by Paul Bishop
And if I became their boy, well, then I could stand to take a few more paydays at five hundred bucks a pop until they used me up. Then I’d be on my way. I could get a straight job and live an honest life. I’d always wanted to work for the railroad. Maybe I could do that. Lola and I could travel all over the country. Maybe even make it back up to Chicago and see Father Tim.
Boy, I’d love to see his face as I walked up the steps of St. Vincent’s Asylum for Boys with Lola on my arm and a fat baby on my hip. He’d be proud, so long as he never found out how I got the money to stake my claim.
Once I started thinking about St. Vincent’s, it was hard to stop. Those were ten good years. Better than I had a right to expect.
I was eight when my folks sent me away. The youngest of twelve and the farm had died out. I drew the short straw and ended up on the train with a note on my sleeve and no return address. I don’t blame them. Hell, I ate better at St. Vincent’s than I ever did on the farm.
The things I saw, the people I met there, I never would have had any of those experiences if I’d stayed my whole life plowing dirt.
I still remember VE Day, sitting up in the window looking out as the whole of Chicago all cheered at once. I’d never heard such a racket in all my life. Then the confetti started flying, and people took to the streets. We’d all hung out of those windows watching the world turn into a giant-snow-globe with Father Tim over my shoulder telling me to remember that day, as if I could ever forget.
People kissing strangers, cabbies honking their horns, two guys who climbed a lamp post. I felt like my heart would swell up and break apart and fly away in tiny pieces, just like that confetti.
Then I turned eighteen, bought my ticket for Kansas City and shook hands with Father Tim. That was the last I saw of him or any of the boys.
Something else I remember. The last thing I said to him. He said, “Promise me you’ll always be good and do the right thing.”
“I promise,” I said.
Flat on my bed, wide awake, I saw his face clear as day. When I promised him, it wasn’t a lie. Guess when I shook hands with Cardone I’d made it one, though.
Father Tim, he’d understand. Right?
Round 3
I chose Kansas City because it wasn’t Chicago. It wasn’t a small town by any stretch, and had a good history of boxing, but I could still be a big fish in a small pond. Besides, I knew my fists wouldn’t get me far in the Windy City. I needed a place where mediocre talent could still make a decent living.
I’d never considered Kansas City would be any more or less corrupt than Chicago. Turned out boxing was about fifty-percent fix. Something about the sport drew an unsavory element. Maybe it was all the blood.
Anyway, there I was back in the locker room of the Excelsior, a place with a little history. Damn good fighters like Jake Hunzinger and Rex Ward had fought there. Solid punchers who never made it to the big time, but if all I ever got was a few up and comers remembering my name before they went out to fight, that was fine by me.
Just the thought of some scared kid about to puke in his spit bucket before his first fight, taking a second to look at the concrete walls, and know that I stood in the same musty locker room and shadowboxed against the same wall imagining my first time, well that just about gave me the shivers.
Sal came limping in. “Showtime, kid.”
He smiled wide, knowing his cut of my ironclad victory would be making its way into his pocket soon.
As we walked down the hall to the arena, he went nervously over the plan again.
“So, in the fifth. Not too soon in the fifth, just make it look natural. And for God’s sake don’t swing using anything you might get lucky with before. Pull your punches, hit him off balance. The fifth, got it?”
“I got it, Sal. I had it the first ten times you told me.”
On my way into the ring, I spotted Lola. She liked to sit in the back where it was quieter. I think she just liked to be far enough away so the punches didn’t look like they hurt so much. She wasn’t like most fight fans, whose biggest hope was to go home with a little blood on their shirt.
She waved to me, and I winked at her. She kept promising to one day stitch my name on the back of my robe. She just had to learn to sew first. I told her there would be plenty of time for embroidery when she was making baby clothes.
I saw my opponent for the first time. A skinny kid with a fat head. He looked like the kind of guy who started boxing because he realized his noggin was so thick he could never be knocked out. Well, he was about to be.
I wondered what it was like from his end. Taking a dive. Was it humiliating? Was he making more than me?
I wondered how long until I found out for myself.
The ref brought us to center ring and ran through the pre-fight mumbo jumbo faster than an auctioneer. The announcer pronounced my name wrong, Myler instead of Wyler, and the bell rang.
One bored sportswriter sat chewing a cigar ringside and refusing to type anything on his Underwood. The radio announcer called the fight with all the enthusiasm of a paint-drying contest. Not that we gave them much to get excited about.
The first was the “feel ‘em out” round. We both tried to have an entire conversation with just our eyes. I felt like he wondered if I knew the score.
A couple of body blows, one or two that bounced off his forehead, but neither one of us laid a solid glove on anyone. By the time the bell rang, I figured the scorecards were all as blank and white as a clean bedsheet. The judges had wasted their time sharpening pencils.
Sal admonished me in the corner. “Geez, kid. At least make it look like you’re awake out there.”
“You said not to get cute and lay anything on him that might get lucky.”
“Yeah, but you don’t want anyone knowing what’s up. Make a show of it, okay? These people still came for entertainment.”
“Okay, okay.”
I scanned the crowd. Cardone sat in the second row behind the other fighter’s corner. A bottle blonde sat beside him, reapplying lipstick from a compact. He wore another three-piece suit. Green, with a silk pocket square. He wore another fine hat too, this one adorned with a peacock feather.
Someday, I thought to myself. Someday. Maybe not the best attire for the railroad, but a guy’s got to take his wife out on a Saturday night, doesn’t he?
Round two. I think my partner in crime got the same speech from his corner man because he came out swinging.
We had at it like two kids sparring in the basement. He threw more slaps than punches, but every now and then something would land and make me stop thinking about the five hundred bucks.
He got me two good ones across the middle, and I reared back with my combo. Bang went the uppercut, snap went his chin, swish went my right fist, and crack went his jaw.
I heard the sound and my heart nearly stopped. He was falling to the canvas, and I nearly stepped in and caught him.
The ref got in between us and immediately started counting. I wanted to beg him to stop, to shake the kid awake and make him stand up. The ref got to three.
I saw Cardone in the row behind the flat figure on the canvas. He pinched his cigarette tight in his teeth, his hat pushed back slightly on his head.
The ref got to six. I spun my head to the sound of typewriter keys and saw the reporter slapping at his Underwood and chugging smoke signals from his Lucky Strike. The radio announcer had come alive too, reeling off the referee’s counts in harmony.
I turned to Sal in my corner and gave him pleading eyes. He shook his head at me. Sweet Christ, I couldn’t even do a fix properly. Then Sal lifted his eyebrows, gripped the top rope, and bounced a little. I turned and saw the skinny kid straightening up.
The ref stopped at eight and then turned, swung his hand down like he was chopping wood, and said, “Fight.”
The kid came toward me a little tentative. In a normal fight, I would have charged him, taken advantage of the weakened state. This wasn’t a normal fight. I took
it easy on him like I was fighting somebody’s younger brother, or someone trying to look good in front of his girl, and I was trying to help. I’d done it a few times in the gym, never in the ring. Not with money on the line.
The bell took forever to ring, but finally, it did. I spotted Lola on my way back to the corner, and she held up two thumbs. She never was a student of the finer points of boxing.
“That was a close one,” Sal said.
“Tell me about it. I think I aged ten years.”
“Try to find something in between, will ya?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll make it to the fifth. I promise.”
Like I promised Father Tim.
I shook the thought from my head, but it plagued me for the next two rounds. I retreated, covered up, swung wide, and tapped on the kid more like knocking on a church door than going for a knockout. I think I even heard someone boo.
The realization of what loomed ahead, what it meant to me, hit me harder than anything the skinny kid threw my way.
He did catch me daydreaming once and a solid shot caught the side of my head. I listed to the right, and might have even gone down if I hadn’t hit the ropes. When he didn’t follow up and chase me into the corner, anyone in the place who had any doubt whether or not they were watching a fix could be damn sure by then.
I hadn’t thrown the punch yet, the bell hadn’t rung on the fifth, but the deal was done. I’d sold out for five hundred bucks. The image of that stack of green kept me distracted less and less. The stern face of Father Tim loomed over me. The promise I’d made rang in my ears.
Sal had to call me back to the corner when I stayed in the center, not realizing the bell had rung, ending round four. I made a point of not looking at Cardone.
“Where’s your head, kid?” Sal asked me, turning his good ear to hear my excuse.
“I don’t know. Just nervous, I guess.”
“Well, it’s just about over, so you can relax. Now go out there and make it look good.”
“I’ll do my best.” No promises for me anymore.
Round 4
The fifth round came, and we danced for a minute. I started turning up the heat slowly, hitting a little harder, moving in a little closer. The sportswriter stopped typing again. He sat with his arms crossed, watching us with an accusatory sneer on his face. The radio announcer told people about the amazing healing power of Vicks VapoRub.
The skinny kid’s eyes invited me in. His gloves dropped a bit, but not so any else might notice. Over his shoulder, I saw Cardone slide up to sit on the edge of his chair, cigarette down to a nub in his mouth.
I stepped up, threw a right at the kid’s face. It split the protective cover of his gloves and bounced off his nose. I followed with a left to his gut, which made him double over. I’d gone from sparring power hits to full fight-night swings. Anyone in the place who doubted I could punch was being proven wrong.
A left-right combo to the head was what sent him down. The kid did a convincing fall and lay still for the ten count, rolling over on his side when the ref got to eight but never showing any signs of getting up.
A small cheer went up from the crowd, but I thought most people were just glad to get us out of the ring so a real fight could break out. I heard a smattering of more boos.
Sal wrapped a towel around my shoulders, the ref raised my hand, and we headed for the locker room like the ring was on fire.
I hadn’t worked hard enough to make a girl sweat, and yet I’d never been so out of breath after a fight.
Sal and I didn’t talk. He skipped the rubdown. I started to change.
Finally, Sal broke the silence. “Well ...”
Like he’d been waiting for his cue, the door opened and Cardone stepped in, followed by two large men in matching suits.
“Not half-bad, kid.” He sized me up again, catching me part-dressed like before. “Not half-good either, but not half-bad.”
Cardone held out an open palm behind him and one of his shadows slapped an envelope in it. He flipped it around and held it out for me.
I reached for it, licking my lips as I did. Cardone pulled the envelope back.
“You like our little business arrangement?”
An answer got caught in my throat. I didn’t like it one bit. It was the money I liked quite a lot. “Sure,” I said.
“Want to go another round?”
“Same thing?”
“Close. Now people might expect you to win. So, I want you to lose.”
Take a dive. It didn’t take long for me to end up on the other side of the fight card. I guess I deserved it after my lousy performance.
“Same price?”
“How does six hundred grab you?”
I guess there was a premium to be paid for buying a fighter’s pride. My price had gone up to break the promise I made to Father Tim.
That I still had a price surprised even me.
“Deal,” I said.
Cardone handed over the envelope. He smiled the way I always imagined the devil would smile right after he got your signature on a contract for your soul. But there I was, being dramatic. He wasn’t paying for my soul, only my back on the canvas.
I rushed to pack up and get out of there. Sal and I said nothing more than we needed to. Maybe it was the weight of those matching white envelopes in our pockets. Of course, his weighed in a little lighter than mine. After all, wasn’t his body out in that ring.
By the time Sal and I got to the sidewalk, we nearly bumped into Cardone and his men on their way out.
“Hey, slow down, slugger,” he said to me. “I don’t want to be another one of your K.O.s” He laughed, which prompted his boys to do the same, but their hearts weren’t in it.
Two men passed us. With the width of the sidewalk open for them, they made a point of passing close, leaving no way they’d be missed. Cardone looked up and made a sour face.
The man in front stopped, smiled a fake smile at Cardone, and snapped a wad of chewing gum in his mouth. “Didn’t mean to break up the party.” His flunky laughed accordingly. Instantly I knew their roles.
“Ain’t it past your curfew, kid?” Cardone said. “Someone leave the door to your crib open and you crawled out or something?”
The guy looked young, I guess. His flashy suit and tie did make Cardone look a little old-fashioned. Mostly I noticed that these two didn’t like each other.
“Mr. Cardone, so nice they let you out of the home.”
Witty repartee these two had. I turned away from them and scanned the sidewalk for Lola. I saw her walking toward us like the welcome sound of a bell ending the round.
“Guy like you ought to learn his place,” Cardone said, the anger growing in his voice.
“I know my place,” the flashy dresser said. He leaned in close to Cardone. “Next in line. That’s my place.” He snapped his gum, baring his teeth as he did. No respect. Whatever beef these two had between them, I wanted no part of it.
Lola reached us, and the tension broke. With a lady present, all parties stood down.
“I’m off for some fresh air,” Cardone said. He slapped one of his boys on the chest, and they all moved as a pack down the street. The flashy dresser smiled after him and walked the other way. Sal stood by, mute.
“Hi, Sal,” Lola said.
“Hiya, kid. See you, Jimmy.” Sal scuttled off quick.
Before she could ask too many questions, I took Lola straight home, begged her off for the night, saying I felt tired even though I had barely moved around in that amateur hour fight.
“You sure you’re okay?” she asked.
“Yeah, just beat is all.”
“For a guy who just won, you look like someone kicked your cat.”
“I didn’t eat well today. I oughta know better on a fight day. Just need some iron in my system.”
“Yeah, well, remember, whiskey doesn’t have any iron in it.”
“Don’t you worry about me, doll.”
I kissed her and said go
odnight. The whole walk home, I thanked my lucky stars I had a gal like her. She would understand this mess. At least, I said it to myself enough times I started to believe she would.
Without thinking, I turned and walked six blocks out of my way past a shop window I’d been by a hundred times before.
Still in the window, right above a sign: WE OFFER LAYAWAY. Lola’s ring. Well, not yet. I had eighty bucks down. Another six hundred twenty to go. The diamond even shone in the moonlight. It would shine twice as bright on her hand. I stared at it, burning the image into my brain. Every time I thought about the fixes, the dirty money, I’d replace that thought with this picture.
I’d seen cheaper rings. Pawn shop jobs, diamonds no bigger than a snowflake. Lola deserved the best. When I first walked by the jewelry shop, I saw a man come out and get into the back of a limousine, a driver holding the door for him. I knew any place a man like that shopped was the place for me, and that ring was for Lola.
I walked the rest of the way home still seeing that diamond in my head, picturing how it would look on her hand.
I hadn't been kidding about being hungry. However, I was so mixed up my stomach was in knots, so I went to bed without a bite. I sweated off another four pounds in my sleep. I nearly woke up the next morning a flyweight.
Round 5
First stop the next morning was Shinn’s Diner. I peeled two twenty-dollar bills off the top of the pile in Cardone’s white envelope and bought a paper on my way there. The guy in the newsstand gave me a dirty look when he had to make change from a twenty for a ten cent paper.
I sat in a booth and spread the paper out on the table. I ordered steak and eggs, black coffee, and a donut. I read the paper while I waited. A bunch of junk on the front page, a three-line column in the sports pages about the fight. The only thing that made it from the clutches of that reporter’s Underwood about me was, “Also on the card last night...” followed by my name and the skinny kid’s.
I was halfway through dipping my steak in ketchup and then the runny yolks of my eggs when I felt eyes on me. I looked up and saw three characters standing over my table. I’d been recognized once or twice in a bar after a fight. Always by some drunk who had been there and always when my face was puffed out and swollen from taking my licks, but never at breakfast the day after when my face was as normal as a bank teller’s.