“Not really,” Loup admitted.
Floyd shook his head. “Sometimes I truly wonder what it’s like being you.”
“That’s okay,” she said. “I wonder what it’s like being everyone else.”
When Sunday morning arrived, she returned to the gym. After stretching and warming up, she put on her gear in the upstairs office room that had served as Tommy’s bedroom. It felt strange and empty. Floyd hadn’t changed anything because there wasn’t much to change. Tommy’s clothes had been donated to the church. He hadn’t really had anything else, just a lonely cot sitting in the middle of the room.
Downstairs, Miguel had arrived, hungover and surly. He didn’t bother to warm up, only grunted at her as he wrapped his hands. “You ready to do this?”
She put in her mouth guard. “Yeah.”
Floyd wrapped her hands, laced her gloves. The sparring gloves were different from the ones she was used to for working the bags—bigger, thick and dense with padding. She banged them together experimentally.
“Jesus,” Miguel muttered, shoving his mouth guard in place.
Floyd checked her headgear, smeared Vaseline on her cheeks, chin, and brow. “Okay. You’re wearing the groin protector?”
Loup nodded.
Miguel gave a muffled laugh. “You wearing a codpiece, Garron?”
She ignored him.
“I’m surprised as hell that you know that term, son.” Floyd checked Miguel’s headgear, then picked up his gloves. “Hands.”
He thrust them out. “I’m full of surprises, Coach.”
“We’ll see.” Floyd finished lacing the gloves, smeared his face with Vaseline. “Into the ring.”
They climbed into the ring and faced off.
Miguel glowered.
Loup stared back at him, a sense of heady exhilaration filling her.
“Okay.” Floyd raised one hand, holding a stopwatch. “We’ll figure out what we want to work on later. Right now, I just want to see what you do together. On my go, the first of three two-minute rounds. Have at it, but keep it clean. You start on my word, you stop on my word, or I’ll throw you both out on your asses.” He counted. “One, two, three… go!”
Miguel came at her fast and hard, trying to pummel her. Loup evaded him without thinking, her feet skipping lightly over the canvas.
“Slow the hell down, Loup!” the coach shouted. “Stand and fight!”
She slowed, matching her pace to Miguel’s. He threw a low right straight and she let it past her guard, let him land it.
It hurt more than she expected, pain blossoming in the center of her chest. Loup blinked. Miguel grinned around his mouth guard and hit her again, a crisp jab that caught her on the cheekbone and rocked her head back. Bright sparkles filled her vision. She shook her head, trying to clear it. He landed a glancing blow to her padded left temple.
“Chin down! Hands up!”
Hours of training deserted her, swept away on a tide of pain and instinct. It was a hell of a lot different fighting someone who hit back. This wasn’t a street brawl; it was a sparring match, and Miguel had years of experience on her. She lashed out wildly, but Miguel was still in motion and evaded the blow. He moved in on her and began pounding her upper torso with right and left hooks.
“Loup! Elbows in! Block him, for Christ’s sake!”
She broke away and scrambled backward, breathing hard. Her nerves were jangling with pure adrenaline, her head was ringing, and dull pain was spreading throughout her body.
It was still exhilarating.
“Had enough?” Miguel called.
Loup smiled, eyes sparkling. “Hell, no!”
His wide mouth quirked. He beckoned with his gloved hands. “Okay, little girl. You give me an inch, and I’ll take a mile. Now put your chin down and your hands up, and let’s teach you to box.”
THIRTY-THREE
Life settled into a new rhythm.
Loup continued to train in the garage. The Santitos continued to assist her, especially Mack, who even figured out a way to heat the material of her groin guard and reshape it to fit better.
On Wednesday evenings and Sunday mornings, she sparred with Miguel.
After their first bout, the coach had her concentrate on defense. All the long hours spent shadowboxing gradually began to pay off as she learned to put the moves into practice in the ring, catching or slipping Miguel’s punches, ducking or twisting enough to let them roll harmlessly off her shoulder. Miguel was good enough that sometimes they still landed, but Loup was learning.
“When’re you gonna let her fight back, Coach?” Miguel complained. “Feels like I’m doing all the work.”
“When I’m confident that Loup has sufficient discipline in the ring to control her actions,” Floyd said absently, jotting notes on a clipboard. He glanced up. “You do realize she’s only fighting at half her capacity?”
“So you say. Y’know, I’d kind of like to see it. Seems like maybe that first encounter was a goddamn fluke. I’m starting to wonder if this is all worthwhile.”
Floyd set down his clipboard. “You want a real demonstration? You want me to turn her loose in the ring?”
Miguel folded his arms. “Yeah.”
“All right.” The coach walked away and came back with a body protector. “Come here.”
Miguel laughed. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Floyd shook his head. “Nope.” He buckled the protector in place. “All right. Shake hands and have at it. Loup, if you hit him anywhere but on the shield, I’ll throw you out. Try not to break his ribs.”
“Okay,” she agreed.
They touched gloves. Loup let Miguel flick a couple of quick jabs at her head. She caught them, then blurred into motion, hitting him with the same shot she’d let him land on her the first time. A low right straight, powering past Miguel’s too-slow effort to deflect it, driving hard into the thick foam of the protector.
It knocked him off his feet, knocked him to the canvas, knocked the wind out of him even through the shield. His mouth gaped and his chest heaved just like C.C.’s had years ago when she’d hit him, except that Miguel was a lot bigger and she’d hit him a lot harder.
“Relax, son,” Floyd said calmly. “Shallow breaths.” He climbed into the ring and helped Miguel sit upright, unbuckled the protector and prodded at Miguel’s ribs. “No bones broken. You didn’t bust a gut, did you?”
Miguel shook his head, gulping for air.
“Good.” The coach’s eyes crinkled in a smile. “Now you know for sure.”
It marked the beginning of a strange friendship between them. After the incident, Miguel didn’t complain about the slow pace of Loup’s training. He treated her with rough affection. Sometimes on Wednesday evenings, he’d invite her to join him on the gym roof while he smoked one of the coach’s cigars.
“So why’d you do it?” Miguel asked on one such occasion. “The Santa Olivia thing?”
Loup told him about Katya, and the O’Brien kids, and the old man with his dog.
“The thousand-dollar miracle?” He was surprised. “That was you, too? I always figured Coach had a hand in it on account of the bitch was McArdle’s cousin. Where the fuck did you little urchins find a thousand bucks?”
Loup smiled. “Stole it from Rosa Salamanca’s safe.”
He laughed soundlessly. “Why’d you quit?”
She told him about Colonel Stillwell’s threats.
“Fuckers act like they own us.” Miguel blew a smoke ring. “And I guess they goddamn well do.”
“I thought you Garzas were tight with the army brass,” Loup commented.
“Yeah.” He gazed at the horizon. “We keep things under control. Make sure the system runs nice and smooth for them, make sure their boys get all the booze and pussy they want and no one gets hurt. My father always wanted to be a big man. When the army took over, he saw his chance.” He blew another smoke ring. “My father was an asshole.”
“So are you, Mig.”
He gave her an amused sidelong glance. “Yeah, but I’m not stupid. Like to think if I’d been around when the army came, I’d have had the sense to get my family the fuck out of town, not make a shitty deal to serve as head overseer for life on Plantation Dust Patch.”
“Is that why you started boxing?” Loup asked him. “To get out?”
“Yeah, that and I hit hard.” Miguel regarded his cigar. “Might of been better off if I wasn’t a Garza. Maybe I would of wanted it more, worked harder.”
“Like Tommy,” Loup said softly.
“Like Tommy,” he agreed. “But then…”
“Yeah.”
They sat in companionable silence for a while. A memory struck Loup.
“You said you saw my father once,” she said. “Punched him.”
“You remember that, huh? Yeah.”
Her voice turned wistful. “What was he like?”
Miguel didn’t answer right away. He sat and smoked, the tip of his cigar flaring and fading. “Steady,” he said at length. “Same way you are. He didn’t even flinch when I hit him, like it wasn’t even worth his while to notice. I know I was just a kid, but I hit hard. Same eyes as you, same weird way of looking at people without blinking.”
“Do I look like him?”
“I only ever saw him once,” Miguel said. “Didn’t your mama or your brother ever tell you?”
“Yeah,” she said. “But they’re gone.”
“Aw, kid.” He studied her face. “Yeah, some. The eyes. And he looked… he didn’t look American, you know what I mean? Or maybe he just didn’t sound American. I dunno.” He shook his head. “Sorry.”
“Thanks.”
“You take after your mama, too.” Miguel pulled on his cigar. “I remember her better. She was a pretty lady.”
