“It’s good to see you too. Actually…that’s the other reason I’m here. I know you were in a bad way when we left, so I wanted to give you the news myself. He’s disappeared, love. Not a peep. I don’t think you have to worry about him coming ’round the bar anymore.”
“Oh.”
Bonnie felt as though she was teetering at the top of a precipice. She balanced above it for a moment, then another, then let herself fall into relief. Seeing her wobble, Peachy caught her and held her in a tight embrace.
“You know you didn’t have to come all this way to tell me,” she said into his hair.
“Like I said, my bird—” he began, but Bonnie only squeezed him harder.
“But I’m really glad you did,” she finished.
He grabbed her shoulders and shook her, smiling broadly.
“I missed my pal,” he said. He took a step back and looked her up and down. “Hold on, what’s going on here?”
He circled one long finger at her outfit. Bonnie blushed and looked down at her silk shirt.
“It looks stupid, right?”
“If by stupid you mean like a total knockout.” Peachy gave her a little wink. “Pun intended. Where are we going tonight all dressed to the nines?”
“Nowhere.” Bonnie yanked at the top uncomfortably. “I mean I was, but now I’m not.”
Peachy frowned.
“Go on, tell Uncle Peach what’s going on.”
Bonnie thought about rebuffing this, then relented.
“There’s this annual party for my boxing gym—”
“A party? You should have said!”
Peachy walked right past her into the apartment, grabbing at his Afro. Before Bonnie could say anything, he was heading down the hallway, calling to her over his shoulder.
“Point me toward the bathroom! I just need to run a comb through this barnet, and I’m good to go!”
—
They took the subway uptown to 145th Street, Peachy maintaining a running commentary about all the happenings at the bar, including his and Fuzz’s new business idea, which was to open a laundromat speakeasy called Fuzz ’n’ Fold. Bonnie listened to this monologue without adding much; she was enjoying being with him, but also anxious to get the rest of the night over with. Just like with a fight, she figured, the anticipation was the worst part.
As they walked to the club, the sidewalk shimmered with the glitter that is inexplicably poured into the city’s cement, that curious combination of glisten and grime that was simply New York. At the door, Bonnie nodded respectfully at the bouncers, with whom she now felt an unspoken kinship, and gave her name. The party was already at a raucous tempo when they entered, the dance floor packed with fighters and their friends moving with unselfconscious abandon. Bonnie instinctively looked for Pavel amid the crowd but did not find him. The scent of cocoa butter and Axe body spray rose in a fragrant wave off the dancing bodies. Women flitted like bees between men petaled with muscles, their shirts unbuttoned to their navels like buds bursting open.
“All right!” said Peachy, looking around and slapping his hands appreciatively. “These boxers know how to party!”
Bonnie smiled. Training required such unrelenting discipline, a tolerance not only for pain but for mind-numbing repetition, as it was only by performing the same movements over and over, year after year, that they became instinctive in the ring, that when boxers did let off steam, it was not surprising that they did so with the same full-bodied gusto they brought to training. Also, thanks to Pavel, every last one of his fighters knew how to dance.
“What can I get you?” asked Peachy. “Vodka soda? Beer? Champagne?”
Bonnie shook her head.
“Do you think they have seltzer and lime?” she asked.
“Right, right, your body is your temple, I forgot.” Peachy’s face lit up. “You know what we need? Suicides. None of this seltzer and lime shite!”
Bonnie looked confused.
“Suicide?”
Peachy mimed disbelief.
“Don’t tell me you don’t know the suicide? It’s all the fountain drinks, mixed together.” He began counting on his fingers. “I’m talking Coke, Sprite, Dr Pepper…Shit, what are the others? Red Bull! Let’s go turbo and add Red Bull! The sugar in that concoction alone will send you to the ceiling.” He gave her a little wink. “Better than a sniff of the white stuff, any day.”
Bonnie followed Peachy to the bar. As they brought the pint glasses of murky soda mix to their lips, Peachy insisted they race to see who could down theirs the fastest. As Bonnie chugged, rivulets of sticky liquid dripping down her chin, she felt an old, childish happiness bubble within her. It was a hot summer night, and she was with her friend at a party. That long-forgotten visitor had arrived: fun. Bonnie won the race after Peachy snorted soda through his nose, then ordered them another round. She sipped the ice-cold concoction, feeling the sugar buoy her spirits. Peachy downed his again, then released a loud belch.
“Let’s fookin’ dance!” he declared.
Felix and his wife were already at the center of the floor when they arrived, exercising some impressive salsa moves. They both cheered when they saw Bonnie and pulled her in to join them. Soon, she was surrounded by fighters, lithe featherweights, nimble welterweights, and imposing heavyweights, the music pulling them all together like a looping drawstring tugged tight around their waists. At one point, Bonnie looked over to see Danya seated at a cushioned banquette along the wall, handing a glass of water to his pregnant wife. The two nodded at each other in respectful acknowledgment. They both knew that in the ring, it was war, but outside, what mattered most was always family.
Bonnie danced until sweat pooled at the bottom of her spine and slicked her hair to her temples. Every few songs, she checked the mass of bodies for Pavel, but he was never there. A languorous song about summer and desire came on and Peachy pulled her into him, pushing his hips against hers. They moved with the smooth undulations of the music, Peachy’s hand creeping down her waist as Bonnie let the melody rush around her like warm, fragrant water. She closed her eyes and placed her cheek on Peachy’s shoulder, letting his hands knead her hips. He rocked her body in a rolling, rippling rhythm, and she abandoned herself to the pleasure of movement, of touch.
When she opened her eyes again, Pavel was at the edge of the dance floor, surveying the crowd. Only his eyes moved while his head stayed regally still, like a bird of prey. Then, he turned himself to her with a look so direct that it made her start. He held her in his pensive, avian gaze and cocked his head. Instinctively, she wanted to push Peachy off her, to go to him, but she didn’t. She kept dancing, letting Peachy pivot her body away. Tentatively, she glanced over her shoulder to see Pavel leave the dance floor and disappear toward the back exit. Bonnie made it to the start of the next song before stepping away from Peachy and motioning that she was getting some air. He gave her a momentary look of disappointment before noticing a ring girl who was smiling at him from near the DJ booth and setting off optimistically in her direction.
—
Without stopping to let herself think, Bonnie slipped off the dance floor and headed toward the exit. She climbed the metal stairs, the music retreating to a distant bass note, and opened the back door of the club. There in the alley was Pavel. He was pulling on a cigar, its smoke pluming around his head. The neon light of the club’s sign above him melted around his feet and formed slick pools in the hollows of his face. If he was surprised to see her, he didn’t show it.
“Is you,” he said mildly as she stepped onto the shimmering sidewalk next to him.
