Joe Burkes Last Stand | Page 7

the Edgewater, but he had no plan. He registered for another
night and drove back to the Queen Anne district. He had a latte and a
bagel in the Caffe Ladro and bought a T-shirt. He was hoping the
woman would come in. Her name would be Moira; they would have an
animated discussion which would reveal his fate. She didn't show. Must
have been busy, probably making a lemon meringue pie.
He went back to the hotel and stared at the ceiling in his room. Filson's
was in Seattle, he remembered. He looked for the address in the phone
book and found that it was a short bus ride away. He had a wool Filson
jacket that he'd worn for 12 years. Every so often he sewed a button
tighter. Filson stuff is understated and invincible; it would be like a
visit to the temple.
A temple angel, slim with long blonde hair, asked if she could help.

"Not just yet," Joe said and wandered down aisles of tin cloth pants,
wax impregnated jackets with wool liners, vests, and virgin wool
sweaters. He stood a long time in front of the duffel bags and assorted
luggage. He was tempted by a carry on bag with a heavy leather handle,
but in the end he bought a bag that reminded him of his Air Force
AWOL bag--flat bottomed with a humped top and a single massive
brass zipper. The canvas twill was doubled around the sides and bottom;
the handles and the shoulder strap were made of dark bridle leather; it
was the Fort Knox of AWOL bags. While he was at it, he bought a belt
made of the same heavy leather. "Might as well have the best," he said
to the angel, repeating the Filson motto.
When he was back in his room, he unsnapped the new belt buckle and
replaced it with the one he had worn for twenty years. The words he
had scratched on it with a Dremel power tool were nearly rubbed away:
"Eating a plum, hearing/ the roar of centuries--Kokee." Once a year, the
islanders are allowed to pick plums in Kokee, in a park on the rim of a
deep canyon. The trees are old with thick limbs. He remembered a
young Hawaiian woman on a low limb, stretched out, reaching for
plums--brown skin, black hair, dark green leaves, fruit, the ocean gray
and blue for thousands of miles in all directions. Echoing silence. It
was like being in a shell or a giant's ear.
Joe put on his new belt and went down to the hotel bar. He ordered an
ale and watched a boxing match on a large TV. Pit Bull Salvatori was
wearing down a fighter named Fanatuua. He was sagging, his body
blotchy. The bell rang and Fanatuua collapsed back against a padded
corner post. A trainer squirted something into his mouth and rubbed his
chest while his manager talked in his ear. Fanatuua nodded once.
The bell rang again, and Pit Bull was on him, lefts, rights, uppercuts,
trying to end it. At some point in life, Joe thought, how people lose
becomes more interesting than how they win. Fanatuua wouldn't go
down, seemed calm, almost as though he weren't there. He was
covering up, weaving slowly from side to side. Maybe he was fighting
the clock, not the man. Maybe if he made it through eight rounds he
would have earned his money. Maybe he was out on his feet. The

Philly crowd yelled for a knockout; the referee watched closely.
Fanatuua stepped forward, moved Pit Bull back, threw a combination
that did no damage. Maybe he was fighting for his family, Joe thought.
Maybe he was married to one of the Samoan women who come to
Hawaii to work in the Polynesian Cultural Center and study at the
Mormon school in Laie. They walk slowly across the grass, books in
their arms, flowers in their dark hair. He ought to make fifteen or
twenty thousand from this fight. Maybe he'd give it to his father, the
Chief, who was proud of him, who would know what to do with it. His
hands dropped. Pit Bull drove him into the ropes with an overhand
right. The camera zoomed to Fanatuua's face, sweat, a small cut. His
eyes were bright. His mouth was set in a slight smile. He was not
afraid.
Pit Bull smashed him four times. The ref jumped in and separated them.
TKO. Pit Bull ran around the ring, fists in the air, and hugged Fanatuua.
Fanatuua tapped him twice on the back and walked to his corner.
Maybe he was thinking that Salvatori won, might be the champ soon,
but couldn't knock him out. Maybe he was thinking about home.
Joe leaned back in his