Palookaville

boxing gym.jpg

“You too, Joey?”

“I got nothing against them personally, Jack. I just don’t want to box with them.”

“So that’s it, then? You’re quitting?”

“No. Maybe go to Lopez’s.”

“You boys don’t have a problem with the Spanish, then.” The old man sat back in his chair, the old wood creaking with the weight. Joey could see the ghost of a fighter’s body beneath the thin shirt, the hard-won biceps and pectorals.  “I’ll need my speed gloves back. And the shoes.”

The boy stood looking at the ground.

“Anything else?”

“Just that it wasn’t my idea, Jack.”

“I know, kid.”

 

Friday Fictioneers