Chapter 67
Man Vs. Panther
Tonight Tom stood on rare earth, under a red circus tent behind the baseball stadium, where the cockfights went off every Friday night: noisy, the crowd filthy with angry brown Mexicans, gnats at the lights, feathers floating in the air, defying time while jalapeno-powered roosters poke, hack & slash.
This was the Cowboy’s counter to having his balls cut off: he’d fight a panther to the death. Or die trying. Tony had boasted, started to motormouth, plea bargain in public, and when Tom heard the offer aloud he cautioned: “That’s tequila talking.” It only made the Cowboy more insistent. Besides, Big Gook could do the math: he could book a fortune on a black man and a leopard, no matter the victor.
For the last two weeks the Cowboy had been in training, or so go the rumors. There were stories of Tony paying neighborhood kids to round up stray dogs so he could wrestle them to death in his basement, getting a feel for the force of an animal in combat. Atari had called his house, a last-ditch attempt at logic, even to offer to get Tony out of town until the sound faded away... all he got was the Cowboy’s housekeeper claiming that a Doberman cut Tony so bad he needed sixteen stitches and couldn’t come to the phone.
Was it possible: was a man so stupid as to fight a panther in order to save his balls in a gambling debt? With Tony the answer was unfortunately yes. Big Gook had arrived, escorting Ed Goffrey into the crowd, Goffrey in his glasses and his good suit, dressed like a TV reporter. Atari scanned the faces in the unholy arena: Detective Brian Cahill made his way down into the crowd, smoking a fat cigar and looking pleased, Mayor Cryer beside him in dark glasses that didn’t hide a thing. Isaac Lerner stood with an unknown male assistant and Melvyn Boyle brought a bag of popcorn.
Tom watched the cocks in the center stage thrashing, lashing at one another, tasting bloodlust for the first time and loving it. Big Gook made his way beside while the owner of the winning bird raised it up above his head before the crowd; they showed their appreciation by yelping: clapping and spitting liquor.
“Where is you Negro buddy? He better show up.”
Atari was not in the mood. “I’m just a spectator, chop suey... get yourself lost.”
Big Gook, baffled by the disrespect, dissolved into the crowd as it suddenly went quiet, a strange sound: the absence. Tom couldn’t understand.
Four Mexicans entered the tent from the left field entrance, solemn expressions, their eyes ahead and darting downward. The mob around them seemed magically to melt away, parting, receding with ease. Atari spotted the panther- hulking crude- leash around its neck, four chains connected, each held by a different man.
The panther was prancing, warming up, and Tom could almost picture it in a fighter’s robe, silk sleeves and towel around his neck. This cat was ready for action.
The Mexicans led him into the cage in the corner of the tent- 20 x 20- and as the de facto wranglers unchained the jungle beast Tom spotted Tony Dare beside him.
The Cowboy was shirtless, scar on his chest, oil on his chest- glistening- in wrestling pants with a red bandana on his head. His girlfriend Tuesday Jackson just a step behind, a hooker from the boulevard, pocket-size & foul-mouth.
Tom, to the challenger: “You can’t be serious.”
“This is another part of me, Tom Atari... or maybe you don’t know me so well. I always pay my debts. I never lose a fight.”
Tony was drunk. Or stoned on something powerful, more powerful than Tom had ever known. His eyes were wild.
“This is an animal, Tony, not a Filipino street-fighter-”
“This is something I gotta do!” Tony Dare looked Atari straight in the eye, gave him a wink and-
“Now for the title fight of this evening’s entertainment!” Some Mexican, mouth on the microphone, the crowd stomping their feet, salt and cinnamon anticipation.
“In this corner... all the way from Asia... at five-hundred twenty pounds... the Panther!”
There was laughter from the crowd, and applause, and the beast was held by just one chain, prowling impatient and thirsty for blood.
Crackle static on the bum speakers: “And in this corner, weighing in at 185 pound is Tony Dare: the COWBOY!”
The crowd, frenzied, furied, cheering for Tony as he limbered, loosened... Tom, turning, “Don’t do this.”
Tuesday’s swollen lips, smiling at the Cowboy, mouthing ‘Fuck You,’ to Tom, and then Tony Dare turned to them both, broad smile overtaking his face. He looked at Tuesday and then Atari: “Stay gold.”
With that he stepped into the cage. The handlers let the panther off the leash.
“All bets are final.”
One member of the Mexican swing gang swung the door shut and it was on: Tony went into his stance, bent at the waist, back arched, hands in claw formation, licking his lips.
The black panther, shuffling, testing his shoulders, growled loud- a final warning.
Tony leapt to meet the beast but it was too late: the panther struck, removing most of Tony’s face in a single swipe of his claw. Tony’s body- on its back- continued to fight, his nose and mouth in the dirt a few feet away, and the jungle cat ate his face with patience and dedication, Tony’s body making spasm at regular intervals, his fists swinging at empty, the crowd hysterical, fights breaking out, women vomiting down their dresses and men blacking out completely. They had not been prepared for the anticlimax.
At some point during the festivities Tony Dare the Cowboy became just another piece of meat, and Tom, having lost a friend, turned to Tuesday in the hopes of finding a new one. He took her hand, chocolate breasts spilling from her top, and with a comforting smile, “Let’s get some waffles.”
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