
“Before you do your magic on me,” Rachman said, still shadowboxing, “just give me five more minutes so I can put Blue Higgins to sleep and shock the world.”
“Why would I do that?”
“So you can see the shock on Blue’s face. He’s ugly as you. Bring him here so I can whup him again.”
The Gatekeeper chuckled. “I’m going to enjoy you here.”
“If I got to stare at your ugly mug for eternity, I’ll knock your green teeth out just so I can eat breakfast. You ugly enough to keep ants out of a picnic, mister. No wonder you wear a hood. And that’s just the front. I bet the back of your neck looks like a pack of hot dogs.”
Goines laughed as Rachman began shadowboxing again. Goines dug into his pocket, fumbling around, pulling out a blackened pencil and a piece of paper. “My youngest boy’s got a picture of you hanging on his wall. Can you sign this here?”
Rachman stopped shadowboxing, obediently took the paper, grasped the pencil in the thumb of his glove, and whipped it across the page. As he did, the pencil and paper suddenly disappeared.
“That was momentarily amusing, but the fun’s over,” The Gatekeeper said.
Rachman shrugged and began shadowboxing again, but Goines placed his hands on his hips and barked at The Gatekeeper. “That pencil didn’t belong to you,” he said.
“Everything here belongs to me.”
“I bought that pencil and paid for it and Rachman here was writing his name for my boy.”
“Would you like your pencil back?” The Gatekeeper asked.
“I would.”
“I can park it in your intestines.”
“Pay him no mind,” Rachman snorted, still moving. “He ain’t real. Not even the devil is stupid enough to disrespect Rachman.” He zinged a left that barely missed The Gatekeeper’s face. “Ain’t that right, lumpface?”
“Amusing,” The Gatekeeper said again.
“I’m more’n’ that, brother man. I’m your worst nightmare. I got a left that’ll make you cry and right that’ll make you die. Wanna go a few? Without your little tricks?”
“Why should I?”
“Take that robe off and fight, you devil you. Pull that hood off. Lordy, that mug of yours must look bad as a snake bite. You so ugly you keep your eyes closed when you kiss your wife—so you won’t see her suffer.”
“Enough!” Tannenbaum stood up. “This is madness.” Tannenbaum spoke to The Gatekeeper. “Can we work out something?”
“Sit down,” The Gatekeeper said.
Rachman ignored them both. He seemed inside himself, dancing from left to right, spitting, pacing a little from side to side, then dancing on his toes again, fists up, sweating, pounding hot, firing punches into the air, stoked up, swinging left crosses and right hooks, fighting an imaginary opponent and muttering to himself: “I am the greatest. No man on earth can whup me. No devil can whup me. I am the greatest! The greatest in the galaxy! Why? Because it’s so. Because nobody can whup me. Nobody in the world!”
“Time to end this nonsense,” The Gatekeeper said. He pointed his finger at Rachman as he’d done with the others, to slam him against the wall, choke off his breathing, humiliate and redress him.
Nothing happened.
Rachman continued shadowboxing, swinging lefts and rights, talking to himself, murmuring. “He’s just a bunch of old card tricks. They don’t work on me. ’Cause I’m the greatest . . .”
He snickered and turned his back to The Gatekeeper, shadowboxing the wall now, ducking, dodging, whistling punches into the air. He glanced at the others seated on the bench. They were staring at something behind him, their eyes wide in shock.
He turned and found himself glaring at The Gatekeeper, who had pulled his hood off to reveal his face: the grim countenance of Blue Higgins, his lips the color of cooked veal, his eyebrows furrowed in anger, wearing The Gatekeeper’s robe.
“Blue, why are you here?” Rachman cried.
“I’m not Blue,” he said, speaking in The Gatekeeper’s voice. “I’m the accumulated sum of all evil knowledge that lives inside each of you.”
“You sound like one of them people that goes to them peace conferences,” Rachman said. “You can’t be Blue. ’Cause Blue wouldn’t know words like that if they walked into a room dressed like an elephant. He didn’t finish third grade, y’know. So you the same devil then?”
“Course I am.”
“Who’s managing you?”
“Why do I need a manager?” The Gatekeeper said. “Can’t I let the earth go for one month? And be the sum of all your fears?”
“If I’da knowed my fears was that ugly, I’da sued ’em.”
“I’m gonna enjoy punching a hole in your face, Rachman, then setting fire to it.”
“You can try, but after I whup you, I want outta here.”
“Fair enough. I like a challenge.”
“What about the rest?”
“Them, too. If they want it.”
“No!” Tannenbaum rose, sweaty and flustered. “This is ridiculous.”
“Oh, sit down,” The Gatekeeper said. “Choose one or the other. You choose the winner, you get to pick your destiny. Myself, I like my chances. This is wonderful fun.”
He removed his green robe, and now the others saw him in full. He was splendid. Short, brown, and massive. His body gleamed, his stomach muscles were tightly knotted, his thighs were thick, his chest was broad and solid, broader than Rachman’s. His shoulders were round and huge, larger than Rachman’s as well. He was a densely packaged fighting machine.
“We on?” he asked.
“Fool!” Rachman chortled. He stepped in to fight, but Tannenbaum stepped between them. “I don’t want to bet. Judge me on my own. I gave to charity. I threw fund-raisers.”
“Sit down on your rump right now or I’ll remove it and you’ll be taking a dump outta your mouth for eternity,” Blue snapped. Tannenbaum sat.
Blue spoke to the four seated. “Pick one of us. Your fighter wins, you go with him.”
Tannenbaum sat with his face in his hands. Patty and Wayne Goines stared at one another. “The child’s too young to gamble,” Patty said.
“We’ll pick for her,” Goines said. He nodded at Rachman. “My bet’s on Rachman here. So’s the kid’s.”
Blue looked at Patty. “You?”
She frowned and pointed to Rachman.
Tannenbaum seemed to have trouble deciding. He placed his chin on the wall and stared at the ceiling, his eyelids twitched up and down.
“This is a dream,” he moaned. “A bad dream.”
“Come on, ding dong, we ain’t got all day,” Goines said.
“I . . . pick the boxer.”
“We’re both boxers,” Blue said.
“You ain’t no boxer,” Rachman snapped. “You a fraud. A devilment. Whupping you won’t take very long. But what about the promoters?”
“What?” Blue asked. He seemed confused.
“The promoters,” Rachman said. “You can’t have a fight without promoters. And the boxing ring. And the press. And all the people. You can’t have a fight without all the people.”
“We have an audience,” Blue said, and without warning he swung a left hook that caught Rachman flush in the face and nearly dropped him.
“Blue . . . you cheatin’ dog . . . ,” Rachman said, staggering backwards.
Blue laughed. He charged the stunned Rachman, who brought his hands up reflexively to guard his kidneys as Blue swung a long left hook. Rachman blocked it, stepped back, and sent a flurry of blazing lefts and rights at the head of Blue, whose head snapped back like a whip before he drew out of range.
The two fighters circled now, just out of range of each other, as the onlookers watched, two giant men breathing and huffing in the odd silence that cloaked the room. Blue stepped in and hammered Rachman’s midsection. Rachman clenched him to slow him down, the two fighters hugging and resting.
“C’mon, boy,” Rachman snorted. “Is that all you got? I pity the fool that cheats Rachman. I pity him.” He shoved Blue off, danced right, left, skipping on his toes, and peppered Blue several times with lefts and rights, then danced out of range as Blue, slower and stronger, plodded after him, looking deadly furious and frustrated.
The fight went on and on. There was no stopping, no resting. Rachman sent screaming lefts followed by searing rights that caught Blue across the forehead. Blue wobbled slightly, and countered with thunderous right crosses that caught Rachman flush and nearly spun him around.
Rachman never seemed to tire. “Is that all?” Rachman said gleefully after several vicious exchanges. “Quit love-tappin’ me, Blue! You can’t hurt me. I’m too fast!” He stepped back to counter Blue’s attacks, danced on his toes, and sent a series of rat-tat-tat super-speed left and right jabs that connected with Blue’s face, forehead, and midsection.
Blue, plodding, powerful but slowed, tried to counter with driving lefts and rights, but Rachman danced out of range, zinging him with several hard right hands before Blue responded with a hard left. The two fighters clenched, exhausted now, hugging and resting. As they clenched, Rachman whispered in Blue’s ear again, “That all you got, Blue? You hit like a girl.”
Blue roared in rage and stepped back to fight again. As he did, Rachman sent a right to Blue’s head that staggered him backwards. A welt appeared on Blue’s face, just above his eye. Another hit and the two clenched in exhaustion again.
“You’re cut, Blue,” Rachman snorted as they clenched. “Quit now while you ahead. You better stop. I know your wife’s watching. You wanna lose in front of your wife?”
Blue, furious, pushed back, swung a left hook that Rachman swatted away like it was a slap and countered with a thundering right hand that smashed the welt on Blue’s eye and popped it wide open, sending specks of blood and flesh flying.
“Ho, ho!” Goines shouted.
Blue wobbled now, hurt, his knees slightly bent, and grasped on to Rachman to stay standing. As Blue leaned in, Rachman continued his chatter into Blue’s ear. “Quit while you can, Blue. Why you wanna come all the way down here to hell to fight me, Blue? You coulda got your ass-whupping on top of the world. Don’t you know me?”
“Yes, I know you!” Blue said suddenly. “I do know you. That’s the point!”
He stood back, pushing off a hard-breathing Rachman, and sent a crushing right—a powerful punch that moved with such swiftness and power that it seemed unearthly, catching the beautiful fighter right in the jaw.
This time it was Rachman who wobbled: His eyes rolled toward the ceiling, his hands fell. He leaned forward and crashed into Blue, fell into him. It was clear that the only thing that kept him standing was Blue himself.
Blue, holding him up, smiled over his shoulder to the seated audience, who watched, mouths agape. “You see, Rachman,” he said. “I know who you are! Everyone’s afraid here!”
Rachman, exhausted, his face resting on Blue’s shoulder, suddenly clenched Blue tight, hugged him, held him close like a lover, and whispered something in Blue’s ear that the others could not hear.
“What?” Blue said, shocked.
In that moment, Rachman pushed Blue away and lunged at him with renewed strength and power, as if he’d been running on batteries and were suddenly plugged into an electric outlet. He swung a lightning left that caught Blue’s midriff, a right into the ribs, and another tomahawk right, this one to the jaw, which brought a groan from Blue’s lips and sent him crashing face-first to the floor.
Just like that, it was done.
The four hopped up, surrounding Rachman. “Champ, champ!” Goines crowed, pounding Rachman’s back. “When we get back, I’m gonna buy you a drink, son. I’ll get you incapacitated. We’re gonna liquor up till we get sponged.”
“Don’t drink,” Rachman said, panting. He seemed troubled. He gasped for breath as he looked down at the fallen figure of Blue. “That certainly ain’t like Blue Higgins, going down so easy.”
Goines, exuberant, ignored him. “Well, he’s out, and we’re gonna go on a toot and a tear when we—” His words were lost in a sudden roar of howling wind as the door behind the mahogany desk suddenly flew open. A fierce hot wind swirled into the room.
The four watched in horror as Rachman, his face etched in surprise, was lifted from their circle into the air, flown across the room on his back, and zipped through the open door, which slammed behind him firmly.
The four stared after him in shocked silence.
Blue Higgins sat up, strode to the desk, picked up his cloak, put it on, and drew the hood over his face again. He sat, coughed, tapped his chest and cleared his throat, regaining his composure. Once again his hands were shriveled and gnarled; once again the face invisible. The Gatekeeper was back.
“Well, all riggghty then!” he said, with his old enthusiasm. He yawned loudly and said, “Y’all can go now.”
“Where?” Goines said.
“Home. That was the arrangement,” The Gatekeeper said. “One has to go so the others might be spared. The whole Jesus bit, really. Happens once in a while, even down here. One dies so the rest might be spared, all that jazz. Fact is, we only really wanted him all along.”
“What?”
“Process it any way you like, Mr. Goines.”
“We’re free?” Goines said.
“If you call it that, yes. You’ll be back, of course.”
“But he beat you fair and square,” Goines said. “You said we’d all go if he won.”
“Oh, we throw back the little fish and keep the big ones, Mr. Goines. That’s our motto down here. Now go home, get drunk, and forget all about it, Mr. American flag. What’s it to you? You’re going home to get a motorcycle. You won’t remember a bit of this anyway. Now take a seat on the bench and I’ll put you back. Hurry up before I change my mind.”
“Wait a minute.”
“Don’t be stupid. Sit on the moaning bench so I can get you home. You gotta be seated on the bench to travel.”
Goines stood. “I won’t. The man won fair and square. Knowing he was fighting for me might’ve given him some extra strength.”
“If you feel that strongly, put your foot in the road the other way,” The Gatekeeper said, nodding to the door.
Goines hesitated. “You ain’t playing fair.”
“It’s my house. My rules.”
“Your rules ain’t right. Jesu
s already paid for my life with his. One’s enough.”
“My understanding,” The Gatekeeper said, “is that the late Rachman was Muslim.”
“I don’t care if he was an ostrich. I never did much like his loud talking,” Goines said. “But I earned my way here, not him. And me owing him or anybody for my ticket outta here, that bothers me.”
“You won’t remember.”
“Maybe not. But even if I was to forget like you say, the idea that somebody gave something to me that I couldn’t pay for will likely find someplace inside me to live. That’s how evil works. That’s how you work. Giving out free crap. Cheap goods. Cheap thrills. Cheating good men and women outta what they won with blood and guts by papering ’em to death with crap and rules. The man won. That’s a fact. So I’m staying.”
“You sure?”
“Course.” Goines blew his cheeks out. “God will take care of my wife and boy. And since you was all fuss and fuzz about him being Muslim,” he said, “God lives in him same place he lives in me. Every God”—he tapped his chest over his heart—“lives here.” He strode to the door and grabbed the handle.
The Gatekeeper shrugged and turned to the others. “Any other customers?”
Heather, the girl, rose without a word, strode to the door, and took Goines’s hand. Patty, standing with her arms folded, sighed. “My husband won’t want me when I’m old and wrinkled anyway.” She frowned at The Gatekeeper. “And that Dixieland drummer’s wriggling worm was worth the trouble.” She walked over to the door and took little Heather’s hand.
Tannenbaum had taken a seat on the bench alone. His gilded handkerchief lay on the ground. His right eye twitched nervously. He couldn’t stop the trembling in his hands. He seemed to have lost control. Slowly, he rose. He wobbled nervously toward the others. “May God forgive me,” he said, “for not trusting anything but my own selfish needs.”
He grasped Patty’s hand. Now all four were in a line. Without a word, Goines opened the door, and one by one, the four stepped inside.
• • •
PANDEMONIUM AT the Felt Forum at Madison Square Garden in New York City. Eighteen thousand screaming fans charged the ring to get a better view. They had just witnessed one of the greatest fights in boxing history. A seventh-round knockout. Clean. Rachman Babatunde, floored by a thunderous left in round seven from Blue Higgins, rose at the nine count, fought unconscious on his feet for a full minute and fifty-three seconds, then, unbelievably, recovered enough to knock Blue out in the last seconds of the same round, to gain his first-ever heavyweight championship title.