The Power Of The Dog Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Don Winslow
down, hit him twice in the ribs, and then leaned forward and tied him up.
Take a few seconds off the round, Art thought, get a blow. Lean on the kid, maybe wear him out a little. But even before Little Brother could come in and break the clinch, the kid slipped under Art’s arms, spun out, and hit him with two punches in the side of the head.
Art kept coming forward.
Absorbing punches the whole time, but it was Art who was the aggressor, and that was the point. The kid was backing off, dancing, hitting him at will, but nevertheless going backwards. He dropped his hands and Art hit him with a hard left jab in the chest, driving him back. The kid looked surprised, so Art did it again.
Between rounds, the two brothers were too busy giving their boxer hell to give Art any shit. He was grateful for the rest. One more round, he thought. Just let me get through one more round.
The bell rang.
A lot of dinero changed hands when Art got off his stool.
He touched gloves with the kid for the last round, looked into his eyes and instantly saw that he’d wounded the kid’s pride. Shit, Art thought, I didn’t mean to do that. Rein in your ego, asshole, and don’t take a chance on winning this thing.
He needn’t have worried.
Whatever the brothers had told the kid between rounds, the kid made the adjustment, constantly moving to his left, in the direction of his own jab, keeping his hands high, pretty much hitting Art at will, then getting out of the way.
Art was moving forward, hitting at air.
He stopped.
Stood in the center of the ring, shook his head, laughed and waved the kid to come on in.
The crowd loved it.
The kid loved it.
He shuffled into the center of the ring and started raining punches down on Art, who blocked them the best he could and covered up. Art would shoot a jab or counterpunch back every few seconds, and the kid would fire over it and nail him again.
The kid wasn’t going for knockout punches now. There was no anger in him anymore. He was truly sparring, just getting in his workout and showing that he could hit Art anytime he wanted, playing to the crowd, giving them the show they’d come to see. By the end, Art was down on one knee with his gloves tight to his head and his elbows tucked into his ribs, so he was taking most of the shots on his gloves and arms.
The final bell rang.
The kid picked Art up and they embraced.
“You are going to be champ one day,” Art said to him.
“You did okay,” the kid said. “Thank you for the match.”
“You got yourself a good fighter,” Art said as Little Brother was taking his gloves off.
“We’re going all the way,” Little Brother said. He stuck out his hand, “My name is Adán. That’s my brother, Raúl.”
Raúl looked down at Art and nodded. “You didn’t quit, Yanqui. I thought you’d quit.”
No “faggot” this time, Art noted.
“If I had any brains, I’d have quit,” he said.
“You fight like a Mexican,” Raúl said.
Ultimate praise.
Actually, I fight like half a Mexican, Art thought, but he kept it to himself. But he knew what Raúl meant. It was the same in Barrio Logan—it isn’t so much what you can dish out as what you can take.
Well, I took plenty tonight, Art thought. All I want to do now is go back to the hotel, take a long, hot shower and spend the rest of the night with an ice pack.
Okay, several ice packs.
“We’re going out for some beers,” Adán said. “You want to come?”
Yeah, Art thought. Yeah, I do.
So he spent the night downing beers in a cafetín with Adán.
Years later, Art would have given anything in the world to have just killed Adán Barrera on the spot.
Tim Taylor called him into the office the next morning.
Art looked like shit, which was an accurate external reflection of his internal reality. His head was pounding from the beers and
Take a few seconds off the round, Art thought, get a blow. Lean on the kid, maybe wear him out a little. But even before Little Brother could come in and break the clinch, the kid slipped under Art’s arms, spun out, and hit him with two punches in the side of the head.
Art kept coming forward.
Absorbing punches the whole time, but it was Art who was the aggressor, and that was the point. The kid was backing off, dancing, hitting him at will, but nevertheless going backwards. He dropped his hands and Art hit him with a hard left jab in the chest, driving him back. The kid looked surprised, so Art did it again.
Between rounds, the two brothers were too busy giving their boxer hell to give Art any shit. He was grateful for the rest. One more round, he thought. Just let me get through one more round.
The bell rang.
A lot of dinero changed hands when Art got off his stool.
He touched gloves with the kid for the last round, looked into his eyes and instantly saw that he’d wounded the kid’s pride. Shit, Art thought, I didn’t mean to do that. Rein in your ego, asshole, and don’t take a chance on winning this thing.
He needn’t have worried.
Whatever the brothers had told the kid between rounds, the kid made the adjustment, constantly moving to his left, in the direction of his own jab, keeping his hands high, pretty much hitting Art at will, then getting out of the way.
Art was moving forward, hitting at air.
He stopped.
Stood in the center of the ring, shook his head, laughed and waved the kid to come on in.
The crowd loved it.
The kid loved it.
He shuffled into the center of the ring and started raining punches down on Art, who blocked them the best he could and covered up. Art would shoot a jab or counterpunch back every few seconds, and the kid would fire over it and nail him again.
The kid wasn’t going for knockout punches now. There was no anger in him anymore. He was truly sparring, just getting in his workout and showing that he could hit Art anytime he wanted, playing to the crowd, giving them the show they’d come to see. By the end, Art was down on one knee with his gloves tight to his head and his elbows tucked into his ribs, so he was taking most of the shots on his gloves and arms.
The final bell rang.
The kid picked Art up and they embraced.
“You are going to be champ one day,” Art said to him.
“You did okay,” the kid said. “Thank you for the match.”
“You got yourself a good fighter,” Art said as Little Brother was taking his gloves off.
“We’re going all the way,” Little Brother said. He stuck out his hand, “My name is Adán. That’s my brother, Raúl.”
Raúl looked down at Art and nodded. “You didn’t quit, Yanqui. I thought you’d quit.”
No “faggot” this time, Art noted.
“If I had any brains, I’d have quit,” he said.
“You fight like a Mexican,” Raúl said.
Ultimate praise.
Actually, I fight like half a Mexican, Art thought, but he kept it to himself. But he knew what Raúl meant. It was the same in Barrio Logan—it isn’t so much what you can dish out as what you can take.
Well, I took plenty tonight, Art thought. All I want to do now is go back to the hotel, take a long, hot shower and spend the rest of the night with an ice pack.
Okay, several ice packs.
“We’re going out for some beers,” Adán said. “You want to come?”
Yeah, Art thought. Yeah, I do.
So he spent the night downing beers in a cafetín with Adán.
Years later, Art would have given anything in the world to have just killed Adán Barrera on the spot.
Tim Taylor called him into the office the next morning.
Art looked like shit, which was an accurate external reflection of his internal reality. His head was pounding from the beers and
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