“I wish he’d get rid of that knife,” the curvaceous blonde said as she lay next to Jason. “It’s like a security blanket. He’d bring it to bed—it’s no wonder we don’t have children.”

Jason had an uneasy feeling. “What kind of knife?”

“He brought it back from the war. It’s got holes in the handle, where you put your fingers through.”

Jason felt his stomach knotting. “Like brass knuckles?”

“Yeah, like that. And it’s got spikes. I tell you, it gives me the heebie-jeebies.” The blonde shuddered, causing her heavy breasts to jiggle.

Jason couldn’t ask who her husband was, couldn’t let it be known that he had an idea of who he might be. “You know, a lot of men come back from the war and put on weight—it’s all the stress, and they overeat to cope.”

“Not him, he’s skinny as a rail.” She picked up Jason’s hand and placed it onto her breast. “I just wish he’d come home. He’s gone all the time. Maybe if we had a baby he’d have a reason to stay.”

Jason was certain that this woman’s husband was Orville, the skinny, traumatized World War I veteran, who had given Jason the trench knife that the blonde described, only Orville took the knife back and disappeared. If Orville ever came back to the shelter, how could Jason look him in the eye? How could Jason ever try to counsel the troubled vet? He could imagine the conversation. “Orville, you need to let go of all of your bundled up rage. By the way, I’m screwing your wife behind your back and knocked her up.”

Normally, Jason went for round two with these women, just to “ensure they got pregnant.” Who was he kidding? He had a second round of sex because he liked it. He felt low-down and dirty, like he was stained with something that wouldn’t wash off. He got up and got dressed.

“I hope you and your husband have your baby,” Jason told the blonde, who lay nude and temptingly sprawled over the sheets. He adjusted his tie and went to the door. Once outside the mock bedroom, he took off the mask and tucked it into his pocket.

Betty, the voluptuous redheaded candy striper, met him in the hallway. “Oh, Jason! I really enjoyed Coney Island. We haven’t been out in a while, you know.”

“I had fun at Coney Island, too.” Jason had just had wild sex with a shapely blonde, but the memory of Betty rising up on her high heels, and pressing her breasts into him to kiss him at the end of the date was the more erotic memory. “Right now, I’ve got to go back to the shelter—I’ve got men to feed. I’ll take a rain check.”

“That’s great!” Betty jumped up in her excitement, causing her breasts to bounce. She embraced him and kissed him on the cheek. “You’re the cat’s pajamas.”

Right now, Jason felt more like the monkey’s diaper. Still, what kind of world was this, where he just had sex with one beautiful woman and turned down an offer by a second gorgeous woman, just minutes apart? When he reflected on his romantic life in the real world, it was pathetic. He waved to the receptionist, took the five-dollar bill she handed him, and then stopped by his stock broker to invest a dollar.

When he got to the shelter, he parked the car and stashed his duffel full of guns in his room before walking down to the sister’s room. He handed Sister Mildred four dollars.

The round woman smiled, which made her prominent chin jut out. “I tell ya, Father Jason, I ha’ no idea where ya get the money, but jus’ keep bringin’ it.”

Jason imagined telling her the truth. “Well, actually, I’m whoring myself out. I just screwed a married woman, hopefully impregnating her.” Instead, he simply said, “I’ll be in my room. I’ve got a big fight tomorrow and want to sleep in.”

When Jason went up to his room, he thought he saw movement on the roof of the other building. Was the mandrill back?

Once he was in his room, he changed into his sweats, and did some light shadow boxing on the terrace, working on his bobbing and pivot step, then punched on the heavy bag gently, with the aim of developing his fluidity, as well as the ability to move smoothly and lightly while throwing punches. He then went back inside the room and returned with his shillelagh. He went through all the Irish stick fighting moves, then the moves his grandfather showed him, swinging the stick like a baseball bat, with the aim of destroying the bag.

Maureen came up the steps, wearing the same skirt and red sweater she wore earlier. “You think you could help me with my English homework?”

“That I can help you with.” Jason smiled. “Let me shower off and I’ll meet you down at the sister’s room.”

In several minutes Jason was there, knocking at the door. Maureen opened up the door, and smiled, flashing ivory white teeth, including one canine that stood out. “Come in. I’ve got a poem, and I know nothing about poetry.”

“This one here,” Maureen pointed to a poem in the book she held, standing uncomfortably close to him, practically rubbing her breast against his arm.

She was close enough that he could smell her, a fragrance of shampoo and bath soap. Jason looked at her book, and the poem she pointed to. “I know this one,” he said with a smile, and steered her toward the table, where she sat down next to him. “Where’s Sister Mildred?”

“She’s cleaning up in the kitchen.” Maureen pulled her chair up, scooting closer.

“The Rose, by William Blake.” Jason read aloud. “O rose, thou art sick, the invisible worm, that flies in the night, in the howling storm, has found out thy bed of crimson joy, and with his dark, secret love doth thy life destroy.”

“I think he was smoking reefers or hitting the giggle juice,” Maureen said, brushing her wavy red hair over her shoulder. “Flying worms?”

“Let’s think, what kind of a person would the rose be?” Jason arched his eyebrows and looked at the young redhead. Although he tried not to look at her breasts, they were large enough that they always loomed in his peripheral vision.

“Somebody female, pretty, like…?” Maureen looked at him suggestively.

“Sister Mildred, exactly.” Jason said with a straight face, prompting Maureen to slap his arm playfully. “Okay, you. What is the worm doing to the rose?”

“It’s making her sick,” Maureen replied. “It’s hurting her.”

“Let’s say, just hypothetically, that you had a secret relationship with one of the Rowdy Murphys, and he’s into drugs and crime, and violence.” Jason looked at her and saw the light dawn in her green eyes.

“Oh, okay, I get it now.” Maureen leaned her head against his arm. “Thanks a lot.”

“I’ve got to get to bed,” Jason told her, and stretched out his arms. “I’ve got a fight coming up.” As Jason left the room, he had the feeling that he was the worm.

* * *

“I can’t believe I feel guilty. I mean, it’s only a video game.” Jason shook his head in disbelief. “Who feels guilty while playing Call of Duty, or Donkey Kong?”

“Guilt is a means of control,” Gramps said while bringing Jason a bottled water. “Any time you feel guilty, you should ask yourself if someone is trying to control you. The women in the game and their husbands willingly approached you, or the doctor, and they want you to impregnate her so they can have a baby. If you know one woman’s husband, that doesn’t make it wrong—it just makes it awkward. Don’t confuse that awkwardness or irony for guilt.”

Jason took a sip of his water and thought about it. “That makes sense. But I thought I’m not supposed to get anyone pregnant.”

“The one woman you can get pregnant without penalty is a married woman. Any child she has is her husband’s financial responsibility, not yours.” Gramps nibbled on his popcorn.

Jason pointed at Gramps with his water bottle. “There’s just the issue of an enraged husband killing his wife’s lover.”

“True. Can’t dodge that.” Gramps scooped up some more popcorn.

“I’ve been working on that Spanish day-seminar you were talking about.” Instead of popcorn, Jason had celery and ranch dip, which was consistent with his High Fat, Low Carb diet. He dipped a stalk of celery into his bowl of dip and took a bite. “I went to the sheriff’s office, and the Nampa PD, got an idea of what they were looking for. I’m working on a book and a CD for back of the room sales.”

“Back of the room sales?” Gramps looked at him quizzically.

For once, Jason knew something his grandfather didn’t. “I did some reading, and a speaker or presenter wants to have a table at the back of the room where he can sell books, videos, CDs, any kind of merchandise related to the topic. Many speakers/presenters make as much from the back of the room sales as they do from the speech itself.” Jason took another bite of his celery.

“You have your second seminar ready?’ Gramps asked. He washed down his popcorn with a bit of rum and soda. Upon seeing his grandson’s puzzled look, he explained. “Once you get your first day, level one seminar booked, you then go for day 2, level two. Then level three, and so on. So instead of a one-time customer, they keep hiring you to come back for follow-up training. Imagine when you come back to the Owyhee County Sheriffs, for example, you’re doing two days of seminars, day one, level one, for anyone who missed or needs the first, then day two, level two.”

“That makes a lot of sense. I guess I better get started on day two.” Jason looked at the stack of DVDs on the shelf. “What are we watching tonight?”

“Scrooged,” Gramps replied instantly. “The best Christmas movie ever made.”

“Well, that and Die Hard.”

* * *

“In the red corner, weighing in at 170 pounds, fighting out of St. Michael’s Shelter, Hell’s Kitchen, with a record of one win by way of knockout, and no losses, Jason, The Fighting Father, Whitlock!”

Jason was gratified to hear applause this time, but that didn’t make him any less nervous. Jason kicked out his feet and tapped his gloves together. Franklin stood outside the ropes behind him, and waved the towel in a big circle over his head. Jason was in the same crude gray trunks and still didn’t have a robe. He wanted to buy them, but his money went either to food for the shelter or to his savings.

“In the blue corner, weighing in at 169-and-a-half pounds, hailing from New Jersey, with a record of 23-44-1, Francis, The Jersey Slugger, Brighton!”

His opponent received a smattering of applause. The tanned fighter resembled a deflated leather football that served as a bulldog’s chew toy. He was tough, and his scowl seemed to be stamped onto his face. The boxer’s record, with twice as many losses as wins, meant that he wasn’t a title contender, but what is known in boxing as a “journeyman,” someone whose job is to test new fighters, or as a warm-up or a conditioning fight for contenders. A fighter like Francis was unafraid to lose and loved nothing more than taking down boxers who got a little too overconfident, bolstered by easy wins against unexperienced opponents until they met someone like Francis, who even if he wasn’t championship caliber, was a seasoned veteran of the ring.

The two fighters met in the center of the ring for instructions from the referee. “Keep your punches up above the belt, no punching to the back of the head, break on my command, and in the event of a knockdown or a count, retreat to a neutral corner. Protect yourselves at all times.” Francis glowered at Jason without blinking, and made the barest of efforts to touch gloves, before Jason retreated to his corner.

“It’s a p-p-p, uh, duck soup,” Franklin assured Jason, speaking over the boxer’s shoulder.

The bell rang, and Jason skipped out. He’d warmed up properly this time, so he was light on his feet. Jason popped his opponent several times with the right jab, then scooted out, circling counterclockwise. In the first few seconds he’d already landed more punches than he had in the entire first round against Rosenbloom. Francis jabbed, but Jason blocked it with his glove and shot in a straight left, hitting the Jersey Slugger high on the chest. His opponent tried to counter, throwing a combination, but Jason moved out.

The round continued like that, with Jason light on his feet, popping out the jab and landing with the straight left, but, like the leather he resembled, the guy was tough. After all, his job was to take punishment in the ring.

Two minutes into the round, Jason landed a solid straight left that staggered Francis, drawing a standing ten count while Jason went to a neutral corner. The Jersey Slugger was back at the count of eight; he was wily enough to take as long in the count as he could, giving himself a chance to recover.

Something that Francis had learned but Jason hadn’t, was how to cut off the ring, cornering Jason so he couldn’t take advantage of his faster footwork and skip out of range. Jason snapped a jab into Francis, and then landed a left that bounced off the top of the fighting veteran’s head, but the Jersey Slugger closed, throwing a volley of uppercuts into Jason’s midsection. Jason had been doing his ab work, so even though the punches stung, he was still in the fight. Jason responded in kind, dishing out his own uppercuts and then coming up high with a left hook to Francis’ head.

Jason was stunned, and the pain in his head was blinding. Now a volley of punches pummeled his midsection before the referee stepped between the two fighters. The referee looked at Jason’s forehead, just above his right eye. Jason felt something trickling beside his eye. He’d been headbutted, and he was bleeding.

When the fight resumed, Jason danced, and worked to evade Francis. His head still felt groggy and his skull hurt. The sticks clacked, and Jason would have sighed in relief if he didn’t have a mouthpiece. Jason executed the crouch and pivot just as Francis cornered him, stepping out and away. The bell rang, and Francis landed a straight right that knocked Jason back, drawing a warning from the referee for a late punch.

Jason retreated to his corner, where Franklin already had his stool ready. He’d been intentionally headbutted, he was certain of it, by a down and dirty fighter. The cut above his eye began to flow, and if the cut worsened, they’d have to stop the fight, not to mention Jason would be blind in one eye until they did. He had to stop the bleeding, but he had no cut man, just Franklin in his corner.

Franklin grabbed Jason’s mouthpiece and rinsed it off, using the bucket as a sink.

“Franklin, go to the lockers and borrow some Vaseline! Give me back the mouthpiece.”

Jason waited, chewing the mouthpiece, which he’d had the chance to boil and mold so that it fit, and a minute dragged on forever. If Franklin didn’t come back, the fight was effectively over. Jason looked expectantly at the lockers, and then the bell rang. He had no choice but to go into the ring with blood in his right eye.