Blossom - Andrew H. Vachss [35]
The hum hung up.
42
I LOOKED AT more racetrack sites until lunchtime. Found one that looked good. Stock–car track at Illiana, right on U.S. 30. In Schererville, close enough to Virgil's house so I could be in the neighborhood.
The Lake County Public Library was on the same highway. Ultra–modern, all glass. The young black woman at the reference desk showed me where to find the back issues of the Post–Tribune on microfiche. I scrolled through. Whenever I came across a story on the sniper killings, I pushed the button for a copy. My attaché case was stuffed by the time I left.
43
THAT NIGHT, we started Lloyd's survival school.
Virgil taped the kid's hands from wrists to knuckles. Slapped a wide band across Lloyd's mouth.
"That's to teach you to breathe through your nose," I told him. "When you get scared, you breathe through your mouth—take in too much air. It helps you panic. That's not what we want, okay?"
The kid nodded, watching.
"You're going to start on this heavy bag. No jabs. That's okay for the ring, not for inside. Hooks. That's all we want. Both hands. Nothing to the head. Everything to the body. Stand close. We want a hundred punches in a row. Without stopping. You're not going to get it right away—it takes time. But a hundred punches. Real punches. That's what we're working for."
Virgil stood behind the heavy bag, steadying it with his hands. The kid walked over to it, drew a deep breath through his nose, fired a left hook, a right, another left. His arms dropped—he was out of breath.
I put my hands on the back of his shoulders. He was covered with sweat under the T–shirt. "Don't take a big breath and hold it. Nice shallow breaths. In and out. You stop breathing, you stop punching, okay?"
He nodded, weak but game.
"And stand closer, Lloyd. You'll always be fighting bigger guys. Get close so their arms reach over your shoulders." Virgil left the bag, came over to stand in front of me. He was taller. I stepped into him, face against his chest, dropping my shoulders, hooked toward his body in slow motion. Virgil's long arms reached past me, hands slapping against my back.
Lloyd nodded. Stepped into the heavy bag, firing hooks, right, left, right, over and over. This time he went a good fifteen seconds before he ran out of gas. The kid raked air into his nose, holding his stomach.
"Much better," I told him. "But stop punching with your arms. You're doing this…" I stood in front of the bag, feet planted, launched a hook as I twisted my shoulder into the punch. The bag popped. "That look pretty good to you?" I asked him.
He nodded, eyes sharp on the target.
"Looks don't get it in a fight," I told him. "That was an arm punch. Like you've been throwing. The power comes from here." Putting my thumbs on my hip bones, fingers spraying down to my upper thighs. Twisting my hips in slow motion as I got off another hook. "See? Turn your hip into the punch—what you got from the waist up isn't enough to really drive, all right? Watch…" I double–hooked the bag with my left hand, popped in a right, switched back to the left. Virgil nodded approval.
Lloyd came back to the bag, stepped in, and launched a jet–stream hook from somewhere around his ankles. Virgil pushed the bag against him as the blow landed and Lloyd hit the floor. He jumped to his feet and swung even harder. This time he stayed on his feet, but he was so off–balance he couldn't throw another punch. I went back to work.
"Plant your feet. Spread 'em apart. Yeah, that's it…a little more. Don't punch at the bag, punch through it. Yeah! Drive those shots, Lloyd! Balance, balance." I kept my hands on his hips, not letting him get too far out of alignment. "Alternate the punches. Double up on the left. Drive, damn it! Drop down with those shots—lower. There's no below–the–belt crap where you're going. Don't be admiring your work, drive!"
The kid staggered forward, face green.