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“No, Stevie,” James said, his voice muffled from underneath the car, “I’m not talkin’ ta some crocked-up dame reporter who wants ta ask me about underground fighting. I’m not lookin’ ta get whacked in an alleyway, like ya seem to keep tryin’ to.”
“C’mon,” Steve cajoled, “You’ll flip your wig when ya see her, and it’d make us more clams than I’m bringin’ in doing my artwork. Don’t tell me you’re a chicken.”
James huffed, pushing himself from outside the undercarriage of the car, using a stained rag to wipe off the oil covering his eyes. Steve tsked, shaking his head in a mocking sort of way, and James glared at him.
“Never thought I’d haveta convince Bucky Barnes to go on a date.” James sighed in response, slinging the rag over his shoulder, where it would no doubt add to the stains on the union blue jumpsuit that had long since faded to a mottled grey after years of use. Steve lifted his small hands in a sort of surrender.
“All I’m sayin’ is-”
“Oh, shut it, punk. I’m 21; I can stand to have a little fun before settlin’ down.”
“Ay, Frankie!” He called to his boss, resolutely ignoring Steve, “I gotta car here that’s ready. I’ll take a powder and head home for the day. That alright?”
With the answering affirmative from Frankie, James grabbed his cap, resting his hand on Steve’s shoulder and easily manouvered them out of the mechanic’s shop. Once out in the streets of New York, Steve turned back around, looking up at Bucky with a determined expression on his face.
“Seriously, I’m not goin’ fishin’ for ya, Jerk,” Steve said, “At least think about the money?”
“How much?”
“Ten spot.” James fought the urge to whistle. If they played their cards right, they would have enough money to pay for both Steves medicine and maybe a new sewing machine for Becks. He gritted his teeth as he fought to turn the key on the rusty lock that protected their Brooklyn apartment, putting some elbow grease in and finally getting the door to creak open.
“Fine,” He relented. Steve grinned.
“Tell your Hans von Kaltenborn broad that I’ll do an interview at the swing club down the street.” Steve rolled his eyes, handing him a piece of paper ripped from the corner of that morning’s copy of the New York Post that someone had neatly scrawled the name of the Dew Drop Inn, a local Brooklyn hangout, and 7:30. James blinked, memorizing the contents and stowing it into the pocket Rebecca had sewn into the breast of his coat. He’d take off work that night. Hopefully, it would be worth his while.
…
James tapped his foot onto the dirty wood floors of the bar that the Inn held, flipping his lucky penny as a fidget with his left hand. One after another, women came through the doors, most accompanied by men or in a group, and he became more and more antsy as he sipped on his far too expensive mug of mud to keep him awake. If she didn’t show in the next ten minutes, he’d bail and make his way to the fighting circuit to make enough money to cover what she was going to pay him.
Just before his arbitrary deadline, his eyes caught on a woman wearing a worn beige overcoat. She removed her hat after speaking briefly with a waitress behind the bar, her keen eyes roaming over the restaurant. They paused when they met eye contact, and it felt like the world had stopped.
Her red hair was curled into the waves that he remembered his sisters borrowing him for back when he was young enough to live at home. The faded olive dress she wore made her eyes pop, and her lips curled into a smile as she slid into the booth across from him, her back to the door.
“You must be Mr. Barnes.”
“Bucky, please.” She extended her hand and he shook it. It was like meeting Katherine Hepburn in real life, and suddenly all the charm had been knocked out of him.
“Natasha Romanova.” Bringing a small pad and pen out of her purse, she looked up at him again. He froze, covering his sudden sheepishness by taking another swig of the god awful coffee.
“So, uh, Steve said that you wanted to talk about fighting?” Natasha smiled again and nodded, and he just about melted right there. She could be a commie spy and he wouldn’t care for the world.
“Just ta be clear, this is all private, yeah? I don’t need my name gettin’ out there and some fella puttin’ a hit on my head.”
“Of course,” she assured him, “I was wondering how you got into it?”
“Well, uh, I started when I was sixteen. I was already pullin’ Stevie outta back alley fights he got himself in- bit like a wet cat, that one; fights anyone in sight- and when a fella saw me take down the boy fightin’ Steve in one punch, he offered me a job as a fighter during the nights.” She hummed, scribbling something down. A thought occurred to him and he couldn’t help but voice it.
“You’re not gonna get in trouble; writin’ about this, I mean?” She glanced up at him through her dark lashes, a smile playing at her lips.
“Worried about me, Mr. Barnes?” He choked on his coffee, deciding to put it down on the table lest it decide to kill him too. She smiled again, remaining silent as he coughed, pounding at his chest, fingers hooking on his suspenders and catching at the open neck of his shirt that he’d buttoned up a bit to meet a dame for dinner.
“I-” He hesitated, “I think you can handle yourself, ma’am.” And it was true, he thought, as he dared a glance under the table. Her legs were tanned and muscular with the same technique his sisters used to mimic stockings and pantyhose: coffee grounds and an eyebrow pencil did the trick. Like anyone around those parts at the time, because the market crash had only been a decade before but still hit hard, Natasha carried the lean look of a survivor, someone who knew how to bargain to get what she wanted.
“Good. I write under a man’s name anyway.” Being at the end of one of her smiles felt like it was receiving the answer to a prayer. He hadn’t gone on a date in a while, too busy working to save up money to pay for his family. God, what was he thinking? He hadn’t had time to bathe himself, and he knew that he had to smell like the inside of a car. Strangely, his dinner partner didn’t seem to mind, and she ordered herself a matching mug of mud.
“What do they have you do?”
“No enforcin’,” He said. “I was clear that I would do the fights but I wasn’t gonna get mixed up in all that mess. Soon as they tried ta pull a fast one on me, I was outta there. They have to let me; I’m one of the best fighters.”
They talked like that for the rest of the night, Natasha chiming in occasionally to ask the questions she needed, scribbling frantically as James bared his heart. They only thought of leaving when the waitress came to announce that the inn was closing. James ran over to pay for her coffee, spending the days wages. Steve wouldn’t mind. He was the one who organized it, after all. She smiled at him again, as they left, pressing into his hand two lincolns and a business card.
“I’ll be in touch,” Natasha said, kissing his cheek and leaving the scent of vanilla and those Carnation flowers that Mary’s beaus would give her. He stood there, shellshocked, breathing heavy, blinking into the smoky night. Time rushed towards James as he remembered himself, and he swore into the February night’s air and began running back to the apartment.
“Had a fun night?” Steve’s voice came from behind the newspaper that he sat close to. His eyes weren’t good enough to read from far away, and they couldn’t afford spectacles. James panted, pulling off his shoes in the door way.
“Stevie,” He said, socks thrown onto his shoulders, panting, barefoot on their cold wooden floor that had definitely been laid before the Spanish Flu. Steve’s head peeped out from behind the paper, taking him in. He grinned, throwing the newspaper aside.
“So, it was a success.”
“Oh, shut the fuck up.”
“Naw, that’s the look right there you got when you met that pretty waitress back in ‘36 and insisted on buying her a cola.” He threw his right sock at Steve, who had never had much luck with sports, and it landed across his head.
“First of all, her name was Mae, and she was the love of my-”
“She was twice your age!” James collapsed in the second old chair beside the fireplace, stretching out his stiff toes to be warmed by the heat. He covered his eyes with his right hand.
“I got her number.” Steve rolled his eyes.
“‘Course you did. Betcha knocked her socks off too.” James shook his head, a smile playing at his lips as he remembered the night’s events. Why had he been so flustered? He was just out of practice, what with working and all. He figured that when the article came out, he could ask her out again to talk about it.
…
“Listen, kid, I want ya to make a show outta this one. It’s a newcomer. The audience’ll be expecting blood.” The bookie massaged his shoulders and he rotated his neck, checking the bandages on his knuckles that had been used in a few fights before that night. James had been able to keep from fighting for a week or so until the money he’d earned talking to Natasha ran out by paying their debts. He shook out his hands, spitting into the corner of the dank room that echoed with yells of the audience, people who wanted to see blood.
“Our champ, Bucky Barnes!” The announcer’s voice crackled over the microphone. He blinked as he entered underneath the lights. The garage was by no means Madison Square Garden, but he wasn’t Ziric.
“Gentlemen, we have a new challenger tonight! Please welcome to the stage, Oktober!” High and fast, the voice reminded him of the radio ads, but he scarcely had a moment to think before his opponent entered the ring, over a head shorter than he was, in a newsie cap and a white shirt. They looked like a kid. Entering the ready position, he brought up his fists, determined to win as much money as he could.
James had learned firsthand that he could be deadlier with his charm dialed up to eleven than he ever could fighting in garages, alleys, or in rings. However, he wouldn’t make as much as he would need as an escort, and though many had turned to that line of work, clients were scarce and he knew that it would kill his mother if she ever found out about it.
He waited, bouncing from foot to foot as the crowd swore and shrieked. Oktober finally made a move, one to test him, a simple jab aimed at his face, which he blocked. It was less of a fight and more of a dance. They parried and blocked, interchanging blows and kicks, exchanging grunts and a familiar smile underneath the cap. The crowd ate it up, and he saw the signal to throw the fight to the newcomer from the sidelines. Oktober grabbed his wrist when he threw a slow punch and flipped him over.
On his back now, James stared up at his opponent, red hair peeking out from under the cap and familiar blue eyes gracing a smile. Gaping, he tried to slow his breath, unaware of the yelling of the crowd as the announcer crowed his defeat. He gaped at her as the ring master lifted her arm up into the air and the crowd went wild, money passing hands. The bookie nodded at him from the sidelines, and he shakily got up, his eyes never leaving Natasha.
“Geez, that was some ending, kid.” The bookie said, “now, listen, you’re my best fighter. I’m picturing a comeback, y’know. Take a bit off so that they’re asking for you. We want them cheering for you too.” He nodded, feeling much like that night when she kissed his cheek, and when he lifted his hand to press it to that spot, he came away with blood.
“Hey, uh, Marv,” James said, wincing as he lifted his arm to wave one of the kids who watched the ring over. That was going to ache for a week. “D’ya think I could meet… Oktober, was it?”
The kid nodded, waiting impatiently as he raised himself off the wooden bench. Somehow, the smell of vanilla and sweat still perfumed his nostrils, and he stumbled as he followed Marv past the audience cheering on another fight. He was shown to the opposition’s box, a little circle made of all the belongings the fighters brought with them. Sitting on one of the benches, much like he had been only moments before, was Natasha, her youthful face bared toward the flickering lightbulb, the cap still covering her red hair. If she noticed him approach, she didn’t mention it.
“Y’know, when a dame offers to interview you about fighting, you don’t think she’s goin’ ta join in.” Her chest rose and fell rapidly; he tried very hard to keep his eyes away from it. Smiling again, she turned her head towards him.
“Well, how else am I supposed to get the inside scoop?” He laughed, leaning onto his knees with his elbows, resting his head between his legs the way they figured worked for Steve during his asthma attacks.
“So, Oktober, was it?”
“Bucky, was it?”
“M’middle name, Buchanan,” James explained, holding out his still bandaged hand that he realised in horror was stained with blood, some of it probably hers. Examining her face for bruises, he discovered one forming on her right cheekbone. They rested their heads on the brick wall behind them, their hands still entwined, but neither seemed to mind.
“Any chance I could take you out?” He asked, suddenly, the thought of the opportunity crossing his mind as James stared at her lips. She closed them and gave a little laugh, blinking slowly as she twisted her mouth and turned her head again to look at him.
“After I just beat you up? Sure thing.”
“Oktober!” Her manager called, “You’re up next!”
“Wish me luck,” Natasha said, leaving a light kiss on the edge of his mouth, and he thought he’d never recover. If it was the last thing he did, James promised himself he would marry her.