A Matter of Life and Death

the incredible accomplishments of her grandchildren.
Robin took her sushi and a cup of green tea to the sofa and turned on the television. The Blazers were playing the Knicks. Robin pecked at her food while the ball bounced back and forth across the hardwood. Somewhere in the third quarter, she fell asleep.

PART TWONO HOLDS BARRED


CHAPTER ELEVEN
Portland had a notorious homeless problem, and over the years, tent cities had sprung up. Some were permanent, but others existed only until they were shut down by the authorities. Some of the homeless were mentally ill or addicted. Others had lost their residences when they had their rent increased, or they lost their jobs and could not find another. Joe Lattimore had been unfortunate on both counts.
Joe’s skin was the color of anthracite coal, his right cheek was decorated with a reminder of a teenage knife fight, and he was five feet eleven inches of sculpted muscle. Joe had fought professionally, and he’d fought for survival in the housing project where he grew up. As far back as he could remember, his life had been one long struggle.
Joe had a wife he loved, a baby girl he adored, and temporary housing in one of the tent cities. Living in the homeless enclave was safer than the streets, but there were crazy people and junkies living nearby, so Joe worried constantly about Maria, the baby, and earning the money he needed to move his family somewhere safe.
There were two things Joe did well—cook and fight. He was a decent fighter, but his manager had trouble getting him fights, and the purses, minus expenses, never amounted to much. Joe had stopped fighting when Maria told him she was pregnant, and he decided that he needed steady work to support the baby.
Joe had learned how to cook in the army and he found a good job that paid a decent wage at the Imperial Diner. Unfortunately, Joe could not control his temper. At the Imperial, he was often the butt of jokes. That led to more fights and the loss of his job.
Joe’s reputation as a troublemaker followed him, and he couldn’t find work. Out of desperation, Joe had called his manager to see if he could get him a fight. His manager was sympathetic, but Joe hadn’t fought in a while and he’d never been a big name. The manager said he would try, but he told Joe not to hold out much hope. Joe knew a payday from fighting was a long shot, but he would have to be in shape if something came through, so he’d started working out again.
This morning, Joe kissed Maria goodbye and started running at a steady pace. Joe’s route took him onto a bike path that ran along the river for five miles before he ran back to the homeless enclave along city streets. He was four miles from the tent city when the black car passed him. A half a mile later, he saw it again, this time parked at the curb. A rail-thin white man was standing beside it, smoking. He wore his greasy black hair in a ducktail that had been popular with juvenile delinquents in the 1950s, and his black leather jacket and tight jeans made him look like an extra in a teen movie from that time.
When Joe got closer, the man dropped the cigarette into the street and held up his hand. Joe slowed down. The man walked toward him. Joe stood sideways, ready to fight. The man smiled.
“It’s Joe, right? Lattimore?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m Sal. I saw you fight Reilly a few years back. Good fight. I thought you got robbed,” Sal said.
“What’s this about?” Joe asked.
Sal grinned. “No need to get defensive. I know you’re down on your luck, and I’m here to give you an opportunity to make some money doing what you do best.”
The mention of money got Joe’s attention. “I’m listening.”
“I have a friend. He puts on fights. The fights are no-holds-barred, winner takes all.”
“Is that legal?”
Sal laughed. “You know the answer to that one. The important thing is you get three hundred dollars for a few minutes’ work, the first time you fight. If you look good, you get asked back, and the next time you get a bigger payday. You interested?”
Joe was desperate to move Maria and the baby someplace safe. Three hundred dollars would get them a few days at a motel while he hunted for work.
“When would this happen?” he asked.
“End of the week. You in?”
Joe hesitated. Then he nodded.
“There’s a vacant lot near the on-ramp to the interstate a few blocks from your camp. Be there at eight on Sunday. A van will drive up. That’s your ride. Got that?”
“Yeah. Eight, Sunday.”
“Good luck, Joe,” Sal said. Then he got in his car without looking back and drove away.
Joe watched the car until it disappeared. His gut was in a knot. The type of fight the man had described was usually run by gangsters, and he couldn’t afford to get arrested. His brain told him that he shouldn’t get involved, but he needed the money. Going up against untrained fighters seemed like an easy way to make some.
Joe started back toward Maria and the baby. He had a few days to make up his mind. Three hundred dollars was a lot of money for someone who was depending on food kitchens to feed his family, but getting involved with criminals …
Running usually relaxed Joe, but he was uneasy all the way back to the camp.


CHAPTER TWELVE
The sun had set by the time Joe found the trash-filled lot near the on-ramp to the freeway where he’d been told to wait for the van. When the van stopped next to the lot, a bald, three-hundred-pound giant with gang tattoos and a cauliflower ear got out and slid open the rear door. Joe hesitated.
“Get the fuck in or don’t,” the driver said. “I ain’t waiting.”
Joe overcame his fear and climbed in. There