He grunts and nods at her, apparently approving of her response. Maybe it was a test; has she ever been to a fight before? As I scanned the crowd earlier, I mentally calculated around sixty people. People that are probably return customers.
The bouncer pushes the warehouse door open for us, and there’s two more beefy guys waiting to pat us down before we enter into the dark underbelly of the city. Packing boxes and assembly machines have been cleared to make room for a caged ring in the center with limited standing space surrounding it.
We cluster into a throng as people vie for the best position to view the ring. Since we’re not here to actually watch the fight, I take Blakely’s hand and steer us through the crush of bodies to a less crowded area.
An octagon ring made of wire mesh and chain-link fencing has been erected in the middle of the building. Crowd control barricades surround the arena itself, and gym mats layer the cement floor.
Just like at the nightclub, there’s a VIP section here—a place for the wealthy and elite to view the fight unobstructed.
I nod toward the makeshift bleachers, and Blakely understands my signal. She starts weaving her way there. Once we’re situated right below, she whispers near my ear, “When you spot Ericson, do nothing
. Don’t even look.”
I squint at her, as if that will help me decipher her code. “What do I do, then?”
She sweeps the area, then pulls the hoodie of her jacket up to shield her face. “I’ll let you know when I figure that out.”
“Of course.”
The differences between Blakely and I are too many to count. I rarely, if ever, go into a situation without a plan. A carefully constructed and tested plan with contingencies. Blakely shoots from the hip…for lack of a better comparison.
This might be the most dangerous aspect of all about her.
Where I depend on structure and routine, she’s able to improvise. This needs special consideration before I get to the testing phase.
A piercing whine of feedback cuts through the warehouse, quieting the crowd considerably. A man wearing a black suit stands on a crate as he talks into a headpiece microphone. He’s the promoter of tonight’s show.
According to him, tonight will host fifteen bouts. The first bout, the promoter says, is between Lucky Vince and Mike the Truck, to settle a beef they had over a girl. Each bout will last three minutes. He goes on to ramble out a list of rules.
I did a little Googling on the subject of MMA fighting before we got here, just to be prepared. Mixed Martial Arts. Pretty much, anything goes in that ring. A few minutes might not seem long, but when you’re locked in a barricade and there are little rules to follow…the sport turns into a bloodbath. Unless a contender taps out or there’s a knockout, the winner is chosen by the roar of the crowd.
As the promoter wraps up, I note the medical personnel along the sidelines.
“There he is,” Blakely says.
I follow her line of sight to where a group of suits are being led to the top of the bleachers. Ericson is amid them, followed closely by Brewster.
A band of apprehension threads my spine as I realize I’m the one up now…until I remind myself that this is all a farce. Unlike Blakely, I’m not here for Ericson. He’s not my concern. His wife isn’t my concern.
Blakely is all that matters.
The lights of the warehouse blink out, quickly followed by dim emergency lights flashing on. A spotlight circles the ring as a card girl wearing a blood-red bikini walks the length with a sign held high announcing the first round.
The sudden uproar of the crowd announces the contenders as they enter the caged ring through their gates.
Blakely turns my way. “We need to get closer,” she shouts.
I nod in reply.
Moving away from the center is easier as bodies push forward. Like cattle, we’re being funneled toward the back of the warehouse. Blakely decides on a spot right near the first row of bleachers. As the crowd oohs and cheers in response to a fist landing a punch, I consider now might be the time to broach the topic of head injuries. It’s a segue even my less than tactical self can manage.
“They’re fighting bareknuckle,” I remark. When Blakely doesn’t comment, I add: “I wonder what their brain scans look like.”
She glances around the crowd. “Probably like mush.”
“With your line of work, have you ever gotten into any fights? Any brain injuries with the job?” Maybe too blatant, but I’m running out of time to get my answers.
She doesn’t seem to notice, however, as she distractedly searches for her target. Then her eyes land right on me. “Are you asking me if I’m brain damaged?” She doesn’t give me time to respond as she returns to scanning the crowd. “No, Alex. I’ve never suffered any brain injuries. Satisfied?”