A Man for Michael

Chapter One * * * * * The moment Mike saw Noodle come through the door of his gym, he cringed. Guiltily, but cringed nonetheless. He’d known Noodle so long now that just the particular degree of hunch to the skinny man’s shoulders was enough to tell him that Noodle was here for some kind of favor, or a meal. Or both. He knew he’d get it, pushover for strays that Mike was. He felt sorry for the guy. He was Noodle’s only friend, even if it was Noodle’s own drug problem that drove any other normal kind of relationship away. Mike watched Noodle head toward his office, through the path between weightlifting stations occupied by his clients, sweating, grunting, and cheering each other on while they spotted each other to press more, squat more, break their personal records. Mike ignored all the synthetic juice he knew they used to give them that nearly superhuman ability. He wasn’t thrilled about it but at the same time, some of those guys lived on the edge of trouble, but as long as they weren’t out abusing people and stealing and killing and had a place to come to and vent their energy, they were probably better off. Then Noodle appeared, with his gap-toothed smile, stringy hair, and clothes that needed a wash weeks ago. “Hey, Mikey!” Mike sat up in his swivelly desk chair, feeling like a poser of some kind of executive instead of a dried up cage fighter c*m gym owner. When he opened this place, he’d splurged on the cushiony, ergonomic chair as a congratulations gift to himself for getting out of the illegal underground octagon. A world he had hoped to leave behind forever. Because of Noodle, he went back from time to time. Noodle came and sat in the chair opposite his desk. Mike saw his eye fall on the takeout box in front of him on the desk blotter. “Got any leftovers from Sal’s?” “Of course.” Mike pushed the box that contained half a chicken parm sub over to him. His eyes widened. “Thanks, buddy. You’re always there for me.” This was going to be a big favor. Mike let him take the couple of bites that he usually took before asking him about his purpose for coming. He never ate more than that anyway. “So?” Noodle pushed the box aside with a crooked grin. “Why do you always think I’m coming for a favor? Don’t you think I might just be stopping by to say ‘hi’ and see how my favorite person ever is doing?” “No.” Noodle chuckled, a slightly mirthless sound in which Mike couldn’t help hearing pathos. There was always a part of a person that didn’t want to be doing things they knew were wrong. It was the stopping that could be the hard part. Pain had a way of wielding the whip. In Noodle’s case, the whip cracked so hard, the guy constantly ran up debt with the wrong people. Noodle pointed a dirty finger as if about to make something wondrous appear before Mike. “What if I told you The Chow was fighting at Donnie’s tonight and you, my friend, could come and see him in exchange for a little bouncing of razzers?” The Chow. Now there was an unexpected bit of news. Mike had never seen him fight but he’d heard about him. He’d looked him up on the Internet. Some of his guys here went on at times about him. The Chow had come up after Mike had already left the business. The Chow’s reputation for fierceness had immediately rippled through the underground world. He was unbeatable. A little guy from the streets of Hong Kong, or so the information on the ‘net said. Video footage on the ‘net show The Chow taking down guys several times his size in a few chops and kicks, but Mike retained a healthy skepticism in favor of cinematic staging. Being over six feet and pretty heavyweight built, Mike tended to scoff a bit at such a size and weight differential. There was a good reason for the myriad of categories in fighting. Only in the movies did a little guy make mincemeat out of someone so huge. However, he could not deny the hum of curiosity that had begun to simmer in unseen parts of himself. If the videos Mike had seen of The Chow were the actual guy, he was as hot as he was fierce. Short but sleek with muscle, the perfect balance of bulge and agility. His face too, drew the eye, with the large intense eyes, high cheekbones and wide full lips set in determination. Rumor also had it that The Chow’s “manager” was some big time gangster in London. Of course, Noodle could even be lying about The Chow being there at all in order to secure the favor, but just in case… “Well, Mikey? What do you say?” Mike blinked, clearing the haze that had come over his mind. And which had begun to slink treacherously into the long unused male part of his anatomy. He was a goner. In spite of the fact that he would have helped Noodle out anyway, he had to satisfy his curiosity. The worst that could happen was The Chow wouldn’t be there and Noodle and he would leave at the end of the night with a few bucks in their pockets. He didn’t need the cash, thank God, but Noodle did, desperately. The gym was doing well in his little corner of Allston, a rough and tumble neighborhood in the western side of Boston, mixed with blue collar folks, punks, college students, immigrants from all over the world and guys like him and Noodle. “Sure,” he said on a sigh. “I’ll go.”