Page 3 of Southie
If you weren’t from the area or hadn’t heard about the underground circuit, this warehouse wouldn’t stick out. No cars were parked in the large parking lot across the street from the massive rundown building, and they prohibited loitering. These rules kept the cops from having a reason to raid the place, although they were aware of what took place behind the brick walls.
In Boston, the cops viewed the circuit as an out of sight, out of mind type deal. If nothing major happened at the fights, they kept their distance from the place. Like all the other abandoned, nondescript buildings along the docks, it looked as though no one used it for the last thirty years.
“Name?” a gruff voice called out from the door.
My body shivered from the temperature plunge and the snow piling up at my feet, wetting the legs of my worn blue jeans. My eyes narrowed at my friend and bouncer, Douglas Murray. He did this same shit whenever I had a fight.
The vein in the center of my forehead throbbed as my annoyance rose. Doug, since the first day we met, always picked the wrong time to fuck around, like now. It was too damn cold for his games.
“Come on, Doug. Why in the hell do we go through this every weekend? You know who the hell I am. Shit man, you used to come to my house every weekend and play video games. We hang out almost every Friday night.”
“Protocol, kid,” he said with his eyes narrowed at me, clipboard in hand like he had no clue who I was.
Other than trying not to smile at the reddening of my face, you couldn’t tell he wasn’t serious. He played way too much.
My skin was numb from the wintry night air, so I dropped the duffle bag in the snow that accumulated on the sidewalk. I blew on my hands, trying to warm them up so the feeling returned.
“Kid? We’re the same damn age, Doug. It’s freezing out here, let me in.”
Douglas continued to stare at me but made no move to let me pass. “You’re the one prolonging the process. You get in after you give me a name.”
I shook my head and rolled my eyes. “Liam Daugherty,” I huffed.
Douglas, who stood a few inches shorter than me but was just as broad-shouldered, scrolled through the fighter’s list like he hadn’t seen me before and like we hadn’t grown up together in the same housing project. Or like I wouldn’t be on the list, knowing damn well I would be. I was on the fight card every weekend, sometimes twice in one day.
“You’re in,” he said, marking through my name with a black Sharpie marker.
“I’ve been in for the past four fucking years, Doug.”
I pushed through the door after grabbing the bag that held all my gear, opened it further, and a chuckling Douglas stumbled backward.
“Asshole,” I said, flipping him off.
“Well, you’re supposed to show this asshole I.D. too, but I’m letting you slide on that one. You should show me some damn respect, Southie.”
The corners of my mouth lifted into a smile at the use of my street name. Around the age of eleven, I’d earned the name Southie. One of the older guys in the neighborhood said my grit and fight represented what our Irish neighborhood represented. Although I wanted to leave Southie behind, I would never forget where I came from. The name stuck, and I embraced it.
“Fuck you, Doug. Is that enough respect for you?”
He chuckled. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ll take it.”
Doug had been a friend since I was a kid. Growing up on D-street in South Boston, he was one of the boys I gravitated to on the streets who taught me to defend myself. Most of my friends knew my home life was shit and thought I needed protection from my Pops, although he never beat me. I never corrected them on that, but I was grateful for their teachings, anyway.
Doug was also the one who introduced me to the underground circuit and got me this gig. I considered him family.
“Anyway, Chaney wants you in his office before your match,” he said.
“Of course, he does.”
He laughed, slapped me on the back, and wrapped his arm around my shoulder, ruffling my hair like he did when we were younger.
I pushed him off and dismissively threw my hand in the air as I walked down the dark, musky corridor of the old converted warehouse until I reached Chaney’s makeshift office.
This place always grossed me out. From the huge ass rats that ran across my feet to the puddles of murky brown water I dodged on my way to the office, the leaky pipes overhead, and the overflowing toilets backed up with shit, condoms and whatever else people threw in them.
The whole damn place smelled of sweat, musk, cheap perfume, and shit.
On any fight night, Chaney pulled in thousands of dollars, not only from regular joes off the street but high-end clients too. If you were on the high-end client list, you’d get the VIP treatment from Chaney—politicians, police officers, firefighters, doctors, lawyers, and even local restaurant workers looking to have an enjoyable time attended these fights. No matter who you were, they turned away no one.
