Rabbit Punch, page 1
Rabbit Punch
Greg Cmiel
Copyright © 2021 by Greg Cmiel
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
* * *
I'M WALKIN'
Words and Music by ANTOINE DOMINO and DAVE BARTHOLOMEW
© 1957 (Renewed) EMI UNART CATALOG INC.
Exclusive Print Rights Administered by ALFRED MUSIC PUBLISHING CO., INC.
Created with Vellum
I’ve wrestled with alligators. I’ve tussled with a whale. I done handcuffed lightning, and throw thunder in jail.
Muhammad Ali
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
A Word From Greg
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1
White Knuckles
A few crumbs of toast on a chipped plate was all that remained of Cash’s breakfast. He sat at the kitchen table and sipped his orange juice. Mom was asleep on the couch. She snored softly. Mom had pulled another double at the hospital, came home, and collapsed—still wearing her white nurse’s shoes. She worked when she could—with Dad gone, money was tighter than ever. Not that he ever contributed much; washed-up prizefighters don’t exactly bring in the big bucks.
Cash eased out of his chair and tiptoed toward the living room, threading through stacks of unopened moving boxes along the way. He pulled Mom’s shoes off one by one, careful not to wake her. Fat chance; she was out cold. Cash covered her with a quilt, then stretched high over the couch to the window and dragged the curtain closed.
He let out a slow breath. Mom looked so small as she slept, the dynamo he knew drained of her power. It brought a lump to his throat seeing her so vulnerable. He didn't stay long, afraid the tears would start. Afraid that once they did, they would never stop. Cash couldn’t bear it. He backed away, dodging boxes, and scurried for the door.
Outside, the air was cool and crisp—Cash’s new neighborhood was just waking for the day. A sprinkler arced water in a shimmering spray that attracted a handful of robins. They hopped from foot to foot and waited for the worms to surface. He made a face as a robin tugged a fat one from the ground. Cash skittered across the front lawn, scattering the flock, and hoped he wouldn’t tread on one of the wriggling night crawlers. Nasty. He stepped onto the street with no destination in mind and began to walk. He covered a lot of ground with his long, loping stride.
Cash took after his dad, tall and gangly for thirteen, with a mop of tousled brown hair that stuck out in all directions, impossible to tame. He missed his dad terribly. His heart ached like it had been torn from his chest and stomped on, the damaged leftovers stuffed back inside. Dad had broken his heart before, but this time it was way, way worse.
Cash pocketed the house key and realized he’d forgotten his phone on the kitchen table. He thought about going back, but shrugged and moved on. He dug the big silver coin out of his pocket, the one Dad had given to him last January on his birthday. It was a commemorative coin Dad had gotten from his father, Grandpa Joe.
Grandpa Joe bought the coin at the 1964 World’s Fair in New York City. One side of the coin showed the spinning earth, wrapped in clouds, with the words “Man’s Achievements in an Ever-Expanding Universe” across the top. The back showed a pilgrim and a Native American standing side by side, with words and symbols celebrating the founding of New York City three hundred years ago. Grandpa Joe had won his first amateur boxing match that day. From then on, he believed the coin brought good luck.
Cash had a box full of souvenirs from Dad’s travels as a club fighter, no, a contender; Dad hated being called a “club fighter.” The lucky World’s Fair coin was his favorite, by far. It hadn’t brought a lot of success to Dad—twenty years of luck, I suppose, some good, but mostly bad. Now it belonged to him.
Cash threaded the coin between his fingers like a sleight-of-hand magician practicing his trade. He believed in magic, wanted to bring some to the coin—stuff it full of good luck until it overflowed with positive energy. He would then give it to his mom, and everything would be better. He drove himself onward.
Cash no longer felt the ground; he floated above the asphalt. Somewhere a kitchen window was open. A strong odor drifted out, cinnamon and nutmeg and the smell of frying bacon, too. Dad loved his bacon. Cash sighed.
A black sedan drifted toward him. Songbirds halted their morning melody. A ghostly figure perched behind the wheel. Sunlight glinted off the chrome bumper and the hum of the tires became a roar as the car neared. Cash covered his ears with his hands. He gaped as the figure behind the wheel came into focus. No. Not again. His stomach twisted.
It was Dad. Impossible. He was gone. Cash’s heart scudded in his chest.
The man driving the car wore a black baseball cap and had dark brown eyes, like Dad—his mouth set in a grim line. His gaze locked onto Cash as the car passed, the saddest eyes he’d ever seen. White knuckles gripped the steering wheel, his profile stone hard—Mount Rushmore hard. A hand dropped below the dashboard, and a cigarette appeared in the corner of his mouth—a plume of smoke filled the car. A window was lowered and the smell of burning tobacco drifted back. The sad eyes were reflected in the rearview mirror. Wavy lines of tree branches and sky on the glass distorted the image, a mirage not to be trusted.
Cash blinked furiously in the bright sun. “No,” he growled low. “Not possible.” He rapped his fists against his temple and willed his numb feet to move. They wouldn’t. Move, his mind howled. It took another moment or two, but his legs reluctantly obeyed. He took one backward step, then another, his eyes locked on the disappearing sedan. Cash squeezed the coin; it had gone cold, its magic spent. A chill ran the length of Cash’s spine. He bolted away.
“Hey! Look out!” A voice and a blur of movement.
Cash couldn’t avoid the collision. He crashed into another boy. They both went down in a tangle of limbs. Cash crab-walked away and scuttled to his feet.
The boy gaped at him. He had toffee-colored skin; long, dark hair, wide-set eyes; and a broad nose. He wore jeans and a T-shirt. The boy stood and brushed grass clippings from his legs.
“Watch where you’re going.”
“Sorry,” Cash muttered. He shuffled away.
“You live around here?” the boy called out. “What’s your name?”
Cash drew his lips in a tight line and continued walking.
“Hey.” The boy crossed his arms and watched Cash until he disappeared at the end of the street.
2
What's Your Name, Princess?
Cash plodded along for an hour or so, taking his time since he had nowhere to be and was in no hurry to get there. He kicked rocks and softly hummed Dad’s favorite song. He walked and hummed, the normally upbeat melody slow and mournful, until the rumblings from his hollowed-out stomach forced him to think about home. Mom was most likely up and would worry about where he was. He wished he’d gone back for his phone.
Cash had paid little attention to his surroundings as he went along, so when he finally glanced up, he realized he had no clue how to get back. He had grown up in Minneapolis and had gotten used to the grid-like streets laid out by number and in alphabetical order.
He gazed up at the sky for help. Cash remembered a camping trip to the North Shore. Dad had taught him how a compass worked as they paddled along the lakeshore and explained how to use the position of the sun to find east and west. No luck today. The sun was centered directly above him. He sighed and turned back, hoping he’d find his way home. He imagined himself lost and wandering till nightfall.
Cash spotted two older teens across the street leaning against a car. He locked eyes with the bigger of the two who sneered and jutted his chin toward Cash. He had feathered hair, so blond it was almost white, and wore a tight black T-shirt that rippled beneath his bulky torso. The other teen wore a crimson jersey and flashed a yellow-toothed, goblin grin. He took off suddenly and disappeared down the block.
Cash continued his deliberate pace and glanced up now and then, looking for anything even remotely familiar. No luck. He spotted someone up ahead leaning against the side of a brick building. It was the teen with the crimson jersey. He cracked his knuckles, one stubby finger at a time. His chest heaved with labored breathing.
“You lost, buddy boy? You seem lost,” he wheezed. T
Cash shook his head. “I’m fine. No problem.” Not liking the looks of the dude, Cash swerved right to put as much space between himself and the teen as possible. The teen lurched away from the car and blocked Cash’s path.
“Liar. You’re lost,” the teenager barked. “I hate liars.” He pounded a fist into his palm. It made a wet slapping sound. Cash flinched a little and the goon curled his lip in a cruel smile.
Cash froze and raised his hands as if to say, “I don’t want any trouble.”
“I was only messing.” The teen grinned jagged rows of yellow teeth.
Cash backed up a step. He swallowed hard and pictured Dad in his fighter’s crouch. The garish colors of the promotional poster for his last big fight. Eddie “Thunder” Hickman. “Bring the thunder!” Dad would growl as he charged in. Cash chewed his lip as a bitter rage sparked his spine. A crimson flush spread across his cheeks.
“Don’t go, buddy boy, the fun is just starting. We’re all gonna be good friends, I just know it.” The big teen took two steps forward until he stood nearly toe to toe with Cash.
Cash swallowed hard. All? This dude was crazy. Cash backed up another step and coiled his long frame, ready to dash away. A heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder.
The teen wearing the crimson jersey guffawed. “Get ‘em, Rolf.”
“Yeah, buddy boy. Let the good times roll. Me, you, and Gene. The Three Musketeers!” Rolf howled.
Cash was whipped around and found himself facing a pair of the meanest eyes he’d ever seen, set deep under a swoop of fiery blond hair, topped off by a too-small fedora, a stars-and-stripes band wrapped just above the brim. Strong hands squeezed his shoulders. Rolf pulled Cash in close, nose to nose. The boy bared his teeth and hissed. The air escaped through a jagged gap between his front teeth. His breath was foul, smelling of raw onions and stale cigarettes.
“What’s your name, princess?”
3
Dad's Lucky Coin
He bristled at the name princess; it was the nickname Dad had for Mom.
“I asked you a question, princess,” Rolf snarled.
Cash’s chest began to heave. “My na—name,” he stammered, “is not Princess.” The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as Gene closed in.
“He talks funny, Rolf,” Gene sneered. “And he lies. I say we pound him and then—”
“I say you shut up, dingus,” Rolf growled at Gene. “Didn’t your mommy ever teach to you keep your lip zipped unless you have something nice to say?”
“But, he’s a liar and…” Gene added.
Rolf shot a wicked glare over Cash’s shoulder. “Shut it, Booger.”
“Don’t call me Booger,” Gene muttered under his breath.
Rolf made a big show of releasing Cash, smoothing out his shirt.
Cash recoiled and flung his arm up, knocking Rolf’s hand away. Rolf’s eyes flashed and he raised his fists, then shook his head in mock sadness.
“I thought we were gonna be pals. That hurts me right here.” Rolf drew a heart over his chest. He stuck out his lower lip. “Let’s start this again. My name is Rolf. What’s yours?”
“Friends?” Cash narrowed his eyes. “I doubt that, Rolfff…” Cash drew out the f’s for emphasis. Rolf’s eyes flared in anger.
“Ooohhhh, now yer gonna get it.” Booger began hopping from foot to foot, shadowboxing, throwing punches at the air.
Rolf shook his head again, then stuck a finger in his ear, twisting it round and round as if to clear an obstruction. “You doubt it? I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that and you’re gonna empty your pockets and give me whatever you got. Understood?”
Cash scowled, then raised his fists, right shoulder forward, a natural southpaw. His feet slid into place, just as Dad had taught him.
“Look out Rolf, he’s a fighter!” Booger snickered. “I guess we better just leave him alone.”
Rolf frowned and raised his ham-like fists. “This ain’t gonna end well, princess. Empty your pockets, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll let you go with a gut punch.”
Cash did his best to look tough and mean, though his knees shook. Dad said it was important to show your opponent you weren’t scared. Without warning, Booger snuck up behind Cash and wrapped him in a bear hug. He was big and strong and squeezed Cash like a boa constrictor.
Rolf snickered and lowered his fists. He rooted around in Cash’s pants pockets. He found the key and held it up in the light, then shrugged and tossed it onto the street. It rang once like a bell and skidded against the curb. Cash struggled to free himself, but it was no use.
Rolf found the coin in the other pocket. He raised it in triumph, then brought it close to his face and studied the markings. “Nice. This I’m keeping.”
“Give it back,” Cash yelled. He stomped on Booger’s foot. Booger howled in pain and loosened his grip. Cash wriggled free and lunged for the coin. Rolf stiff-armed him away and pocketed the coin. He raised his fists and sneered.
Cash was frantic, he had to get Dad’s coin back. It was his good luck charm and he needed it now more than ever. He rushed at Rolf, blind with rage.
Cash forgot everything Dad had taught him, like how to contain his fury and use it, but never get so far gone it messed up all your training. Fat chance. Rolf ducked Cash’s wild punches and landed a looping cross to his cheek. Cash wobbled but pressed forward. Rolf scored a quick jab to his nose. The air swam with electric pinpricks of light. Cash blinked rapidly to clear his sight, and things may have gone much worse, but a honking car horn broke the spell.
Cash squinted toward the oncoming car and spotted Mom behind the wheel. She screamed and pushed her palm to the center of the steering wheel. Honk. Again. Honk. Honk. The car was just fifty feet away. At the sight of the raging woman behind the wheel, Booger shrunk like a sponge with all the water squeezed out. With a strangled cry, he sprinted off down the street. Cash used the distraction to his advantage. He landed a solid left hook to Rolf’s solar plexus.
Rolf’s eyes bulged and he gasped for breath. “You’re. Dead. Meat.” He clenched his teeth, raised his fists, and moved toward Cash.
The car shuddered to a halt and Mom kicked the door open. “Cash!” She rushed forward with an intensity that Cash had never, ever seen.
She got between him and Rolf and her eyes blazed white hot. Rolf towered over her. Mom was just an inch over five feet, maybe a hundred and ten pounds, but Rolf was flat-out intimidated. His eyes were downcast, and he backed away.
Rolf shuffled back another step. He shook his finger at Cash. “Remember what I said, princess. Dead. Meat.” His mouth twisted into a mockery of a smile as he reached into his front pocket. Dad’s lucky coin flashed in the sunlight. Cash lunged for it, but got nothing but air.
Rolf barked out a laugh. Mom took hold of his arm and pulled him back. Rolf pulled off his hat and tucked the coin under the stars-and-stripes ribbon. He ambled off, tipping the hat at Cash and laughing as he went along.
“No! Dad’s lucky coin,” Cash howled, “Let me go!”
Mom held him fast. “There’s never been any luck in that coin. Not for you, and certainly not for your dad.”
Cash went slack in Mom’s grip. Her words sank in. He knew she was right and all the fight drained out of him.
