Free Billingsgate Shoal by Rick Boyer

with old musty locker rooms,
an ancient gymnasium, and a healthy population of cockroaches. The
lobby, if such I may call it, looks like the Greyhound bus station in
Indianapolis in 1936. And that's doing it a favor.
    Well then—you might well ask—what does the YMCU
have? What it has or rather what it is, is a microcosmic slice of
that place called Boston, thinly shaved, stained, and mounted in a
slide. If you want to see Boston, don't go to Newbury Street. Newbury
Street could be anywhere. The North End is good; it could only be in
Boston, or New York, but it's all Italian. Likewise the city of South
Boston (or Southie, not to be confused with the South End of Boston)
is all Irish. Moreover these ethnic enclaves leave out groups like
the blacks, Chinese, and Spanish-speaking Bostonians. But everybody's
at the Union. Everybody. Guys named McNally and Ferreggio. Washington
and Pekkalla, Chang, Papadopoulos, Garcia, Frentz, Jainaitis,
Hudachko, and. . .and Adams. Just about every third guy who goes to
the Union checks a piece at the front desk: .38 police specials, .22
autos, I've even seen a few .357 magnums and .45s too. They're cops,
detectives, and prosecutors. We don't got no violence or trouble at
the YMCU. Nope. Because the place is crawling with fuzz. And to help
them out are the body builders, muscle freaks, and karate/Aikido
addicts who can eat Buicks for lunch and break cement with their
pinky fingers.
    I have two friends at the YMCU. One is Liatis
Roantis, the Lithuanian ex-mercenary who teaches martial arts. He
spent some years with the French Foreign Legion and some with the
U.S. Special Forces, where he taught guys how to kill people with
their earlobes. Somebody once asked me to describe him. I said that
if you took every Charles Bronson movie ever made and took all the
characters that Bronson ever played and melted them down in a test
tube, the result would be Liatis Roantis. I had taken four courses
from him: beginning and intermediate judo and karate. Boy is he good.
To mess with him in any way—especially after he's had about seven
beers—invites death or severe permanent injury. He is a pit bulldog
in human shape. '
    The other guy is Tommy Desmond, the immensely
handsome Irishman from the D Street section of Southie. He can hit
the speed bag and the heavy bag like a pro. The only thing he can't
fight off is women. I yelled out a greeting to him as I ran around
the gym. He was busy with the heavy bag.
    "Oh my Jesus! Doc, how ya been?"
    Whap! The big bag jumped
up and swung near the ceiling. Tommy circled it with a look of
detachment in his icy blue eyes, a sheen of sweat beginning to glow
on his big shoulders. Nobody can hit the bag like Tommy. He stands
there gazing at it, his blue eyes darting back and forth as the heavy
bag swings on its big chains. Then, almost lazily, languidly, he
begins the crouch, the sideways lean. . .the bag is swaying and
spinning slowly. Tommy's crouch deepens, the lean lengthens, the arm
begins to snake around slowly. WHAP! The bag is gone.
    I had given him money once for a "charity"
called NORAID. Supposedly it was to help the poor widows and orphans
of Ulster. In reality it was to supply money to buy arms for the
Provisional Wing of the IRA. After I found this out I gave no more
money to Tommy. It was less because of my political stance on the
issue than my hatred for violence. I think he understood; we were
still friends.
    I finished the run, took a sauna and a shower, and
walked out by the wrestling mat. I saw two big bearded black men with
shaved heads in white karate suits sternly circling each other. They
rocked and parried on their toes, trying for a chance to take each
other's heads off with their feet.
    When I left the Boylston Street Union, I hoofed it
over to the Cafe Marliave. I ordered an antipasto deluxe, a small
spaghetti Bolognese, and a split of Bardolino. I hardly ever eat
lunch, so when I do, I do it right. I pumped coins into the phone and
called the