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backyard, his lizard-green face grinning above a
Kiss the Cook
apron. I had figured these men vanished behind the curtain after a match and lived in some nether-realm, squabbling amongst themselves like petulant demigods until they stepped back through that curtain to settle their grievances the next month.
    “You’re my favourite wrestler.” There was a quaver in Dunk’s voice. “You’re sort of … well,
perfect
.”
    Bruiser Mahoney laughed. His breath washed over me. I caught the same smell that I’d once caught coming off my father when he’d stepped into my room late one night, watching me silently from the foot of the bed.
    “Perfect, he says. You hear that, fellas? It’s like I keep telling you!”
    “A perfect boondoggle,” Outbacker Luke cracked.
    Bruiser Mahoney took our fathers aside.
    “… come by your house, do the dog-and-pony,” I heard him say. Our fathers sunk their hands into their pockets and smiled politely. “… reasonable rate … wouldn’t gyp you fellas …”
    My father rested his hand on Mahoney’s shoulder, patting it the way you might pat a dog. Next he reached for his wallet. Mahoney’s big hand went to my father’s wrist, trapping his hand in his pocket.
    “Later,” he said softly. “Either of you have a stick of gum?”
    When he came back his breath smelled of spearmint instead of whatever had been in the plastic cup. He grabbed a Polaroid camera from his duffel, handed it to Disco Dirk.
    “Take a shot of me with these little Bruisers,” he said, kneeling to grab us around the shoulders. His power was immense: it was like being hugged by a yeti.
    To Duncan and Dutchie
, Mahoney wrote on the still-developing photo.
Two warriors in the Bruiser Mahoney armada
.
    He signed it with his initials—
Yours, BM
—and for an instant I was terrified I’d laugh. Sometimes my mom would warn me through the bathroom door: “If you’re taking a big BM, Dutchie, make sure you flush twice or you’ll plug the pipes.”
    When Bruiser handed the photo to Dunk, Dunk stared at him gratefully and said: “I want to grow up to be just like you.”
    For a moment Mahoney’s expression slipped. Under it was the face of a creature who was old, haunted and lost.
    “Ah, you’ll grow up, boy,” he said. “You’ll learn.”
    When we got out to the parking lot Mr. Lowery and Mr. Hillicker were there with their sons and some other Bisk men. They sat on the tailgates of their pickup trucks drinking cans of Natural Light.
    “Look who it is,” Mr. Lowery said. “The cheat and the gasbag.”
    My father gripped my hand. “Just keep walking, Dutchie.”
    The men hopped off the tailgates. Mr. Hillicker came towards us, bobbing on the toes of his boots while Mr. Lowery skulked low. They formed a semicircle of bleached denim, cigarette smoke and booze fumes.
    “What’s the matter?” Mr. Hillicker said to my dad. “Too big to talk to us grunts?”
    “That’s nothing to do with it,” my father said. “It’s been a long night, Dean. I’m taking my son home.”
    “And we’re stopping you?” said Mr. Lowery. His teeth shone like tiny white spears under the lot lights. “Take him home, Stuckey.
Mister
Stuckey.”
    “You lay off, Stan,” Mr. Diggs said with ice in his eye. “I’m telling you to just lay off.”
    Mr. Lowery showed Mr. Diggs his palms like a magician performing some dizzying sleight of hand. “I’m laying easy as a blind bitch in her bed, chum.”
    Clyde Hillicker and Adam Lowery watched from the truck. Adam’s eyes were every bit as narrow and flinty as his father’s; it was a scary thing to see in a boy my own age.
    An awful electricity zipped among the older men. Shoulders jostled. Hands balled. Next the air was full of swinging fists.
    Mr. Diggs’ right shoulder dipped and his hand came up, crunching into Mr. Hillicker’s nose. Mr. Hillicker stutter-stepped back on his heels, toes pointed up like in a Three Stooges routine; it would have been comical if