Deacon followed me down the long hallway to the office. Walking in always filled me with a swarming sense of sentiment. I once told myself it felt as if a beehive had taken residence in my belly. While Deacon and I both had boxing memorabilia in the house, the office here at the ranch was where pictures of my life played out in living color—albeit some of that living color including putrid shades of tie-dye overdose in the outfits my father and Deacon wore in the sixties. There were pictures of the two of them as champs. But once I arrived on the scene, there were pictures of the two of them with me in diapers, with me the first time they took me fishing. Always, in every shot, Deacon was on my right and my father on my left. It was as if I had two proud fathers—and two overbearing ones the first time I went out on a date. Other pictures were of them the day they bought the gym, and then this camp. They were so proud. They had come up from nothing, two boys from a poor family in rural California. Then their father had dragged them into Los Angeles while their father and mother had struggled to find work. Deacon and Dad had dodged bullets on their way to school. And it wasn’t much better in the projects at night.
Like many boxers, they had turned to the sport as a possible way out of the projects. Both brothers urged each other on. They were inseparable. And they both made it big and eventually relocated to Vegas. I was so proud of the two of them. The office was a shrine to all they had achieved—including raising me.
“Deacon…why did Terry intervene?”
“He didn’t want to see anyone hurt.”
“It could also be because he’s on Bonita’s side.”
“I don’t think so, Jack. Not Terry. He’s worked too hard to get to this place. To have a shot at the title.”
“And no one’s ever thrown a title match before?”
Deacon sighed.
“Would you have, Deacon? If the price was right?”
“Never. Your name is all you have in this world. You can be stripped of your possessions, even sent to prison, but an honest man has his name, his reputation. And I had a reputation as a fighter. I could walk proud.”
“What about Terry, though? All those brothers and sisters looking for a handout. They call here with their problems—can I borrow a thousand for a down payment on a new car, my kid needs braces. Whatever. One even called begging for money so he could start this ‘sure thing’ business selling water filters or something. Multilevel marketing. A scam.”
“Yeah, but remember when Terry came back? He wanted to win so badly he could taste it.”
Terry had swallowed a lot of pride to come back and train with Deacon and me. As it was, a lot of people in the fight biz assumed once my father got sent to prison, the Rooney fighters would leave in droves. After all, they were used to training with two champions. Not one champion and one girl. Terry had walked out just at the sight of me. But when he came back to the Rooney camp, he was willing to train with a girl, willing to do anything to win.
“Maybe you’re right, Deacon. I don’t know. Since Miguel lost so badly, since Crystal, I’m paranoid as hell.”
“Me, too,” he said quietly. “How’s Baby Girl?” He had taken to calling Destiny that.
I shrugged. “How could she be doing? Her mother was murdered, she’s sent out to the desert to a camp with a bunch of virtual strangers. She’s suffering, the poor thing.”
“You know sooner or later Rob’s going to come out here with an order to take her. If we’re lucky, he’ll be able to do it without all of us getting arrested.”
I looked on the wall at a picture of me when I was Destiny’s age. Maybe I had grown up in gyms that reeked of sweat, watching men try to beat each other up, but it was an idyllic childhood in many ways. I had always known I was loved.
“I’m going to check on her.” I kissed Deacon on the cheek and left the office and walked down the long hall to the bedroom Destiny and I shared. We had decided after her trauma, it would be best if she could look over and see me there next to her at night.
The light was on. She insisted on it, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to argue with her after all she had been through. The TV was on, too, “for company.” She was watching the Wiggles video, which was her favorite. She watched it over and over and over again. I was getting rather sick of The Wiggles. Five men in asexual turtlenecks singing songs and prancing about with an octopus. Kind of weird.
She was still awake.
“Hey there, sweetie pie. Can’t sleep?”
She shook her head.
I sat next to her and stroked her cheek. “I know things are really scary right now. Really confusing. But I promise you I’m going to take care of you. Do you know that, at least?”
She nodded. “My mommy said you were her best friend. You and Big Jimmy were her two favorite people in the world—except for me. I was her favoritest favorite.”
I smiled. “What about Tony? Wasn’t he one of her favorites?”
She scrunched up her face. “She said it was complicated.”
“Yeah, well, with grown-ups, sometimes life is pretty complicated.”
“I saw him, you know.”
“Who, honey?”
“That bad man. Tonight. I heard the crash, and then I looked out the window. I saw him and hid under the bed.”
“Benny Bonita?”
She nodded, wide-eyed.
“Don’t worry, he’s gone.”
“I know,” she whispered. “He scared my mommy.”
“How do you know that?”
“She said so.”
I slid down so that I was lying next to her on the king-size bed. “You know, let’s not think about all this right now. Let’s get some sleep, okay?”
“Can we say prayers?”
My father was steadfastly agnostic. Deacon filled my head with the Lord this and the Lord that. And as for me, praying wasn’t my strong suit. “Sure kid. You have one in mind?”
“No. I just say God bless Mommy. And God bless Big Jimmy. And God bless Auntie Jack. And God bless Uncle Deacon. Amen. Oh, yeah. And, God? Please make Mr. Bonita stay far, far away.”
“I’ll say amen to that,” I whispered, and held her hand until she fell asleep.
Chapter 5
The next morning, early, Destiny woke me up. I groaned. “Kid…it’s way too early to get up. Why don’t you watch those wiggle-worm guys.”
She giggled. “The Wiggles.”
“Yeah. Them.” I rolled over and pulled the covers over my head.
“I’m hungry.”
“Go get yourself something to eat,” I said from under the covers.
“Like what?”
“Deacon will make you a smoothie.”
“He makes gross ones.”
“There’s leftover jambalaya in the fridge.”
“Yuck. For breakfast?”
“I’ve been eating cold leftovers for breakfast since before you were born. They’re good for you.”
“Breakfast is s’posed to be something like cereal or pancakes.”
“That’s a conspiracy dreamed up by Mr. Kellogg and Mr. Post.”