Free Independence Day by Ben Coes Page A

out, without tipping, and walked the last dozen blocks to Whitewater MMA.
    Dewey had on jeans and a green T-shirt, along with running shoes. He walked down the sidewalk, a hard look on his face, staring a thousand miles away as he moved toward the gym. He stepped through the steel door of the gymnasium as, a few blocks away, a siren started to wail.
    The inside of Whitewater was humid, with a sharp, acrid smell that stung the nostrils. Years’ worth of body odor hovered in the cavernous gym. To most, the smell sent a wave of disgust, even nausea. But Dewey breathed it in. It was an odor he knew well, a smell he’d hated, then come to love, first at BC, the stench of the varsity football team locker room. In Rangers, it was the CQB room, where Dewey learned the basics of hand-to-hand combat, alongside the rest of his Ranger class. It’s not that the memories were fond ones, but they were part of him.
    There was a large crowd, fifty or sixty people, mostly young men, black or Hispanic, in their late teens or early twenties. The few who were older had on street clothing. These were, Dewey guessed, coaches and scouts.
    A few heads turned as Dewey stepped through the door. He was greeted with cold stares.
    There were three rings. Two were smaller sparring rings, used for practice. Both were occupied. In one, a small tattoo-covered Hispanic kid was working with a coach. He had on red Lycra shorts and no shirt. He was barefoot. The coach was working on his kicking attack. Every few seconds, he would launch a vicious series of kicks, his feet sometimes slashing above his coach’s head.
    The other ring had a bout going on. A few people were watching as the two barefoot, muscled fighters circled each other. One of them suddenly charged the other, leaping, kicking his right foot toward his opponent’s head, striking it, sending the man tumbling down to the mat as blood surged from his mouth. But the man on the ground was up in seconds, side-crawling away from a second strike, standing quickly, then slamming a fist into his opponent’s torso, followed by another, then tackling him to the mat.
    “Hey, it ain’t free.”
    Dewey’s head turned. A man in a wheelchair was looking at him.
    “You wanna watch, fine, but it ain’t free.”
    “How much?”
    “Ten bucks.”
    “How much for one of the rings?”
    The man in the wheelchair looked Dewey up and down.
    “What do you want it for?” he asked. “You gonna do some Pilates?”
    Dewey looked at him, ignoring his taunt.
    “How much to fight?”
    “Spar?”
    “Fight.”
    The man grinned.
    “What’d you watch some UFC on TV? This ain’t the place for amateur white guys from Alexandria to learn how to fight.”
    Dewey scanned him with his eyes.
    “How much for a fight?”
    The man reached for Dewey’s right arm, grabbing him by the wrist, tugging it down toward him. He lifted Dewey’s T-shirt, revealing a long, nasty-looking purple-and-pink scar, which ran from his shoulder blade down the front of his biceps.
    “What the fuck is that from?”
    Dewey ignored the question.
    “Tough guy. Okay, you want a fight, I’ll get you a fight.”
    The man took a whistle from around his neck. He blew it. A moment later, a tall black man approached.
    “Daryl,” he said, nodding at Dewey, “get Chico or one of the other young guys. Put ’em in the big ring. Pretty boy here wants to relive his youth.”
    The man in the wheelchair turned back to Dewey.
    “Fifty bucks, up front.”
    *   *   *
    In a small locker room off the main gym, Dewey removed his shoes, jeans, and T-shirt. Beneath, he had on cutoff khaki shorts, covered in paint stains. They were the only shorts he could find at the town house.
    He walked back inside the gymnasium. The smaller rings were empty now. The crowd had gathered around the center ring. Dewey pushed his way through.
    Daryl was standing in the middle of the ring, there to officiate. Behind him was a short, stocky Hispanic kid who wore a bright