Suckerpunch: (2011) by Jeremy Brown Page B

not here. Oh, and my first Brazilian.”
     
    She said, “Listen to you, like we’re talking about sex.”
     
    “Wait, we’re not?”
     
    “Shut up.” Marcela resisted for a moment, then asked, “So did you beat him?”
     
    “The Brazilian? Yeah. He was a slick little guy. I didn’t know what it was at the time, but he pulled guard on me in the shallow end of the pool. Tried to armbar me. It rained the night before, so I dragged him into the deep end and held his head underwater. Whenever he came up for air, I gave him the good news.” I smiled. “I know it sounds bad. But it helped get me ready for MMA.”
     
    “That was your plan the whole time?”
     
    “Plan? Nah. My plan was to not get my ass kicked. Then a guy named Shepherd showed up. He was the one with the plan.”
     

CHAPTER 7
     
    Marcela alarmed me by getting another Diet Coke; caffeine and short tempers liked to dare each other. She took a sip and set her glass aside and slid the salt and pepper shakers into the middle of the table. She held up the salt. “So this is you, because you’re white.” Then the pepper. “And along comes this Shepherd guy.”
     
    “He was white too.”
     
    “Was?”
     
    I shrugged. “Back then. Who knows what he is now.”
     
    She pursed her lips and considered the dilemma. “Well, we have just the one salt, so too bad.” She rocked the pepper back and forth toward the salt. “He comes along and says, ‘Hello, Woody, I’m Shepherd. Want to fight MMA?’”
     
    “You want me to tell it? Or do you just want to make up whatever sounds good to you?”
     
    Marcela knocked the saltshaker over. “Go ahead.”
     
    “Nice man voice by the way. That really sounded like him. Okay, first, I didn’t have the Woodshed nickname then—I was just Aaron.”
     
    “See, I like that name. You should keep it.”
     
    “I still have it,” I said.
     
    “Yes, but who knows it? Tell the story.” If she was half as tricky on the mat as she was at conversation, she could submit an octopus.
     
    I said, “Since we’re on the whole name thing, his real name wasn’t Shepherd. He went by The Shepherd, and people just shortened it. He thought of himself sort of like a scout for criminal talent. Liked to find kids with potential and show them how to stay out of the system, work under the radar, and make money for him. He always said the only place to get a better criminal education was in prison.”
     
    Marcela asked, “Have you been to prison?”
     
    “No.” I waited for her to ask if I’d ever been arrested, but she didn’t, so I continued. “Shepherd worked with the Bulls and other gangs—supplying drugs, moving cars they stole, but mostly acting as a go-between for people who needed muscle. He’d tell the Bulls so-and-so needs twelve guys to work security at a party, or this guy needs a car full of guns to escort a truck through north Vegas. Somebody from the gang must have mentioned me, because one day I’m in the pool—I was probably thirteen or fourteen at this point—and I look up and this tall, hefty dude with gray hair is standing on the edge.
     
    “I thought he was some kid’s dad at first, but he’s joking and talking with the Bulls and they give him a beer and he raises it to me. When I’m done, I climb out and he pulls this ice pack out of nowhere for my eye and says, ‘Let’s go for a ride.’”
     
    Marcela said, “In Brazil, they never see you again.”
     
    “Same here sometimes. But I knew the name Shepherd, and with the way the Bulls treated him, I was honored. I got into his Cadillac, this long, silver boat, and we went for a drive. With the windows up and the air-conditioning on, it was like being in a bubble floating through the city. We stopped at McDonald’s and got Quarter Pounders and fries and Cokes.”
     
    Marcela said, “This sounds like a good date. Did you hold hands?”
     
    “Okay, no more story.”
     
    “Oh, stop it. Keep going, because I still don’t see