And for the first time in his career, Leo Rossi was afraid of someone who had not even hit him.
The Woman Behind the Punch
Jackson was furious.
Inside his rented luxury RV, he paced back and forth while Leo sat at the table with an ice pack against his scraped elbow.
"You tackled me!"
Jackson pointed at him.
"On camera!"
Leo did not respond.
"You made me look like a coward."
Still nothing.
"You saved me from an old woman!"
Leo finally looked up.
"No."
Jackson stopped.
"What?"
"I saved you from yourself."
Toby stood near the television.
He looked nervous.
Leo pointed toward the screen.
"Play camera two."
Toby hesitated.
Jackson rolled his eyes.
"We already know what happened."
"No," Leo said. "You don't."
The footage appeared.
Jackson watched himself standing with his hands behind his back.
Then Beatrice entered the frame.
Slowly, Leo advanced the video.
"Stop."
Toby froze it.
"Look at her feet."
Jackson frowned.
"She's old."
"Look."
The video continued.
Beatrice shifted her left foot.
Her heel barely touched the ground.
Her hips dropped.
Her shoulders aligned.
Then she struck.
Leo slowed the footage.
The punch traveled only a few inches.
There was almost no visible wind-up.
Jackson stared.
"That's not a normal punch."
"No."
The footage showed Leo crashing into Jackson just before the strike landed.
Beatrice's fist continued past Jackson.
It struck the acrylic box.
The box cracked.
Then exploded.
Jackson's expression changed.
Leo paused the footage.
"That acrylic was thick enough to resist serious impact."
"So?"
"So you were standing where that box was."
Jackson swallowed.
Leo tapped his own jaw.
"She wasn't trying to knock you backward."
He looked directly at him.
"She was trying to destroy your jaw."
The room went quiet.
Jackson sat down.
For the first time, he looked frightened.
"Who is she?"
Toby pulled up the information from the waiver.
"Beatrice Gallagher."
"Address?"
"Englewood."
Leo stood.
"Let's go."
Jackson looked up.
"Why?"
"Because I want to know why a seventy-year-old woman was willing to risk breaking herself against a heavyweight champion for ten thousand dollars."
Forty minutes later, Leo stood outside a faded yellow bungalow.
A pink notice was taped to the front door.
He walked closer.
NOTICE OF TAX FORECLOSURE AND PENDING EVICTION.
Amount due:
$9,400.
Leo stared at the number.
Nine thousand four hundred dollars.
Beatrice's words returned.
I need the money.
He knocked.
Three times.
The door opened.
Beatrice stood there.
She was not surprised.
"I wondered when you'd come."
Leo nodded.
"I saw the notice."
"I assumed you would."
"You need nine thousand four hundred dollars."
"Correct."
"You nearly broke a champion's jaw."
"I did not nearly break it."
Leo stared at her.
"You sound very certain."
"I missed."
"You missed because I tackled him."
"Yes."
The honesty was almost irritating.
Leo looked into the house.
It was small.
Old.
But immaculate.
Books filled the shelves.
Photographs lined the walls.
A patched chair sat beside the window.
A small ceramic pot with a struggling geranium rested outside.
Beatrice opened the door wider.
"Tea?"
Leo almost laughed.
"Sure."
Inside, she placed two cups on the table.
Leo noticed an old photograph.
A younger Beatrice stood beside a broad-shouldered man with a thick mustache.
"Your husband?"
"Arthur."
"He passed?"
"Nine years ago."
"I'm sorry."
Beatrice nodded.
"He was a good man."
Leo sat.
"What happened?"
"Heart failure."
"No. I mean before."
Beatrice looked at him.
"Why do you want to know?"
"Because I have been around fighters for forty years."
"And?"
"I've never seen anyone your size move the way you moved."
She smiled faintly.
"Size is irrelevant."
"Not in boxing."
"Especially in boxing."
Leo leaned forward.
"Who taught you?"
Beatrice stared into her tea.
"My brother."
Leo waited.
She shook her head.
"Not directly."
Then she began telling him about Chicago.
She had been twenty-two.
She had worked as a typist.
Her older brother Thomas had borrowed money from dangerous men.
Then he died.