The Sixth Street Sandman, Chapter 8

Months went by, and Allie continued to enjoy similarly brief and unsuccessful conversations with Pond. Life returned to normal; Allie continued working like a horse and fending off the interest of every guy in the office, and Pond returned to minding his own business and encouraging everyone else to do the same. After he demolished Shane Yance, Gutshall could no longer find any club fighter in the entire northeast that wanted any part of Pond any longer, no matter how much money was in it. Yance spent two days in the hospital, under supervision for a concussion. It was a common fate among Pond's gym opponents.

Trent Gutshall began to spend more time talking to people on the phone about Olin Pond than he had ever anticipated he would. He made calls to every gym he knew of, looking for someone that would fight Pond. Pond wanted to fight, and asked Gutshall every time he saw him whether a fight had been lined up yet. It never was; Pond had become well known, and no trainer was interested in sending his best heavyweight to Broxton to get beat silly.

He also received a lot of phone calls in the weeks after the Yance fight, and that's what he finally brought up to Pond two months later. “Olin, I've been on the phone for two months trying to find you somebody to fight. There is nobody.”

“You can take in fifteen grand with no undercards,” Pond said. “Give it all to whoever will come.”

“No one will, Olin. No one.”

Pond sat and fumed, but didn't say anything.

“If you want to keep fighting,” Gutshall continued, “You're going to have to go pro. I've taken calls from a dozen promoters or more. They all want to sign you to a contract, of course, but I'm sure they could be paid enough to give you some opponents.” Pond still didn't move or say anything. “You're too good for the gym level. You have to move up.”

“They won't come here, though,” Pond said.

“No. You'll have to travel to fight from here on out.”

Pond sat still for a long time. Finally he quietly said, “Schedule a fight.” Then he got up and went downstairs to his training room.

Gutshall worked the phone for a few more unpleasant days before he scheduled a fight. Small-time promoters, the types that kept fighters under contract and put together tours staging fights between their own contract fighters, were constantly calling Gutshall and wanting to know how much it would take to get Olin Pond under contract. Gutshall's response was clear and repeated as often as necessary: Olin Pond would sign no long-term contract under any circumstances, for any amount of money. What Pond would do is fight any promoter's house guys at a very reasonable price. The promoters didn't like the idea; they prefer to have total control over their organization. But in the end, greed won out as it usually does. Don Suarez had been a successful boxing promoter for fifteen years, and now oversaw an operation that included several dozens of fighters, a few of them very good, and brought in a million dollars a year in revenue. Suarez was well-known in the eastern part of the country, a shrewd businessman and an asset to the sport in the eyes of many of his associates. He and his team of trainers rode his fighters, almost all of whom had jobs and boxed only as a side gig, but Suarez treated them faily. At his heart, though, Suarez was a businessman, out to maximize his profits, not to help anyone develop his boxing career. Suarez made a deal with Gutshall: Olin Pond would receive $1,500 plus travel expenses to go to Cleveland on July 30, in two months, and fight Trev Barrett. Gutshall never bothered to ask whether Trev Barrett was any good, and Suarez never told him. In point of fact, Trev Barrett was the best heavyweight in Suarez' stable and quite well known in boxing circles. Gutshall knew exactly who he was, not that he especially cared.

Suarez hemmed and hawed on the line with Gutshall over the price and the details, but it was all a show. Gutshall knew it was, but didn't care much. Suarez would now put together a major production with Barrett-Pond as the main event, and it would make him a killing; as many as five, six thousand might attend. Pond's 18-0, 18 knockouts record would precede him, and he was worth $5,000, and would fight for a fraction of that. Suarez was making out like a bandit, and Gutshall went right ahead and let him believe he had no idea he was being taken for a ride.

Pond's first professional fight outside of the Sixth Street Gym took place two months later as scheduled at a defunct basketball arena in Cleveland. Suarez promoted the card relentlessly, and Barrett-Pond was indeed the headline fight. 6,200 people paid $25 each to attend, an enormous turnout for a minor-league boxing event.

Trev Barrett was the real deal. He'd come up through the rough streets of Baltimore, which he left when he was 17, and somehow turned up in Shane Yance's native Buffalo at 19. He thought he was a basketball player, but he was too short and not quite nimble enough to have any chance of going anywhere in the sport. He took much more naturally to boxing, though, and credited the sport with saving him from being sucked into the vortex of drugs. Now 25 years old, Barrett had two kids that he supported by working with a construction crew in the Cleveland area, and he fought six to eight times a year to bring in extra cash. He was small for a power forward, but big even for a heavyweight, six-four and 225 pounds, and he was now in his third year with Don Suarez, and his record in 20 fights was 19-1 with 13 knockouts; the one loss came in the second fight of his career, a split decision over five rounds.

Barrett was on fire of late, winning five of his last six fights by knockouts, and was the best, or at least most marketable, heavyweight in Suarez' ranks in 2014. The sharks that worked for some of the real big names in boxing, the real pros, were starting to swim around, and Suarez knew Barrett would not be under his control much longer. That made Olin Pond an especially fortunate find for him. Even if he couldn't get Pond under contract, he had heard plenty about the man, and had seen the Yance fight for himself. Olin Pond had no idea how much he was worth, and apparently this two-bit small-town trainer of his didn't know any better, either. Suarez didn't mind going fight-to-fight with Pond at these prices. Olin Pond was the best fighter he'd come across in the club ranks, and he expected Pond to pulverize Trev Barrett. What would follow may be very profitable indeed.

Trev Barrett was a very good fighter who went on to a modestly successful pro career, but on July 30 he would have been better off ignoring the alarm clock and staying in bed. The 6,200 on hand watched Barrett dominate the first round while Pond did very little but move around and slip Barrett's punches, and then they watched exactly the same action for three more minutes in the second. Through two rounds, Barrett had thrown and landed four times more punches than Pond, who seemed disinterested in the fight. Pond gave the whole of his $1,500 share to Trent Gutshall in exchange for Gutshall's coming along with him as his trainer, and early in the third round Gutshall suddenly left off his stoicism and became very animated for a few seconds, shouting something at Pond, and Pond went off like a bomb. Barrett couldn't escape him; he landed a few solid punches, but he couldn't hurt him, couldn't hold him off. Pond pounded him again and again, knocking all the air out of Barrett's lungs and not laying off long enough to draw another breath. Barrett's night was ended thirty-five grueling seconds later by a right cross to the jaw that he never saw. Olin Pond drove back to Broxton and was back at his desk on Monday morning.

Allie continued to hang around Pond's desk whenever she had a spare few minutes and a semi-plausible reason to be there, which usually was a time or two per day. That, of course, was noticed and widely whispered about. Allie, when asked—and she was—never said anything to defend Pond. Someone told her Pond a year before had beaten up a child who had cracked one of his windows with a tennis ball. Allie said, pleasantly as ever, that she wouldn't doubt it, and continued the conversation. But she also didn't stop visiting by his desk, despite his continued standoffishness.

And speaking of people who wouldn't stay away from other people's desks, Jeff Baker was beginning by this point to become almost as much of a fixture at Allie's desk as Allie herself. Of course everyone in the office noticed, and of course Baker was all the happier about that. He was accustomed to getting what he wanted, especially with women, and why shouldn't he? He was 28, tall, muscular and handsome, and rocketing upward in his chosen career.

After about two unsuccessful weeks of trying to talk Allie into a date, Jeff upped the ante. He had a gigantic bouquet of roses—$69.99 rushed from FTD—sent to her desk. Allie was delighted. She set them on the corner of her desk right where everyone could see them, and told everyone that asked (which was pretty much everyone, with the expected but, to Allie, notable exception of Olin Pond) that Jeff Baker had been so sweet as to give them to her. She kept them there all week, until they finally wilted. And she kept saying no, thank you, I'm not interested.

It was almost a month after the Barrett fight, at 4:15 in the afternoon, and Baker was once again standing just inside the doorway to Allie's cubicle while she was sitting at her desk. She politely put aside the article she was working on, which took some effort since, incredibly, Baker was even more boring than it was, and was listening to him with her customary bright smile, not fake at all. Baker had been complaining that he had never seen a woman smile so much and continue to say no.

“Come on,” he was saying with his best disarming smile. That was the first thing Olin Pond heard as he approached the cubicle with a binder Pat Walden had asked him to give her. “Why won't you at least just let me take you out to dinner this weekend? Or even just go out for a few drinks?”

“I have other plans,” she said.

“What other plans? I'm flexible.”

“Well, Friday for instance,” Allie said, “I'm planning on making myself a big bowl of salad and sitting on the couch all evening, watching second-rate college basketball games.” There wasn't a trace of irony in her chiming voice. Pond, hearing the conversation, remained out of their sight, in front of the vacant cubicle next door, and waited for Baker to leave. Waiting for Jeff Baker to leave so as to get to Allie, Pond had been hearing, had become standard the past few weeks.

Baker laughed just a little too loudly, annoyed—growing a little angry, really, but he held it in; he wasn't going to give up in this lifetime—and keeping the charm dialed all the way up. “You're hilarious. I love that in a woman.”

“You know what I love in a man?” Allie said.

Inside, Baker sighed. He was no idiot. That was a loaded question. Still, he had to play along if he was ever going to achieve his present life's goal of getting her in bed. “What's that?” he said, and suppressed his urge to grimace.

“A man who's not thoroughly amazed by his own excellence.”

Baker was ready. “What about giving a guy a shot who just wants to go out for dinner?” He was gifted at thinking on his feet; always had been.

“Jeff, your attention's been flattering, but now it's getting tiresome,” Allie said, maintaining the smile but ever-so-subtly changing the tone of the voice, the way women are so gifted at doing. “There are a hundred women in this building who would love to go out to dinner with you, and more. I'm just not one of them.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm not. I'm allowed to choose who I am and am not interested in.”

“Yeah? And who are you interested in?” Baker had heard that insane rumor, too, of course.

“I'm afraid that's really none of your business, Jeff.” Still smiling.

“Come on, Allie,” Baker almost pleaded. “I like you.” This had become more than an attempt at bedding an attractive woman, now; it had become a challenge of his integrity. Women didn't say no to Jeff Baker. Especially not the young ones just out of college.

“Jeff, you're a bright guy. I can tell, really, you are. So which part of 'I'm not interested' is confusing you?” The woman was relentless.

“The part where you won't even give me a shot. Just one date, just a few hours.”

“That's enough,” said Pond, striding into the cubicle to Baker's right. He had wasted three minutes of his life that he would never get back listening to Baker's flirtatious assault, and he was not about to waste another second on it. Allie could sit and listen to him until her hair fell out, for all he cared, but not on Olin Pond's time. He stepped past Baker, not even glancing at him, and made to set the binder on Allie's desk; Allie quickly moved to take it from his hand instead. With a smile. God, she was irritating.

But not as irritating as this schmuck. Pond turned and faced Baker. “You've been pestering this woman nonstop for weeks while you're both supposed to be working. Leave her alone.” It wasn't a suggestion. Olin Pond hardly ever spoke unprompted, and when he did, it was never to make suggestions.

Rage flashed in Baker's eyes. Allie already had him worked up inside, and he was not about to let this guy that thought he was king of the world walk all over him now. He took a step toward Pond; only a foot then separated the two. “Who are you to tell me what to do and not do?” He glared down at him; he had three inches on the average-height Pond.

“Call me a concerned citizen,” Pond deadpanned, staring back at Baker but not really glaring at him. Just looking at him.

“I call you a queer S.O.B. who only has a job because you have some kind of blackmail on Parrella and don't know how to mind your own business, and so does everyone else in this office,” Baker spat. Allie, happily forgotten for the moment, couldn't help but let a faint smile trace her lips as she quietly watched on.

“Well, congratulations,” Pond said. “Now you've sexually harassed two people in the space of two minutes, which I'm sure is plenty enough to remove your soft pampered butt from this building for good.” Truth was, Pond didn't mind people thinking he was gay. Hopefully Allie would start to believe it.

“You'd better get up out of my face, fruitcake,” said Baker, leaning in another couple inches, “or you're going to get a lot worse harassment than that.” Allie continued watching.

Pond just stared at Baker, not even any menace in his expression, for a good ten seconds, just looked at him. Baker finally hit the limit of his fury and shoved Pond hard, Pond lurched backward one step and caught his balance before hitting the wall, and stood back straight.

“Perk up, Jeff, and get the red out of your face,” Pond said. “The boss is coming this way.”

Baker almost went ahead and slugged Pond anyway; he was probably bluffing to avoid that very thing. But for some reason, he stood up tall and exhaled, which was good, because Pond wasn't bluffing.

Parrella, who had been wondering where his secretary was, approached from behind Baker. “Gentlemen, is there some kind of meeting going on that I wasn't made aware of?”

“None at all, sir,” said Pond. “I had just stopped by to deliver Miss Caldwell some information from her editor, and Mr. Baker here was consulting with us about this weekend's basketball games, I believe.”

“You're not a sports columnist, Allie,” said Parrella matter-of-factly, “and you're not a Life columnist, are you, Jeff?”

“No, sir,” said Baker, putting on his best front.

“Good. Let's get to work, then, shall we?” Parrella headed back toward his office. Pond gave Baker one more look and left. Baker was too upset for the moment to resume persuading Allie; he followed after Pond.

That's how the first unadvertised bout at the Sixth Street Gym came to be. Jeff Baker knew that Olin Pond fought at the gym, and won every fight. What Baker thought Pond didn't know (but Pond in fact did know) was that he himself had been a boxer of national recognition in college, only six years before. He'd decided to pursue a career in sports journalism rather than one in pro fighting, but he smiled every time he thought about having an opportunity to cave that jackass secretary's face in. Pond wasn't willing to just meet him outside after work some evening—coward—but anyway that might cost him his job. Didn't want to do that.

So Baker showed Pond his boxing license—which he had just obtained a few months before, with this very idea in mind—and told him to arrange a fight at the gym, no spectators, no advertisements, just man-to-man. Pond came back the next day and left a slip on Baker's desk that read simply:

Saturday, September 4. 3:00 PM. --OP

Nothing more was said on the matter until the following Thursday, September 2, when Baker finally returned to Allie's cubicle after an absence of a week. After a few minute of his usual pandering, Allie said, “Listen, Jeff, I'll go out with you under one condition.”

Baker perked up. “What's that?”

Allie paused. “If you'll call off the fight you're supposed to have with Olin on Saturday.”

“Call it off?” Baker exclaimed. “How do you even know about that?” That bastard Pond had told her about it, of course. Baker seethed. No one was supposed to know about this. If Allie knew, it wasn't hard to imagine Parrella finding out about it, which was precisely what Baker didn't want, for a multitude of reasons.

“I overheard some things,” Allie said, which was half the truth; she had overheard some of the low-voice conversation Baker and Pond had engaged in, after they'd left Allie's cubicle the previous week. The other half was that she'd gone into Baker's cubicle before he'd arrived and read the note she'd seen Pond leave there.

“Call it off?” Baker repeated. “I've been waiting two years for a crack at that egomaniac.” He'd been training like a madman, too, for two months. He wasn't about to let this chance pass him by.

Allie sighed and looked down at her desk.

“Oh, come on, Allie,” he said. “You don't want to see him get hurt, is that it?”

“No,” said Allie, looking back up at him. “Even though I wish you'd leave me alone, I don't want you to get hurt.”

Baker laughed aloud. “Me get hurt?” he said incredulously. “No, I don't think you understand. He doesn't know what he's getting into.”

“What do you mean?”

Baker hesitated. “No, I'm not saying anything,” he said. “You'll plead with him to back out, if you haven't already.”

Now Allie laughed. “I haven't spoken to him on the subject at all since last week,” she said, and she hadn't. “But even if I had, do you really think I'd convince him to change his mind? Why do you say he doesn't know what he's getting into?”

Baker still figured he shouldn't say anything, but his pride and desire to impress Allie got the best of him. “He doesn't know it, and no one here does but you, not even Vorstad, but in college I was a big time boxer. I went to the Golden Gloves national finals and might have won them, but I got a bull@#$* decision. I decided I'd rather be a writer than a fighter, but I could've been a good pro. Could still be,” he corrected himself. “Had agents lining up and everything. He has no idea what he's walking into.”

Allie sat quietly for a long moment, looking glum. “Jeff,” she said, “He'll kill you to death inside of three rounds.”

Baker sneered. The hell with this impossible woman. “Oh. Oh, I see. You've got a little thing for that guy, don't you?” He almost laughed at the thought, but he wasn't in the mood anymore.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” said Allie, who wasn't secretive about that if somebody asked. “But that's not why I'm warning you about him. Jeff, I'm serious. You're going to get hurt. Please.”

Baker just shook his head and stomped out of the cubicle. Allie watched him go with a sick feeling in her stomach. She really didn't like Jeff Baker, but she knew him, and that made him different from guys like Shane Yance and Trev Barrett; they were just unknown, impersonal, and anyway they were pro fighters, getting paid to fight. Even if Baker was telling the flat truth about how good he was, she wasn't swayed. She'd seen the cold murder in Olin Pond's eyes when he stood in a boxing ring. She couldn't stand the thought of watching Baker get beat into a pulp on Saturday.

But she would. She finally pulled herself back into her work, all the while convincing herself that if Baker couldn't come to his senses about the whole thing, he deserved what he got.