97. I woke up in the kids’ room. . . .
I woke up in the kids’ room with my uncle sitting on the bed across from me. On the floor by his foot, a fifth of Jim Beam sat next to a plastic dump truck. When he saw my eyes were open, he grunted. “Welcome back.”
“Thanks.” I raised myself on one elbow. “What time is it?”
“It’s not late,” he said. “If you’re hungry, you can still get a cheeseburger. Those other guys left.”
“Are you sure?” My chest felt as though I’d been run over by a lightweight vehicle, a motorcycle maybe or else an old-fashioned WWII Jeep. The ambulance jerk hit me better than I’d expected.
“Whatever they teach kids up in Palemon High School,” my uncle said, “they don’t teach you how to fight. He put you out like a birthday candle.”
“Oof,” I said, touching my sore chest. “Don’t remind me.”
“You win some and you lose some,” he said. He leaned closer. “There’s a nigger runs a saloon up in Carter Lake, Iowa,” he confided. “That quick bastard’s got a punch, I can tell you. Little tight fist as hard as a spike maul. Feels like a good sharp rap with the end of a brick.”
I sat up and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. “Wide Load Wilson,” I said. “He fought against Sonny Liston.”
My uncle gave me an appraising look and rubbed his upper lip regretfully. “If that’s true,” he said, “I feel sorry for Liston.” He offered me a drink of Beam, and we went out together.
Getting myself knocked out reversed the cops’ attitude toward me; now they treated me as the lion of the party. Wherever I went from then on—the keg only lasted till a little after ten p.m., but there were cases of Michelob in the basement—they were always giving me a sandwich or a cup of beer, and asking my opinion on everything from Presidential politics to the Nebraska football team. I had the opportunity to ask a few questions myself; about Black Moustache I learned only that he was not from Lincoln and was not liked, but they told me more about The Goon than I knew already. Like a number of the cops, he’d gone to Northeast High up in Havelock, where he’d represented his school in parking-lot fights. He had a drug problem and had done time for auto theft. Having extricated him from countless brawls and assaults, they’d developed a proprietary fondness for him; they shook their heads and grinned as they recounted tales of mayhem starring Don Stinns. Don was Don, they assured one another, and would continue until somebody shot him or he killed someone and went to prison permanently. So far, all his victims had survived.
My cousin Dale told the story of a fight Don had lost, back in his Northeast days. His opponent had been a Mennonite kid from Milford, a smaller man with the strength of a wolverine. He had finished the fight by lifting Don at arm’s length, spinning him around, and throwing him against a concrete step. The men who’d been there bowed their heads silently, as though they still mourned their fallen champion. What had become of the Milford kid, I asked.
Army, someone said. They’d heard he’d made a career in an elite branch of the Army. A snake eater working off the map. Someone not to be messed with.
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