The Song of David

MILLIE STOOD AND with no warning, lifted the tape recorder above her head and threw it to the ground as if she couldn’t bear to hear another word. The back of the tape recorder sprang off when it hit the ground, and the fat D batteries rolled out like wounded soldiers, their tank disabled, their weapons depleted.

Georgia and I stood watching, unable to form a coherent response. Millie was shaking with fury, and her eyes were bright with tears.

“I don’t know what to think, anymore. I don’t know what to do! We’re sitting here listening to him tell us a story that I wholeheartedly believed two weeks ago. But he’s gone. I’m actually . . . embarrassed. I’ve called you, interrupted your lives, and made a big deal about the fact that he’s gone. But he obviously chose to leave!” Millie took several ragged breaths, but then her chin hit her chest, and the rage seemed to leave her as quickly as it had come.

“The worst part is . . . I actually hope it’s just that he doesn’t know how to tell me he changed his mind. I actually hope he woke up and realized he wasn’t in love with me after all. I hope that’s it. Because I can’t think of an alternative that isn’t a hundred times worse. And I’d rather lose him than lose him.”

I knew exactly what she meant.

My phone pealed out mercifully, and Georgia knelt to put the batteries back in the tape recorder as I excused myself to take the call.

“Mikey,” I greeted, slipping out the front door.

“Moses,” he said in reply. “I’ve got news.”

My heart did a belly flop.

“Tag is fighting in Vegas tomorrow. At the MGM. Cory caught the weigh-in on ESPN this morning. Apparently he’s a last minute substitution. It’s a big fight, Moses. A huge fight. It’s the Terry Shaw versus Jordan Jones match-up. But now it’s Terry Shaw versus Tag Taggert.”

My mouth fell open, and I actually pulled the phone away from my ear and looked at it, as if Mikey wasn’t really Mikey and my phone wasn’t really a phone.

“Son-of-a-bitch,” I hissed, and pressed the phone against my ear once more.

“That’s what I said. We’re all reeling. We don’t know what to think, man. He’s fighting, and none of us knew. We’re his team. What the hell is he doing, Moses?”

“I have no idea, Mikey,” I breathed. I felt lightheaded with relief that we’d found him, and sick with dread about what was coming next.

“Should we go? Should we drive to Vegas and just confront him?”

I could tell Mikey was pissed. And confused.

“How hard is it to get close to a fighter at the MGM if you don’t have a pass, if you don’t have clearance?” I asked doubtfully.

Mikey swore, and I nodded to myself. That wasn’t going to work. If Tag didn’t want his team there, they weren’t going to get to him.

“Is everyone there, Mikey, all the guys?” I asked.

“Yeah, everybody but Paulo. But the rest of us are here, Moses.”

“Hang tight. I’ll be there in five.”

I called into the house, letting Georgia know I was heading out for a minute. I wasn’t ready to tell Millie what I’d just learned. I needed to know more. Judging from her attempt to smash the tape recorder, she had reached an emotional peak. Even still, the tape recorder was back on, clearly none the worse for wear. I could hear Tag speaking like he’d never left, and my anger spiked again.

I walked through the doors of the training gym four minutes later and headed for the office. As Mikey had promised, all the guys were assembled, and the footage was cued. It was a media zoo, just like all weigh-ins. The scale was center stage and one by one, each fighter took his position.

I watched as Tag stripped down with none of his usual smirk and swag. He was hard-faced and serious. No flashing dimples, no chest pounding, no nonsense. He stepped onto the scale in nothing but a Tag Team ball cap and a matching pair of fitted nylon shorts with Tag Team emblazoned in yellow across the butt. He stood as his weight was announced and then flexed his arms for the pictures. He looked lean and cut—thin—though that could be from cutting weight to hit the required 205.

“He looks skinny.” Axel confirmed what I was thinking, although skinny was relative. Tag was big and muscular, ridiculously so, but there was something gaunt and hollowed out about his cheeks and hip bones. “His walking-around weight is easily 220 and he’s at 203. What’s he thinking, sucking off an extra two pounds?”

“He hasn’t been in the gym for three weeks, that’s why!” Cory exclaimed.

“And he’s fighting freakin’ Terry Shaw. This could be a bloodbath,” Mikey moaned as we watched Shotgun Terry Shaw step onto the scale, looking surly and sour and cocky as hell. He shot Tag a look of disdain. Tag just ignored him altogether.

“No.” Andy shook his head stubbornly. “Tag knows what he’s doing.” He folded his arms and stared us all down. “We just don’t know what he’s doin’. But I know one thing. I’m goin’ to Vegas.”

“Me too,” Cory said.