Page 79 of Bourbon Truths
We walked over to the gloves. She was like a shadow I couldn’t shake ever since my fist had connected with her father, and right now, that shadow was stronger than ever.
I pulled out the smallest hand-wraps we had and bent down. She placed her hand on my shoulder. With a serious look, she held out her other hand and said, “I’m glad you’re here teaching me, Mr. Kace. I like you.” She paused for a second and then continued talking when I helped her put the hand-wraps on. “I don’t have a dad, but if I did, I would want him to be like you.”
Sweat broke out on my skin, self-loathing started to eclipse my thoughts, and pain erupted from the backs of my eyes as I tamped down the tears that wanted to flow.
“You’re quiet though,” she continued. “And you make funny faces.”
“Funny faces?” I asked, barely able to work my vocal cords.
“Yeah, you’re always like this.” She put her fists on her hips, curled her lip, and squinted her eyes at me.
If I hadn’t been feeling like someone had picked me up and ripped me into shreds, I would have laughed at her impression of me. “I don’t think I look like that.”
“Well, not exactly,” she answered, now with both wraps on her hands. She swatted at the air and bounced around me. “Stinging flowers and floating bees,” she said, punching some more.
“What?” I asked, confused.
“You know, Mamala-ladi.”
“Mama-what?”
“Boom, boom, boom,” she said, striking my thigh. “I’m floating like a bee. Look at me go.” She bounced around some more and then it clicked.
“Do you mean Muhammad Ali?”
“Sure,” she said while dancing around some more, adding some pathetic kicks to the mix.
“I think you meant you ‘float like a butterfly and sting like a bee’.”
“Sure. Pow, pow, pow. I’m a champion.”
I steered her to the hanging bags as she continued to bounce. “Easy there, killer. Let’s get you punching correctly first.”
I spent a good ten minutes with her, ignoring the overwhelming feeling of discomfort and violence. Violence for the position I’ve put Madeline in, a life without a father, a life comparing other men to what she thinks she would want when it came to a dad.
The pain was consuming; the heartache was too much. There was only one way I knew how to get rid of this all-encompassing feeling of complete hatred for myself. It was time to call the boys.
Chapter Twenty-Three
My Past…
Humidity seeped into my pores as the early morning light started to peek through the alleys of New Orleans. Sanitation crews ran up and down the streets, washing away the sins from the night before, preparing for a fresh start of a new day. Musky trash and bile scattered the curbs and moisture glistened on the brick walls, displaying the rough heat of Louisiana in the summer.
I could smell the bloodshed waiting for me. The air electrified with violence as I waited in my normal spot, my selected spot where no one would dare disturb what happened in such an area.
Evil lurked in the dark and dreary alley I’d chosen. Malevolent and ugly crimes were conducted in such alleyways, and that was what I was here for.
It was the anniversary of Marshall Duncan’s death. It was the anniversary of my biggest regret. It was the anniversary of the day I’d let my soul slip away from me and the day I’d sworn to the heavens above I would punish myself until my last breath.
There was only one way I celebrated this day, only one way I knew how to, and that was by getting lost in pain.
Heavy footsteps padded along the cobblestone streets. I knew those footsteps. They belonged to large, intimidating men with steel-toed boots and iron fists. They belonged to the men I’d paid to come beat the shit out of me.
Like usual, they rounded the corner, wearing black pants and shirts, cracking their knuckles and looking hungry. I paid them well to attack to me, to make me forget. I fought back sometimes, putting in a few punches here and there, nothing too damaging. I saved that for the bags, something I should have thought of when I was standing face-to-face with Marshall Duncan.
I was leaning up against the wall of one of the buildings that flanked the alleyway when they came up to me.
“Looking good, Mr. Haywood. Another year has done you well.”
