by Joyce Wright
Why not? She’d never have the chance to drink a wine this good again. No grad student that she knew indulged in Chateau Mouton-Rothschild 1945.
Mantoro filled her glass and his own.
“Why do you admire the man you defeated?”
“Defeat in the ring is public defeat. But I’ll tell you this, Carlos Jimenez has something money can’t buy. He had a beautiful wife and a daughter who—“
Carli choked. The delicious wine recoiled in her throat. Immediately she felt a powerful hand pounding her back. “Wrong way,” she gasped as Mantoro removed his hand.
“Are you okay?”
“Fine. Just . . . talk.”
“No notes?”
“Memory.”
He smiled. “And if you misquote me?”
“I guess I’ll hear from your lawyers.”
He drank from his glass, his eyes studying her over the rim of the glass as the candlelight on the table cast a reflective glow upon the wine. “I suppose that’s one way of getting my due.”
Her throat was fine. “That sounds like a threat.”
“You’re a beautiful woman. I hope you don’t regard my appreciation of your beauty as a threat.”
“No,” she said with assurance as Mantoro refilled her glass. “I regard it as a line.”
He raised his eyebrows. She noticed how expressive and yet mysterious his eyes were. He made no attempt to mask his interest in her, an interest that had already noted the snug lines of her purple tunic sweater and skinny jeans after she removed her winter coat. What she saw in those liquid brown irises told her that he liked what he saw. But what she couldn’t detect was what he intended to do about it. He’d said in more than one interview that he had no intention of marrying before he was 40. She didn’t see a proposal in those lucent eyes, nor should she. But she didn’t see a one-night stand, either.
“Really? By whom?”
“Oh . . . I don’t know. Who were the leading men of your generation?” The comment was intended to cut him, to point out his age, to raise the specter of the younger boxers who lurked in unknown rings, waiting to take his crown.
To her surprise, he laughed out loud. Several heads turned their way, probably wondering, Carli thought, who was the unknown girl with the long blonde hair in a braid down her back who had made the billionaire boxer laugh.
“I’m no match for you,” he said. “Boxers use their hands; you’re using your youth. That’s cruel. But very effective, Miss Hanover. You’re a worthy foe.”
Chapter Three
She worked all day Saturday on her studies so that she could spend Sunday with her father, taking the subway to Queens to the house where her father lived. It had been her grandmother’s custom to have the family over for Sunday lunch after church. Carlos Jimenez continued the custom even though his mother was gone. The gathering varied from week to week, but there were always a couple of aunts or uncles and some cousins. But today, Carli noticed, there were only two cars: Aunt Rosa’s van and Uncle Lonnie’s pick-up.
She entered the house and was greeted with cries of enthusiasm; Aunt Rosa always treated every meeting as a reunion. “How’s the college girl?” Rose’s voice boomed from the couch.
No one in the Jimenez family had graduated from college. From the time she was young, Carli’s report cards and awards had been family celebrations, especially after the death of Hilary, when her father’s family had been determined to make up for the loss of a mother by surrounding her with so much love that the hurt, which could never be diminished, could be shared.
Over lunch, as she ate, Carli filled her relatives in on her school life. She wasn’t sure how they’d react to the news of her interview with Mick Mantoro, but it was important for her to tell them. “I interviewed someone you know, Daddy,” she said.
“Me? Who do I know who’d be interviewed?” Her father passed the bowl of mashed potatoes to her.
“You know lots of people,” said Aunt Rosa, the family historian and celebrator, who knew more about her brother’s achievements than he did. “Remember after the Dolorosa fight in Madison Square Garden, when you were on Jay Leno the next night?”
Carlos waved a hand, brushing those episodes back into the past where he felt they belonged. “Long time ago. So who’d you interview, baby?”
“Mick Mantoro.”
Silence. No one spoke. Rosa’s expression as she looked at Carli was accusatory. “Mantoro,” she spat the name out. “Why would you want to interview him?”
“That show-boating, flashy―“ Lonnie began to list the flaws of the family’s arch-enemy.
Carlos held up his hand. “He won, I lost. You interview anyone you want to, baby. Someday you’ll write a book.”
Conversation moved on. Carli realized that they didn’t want to learn, or couldn’t bear to hear, about Mick Mantoro, the name from the past that had taken not only Carlos, but also the rest of the family who had shared his pride and triumph, from the heights of success to where they were now: ordinary.
As she and her father were doing the dishes later in the afternoon when Aunt Rosa and Uncle Lonnie had gone, Carli brought the subject up again.
“He mentioned you, Daddy.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she imitated her father’s tone. “He said you fought with more heart than anyone in the ring.”
“Yeah, well, I had a lot to fight for. Before you got here, your Aunt Rose told me that Alma is pregnant again. Rose says you’d think five babies is enough and she asked her if she didn’t know how to stop.” Carlos chuckled. “Five babies, that’s a lot of kids.”
“She’s a good mother,” Carli said, recognizing that the subject of Mick Mantoro was not a welcome one. She followed her father’s direction and the talk turned to family events.
Her attempt to tell her family about her interview had failed. It was probably a good thing she hadn’t told them that Mick Mantoro had asked her for a date and she’d accepted.
She’d told him that he couldn’t pick her up. She’d meet him, she said, at the coffee shop. “Try to be inconspicuous,” she’d told him when they’d finished their meal at the restaurant and he’d said he wanted to see her again. She’d agreed, but she didn’t want to attract attention. He’d sounded amused; was she ashamed of being seen with a boxer, he’d asked. No, she’d replied; if boxing was good enough for Joyce Carol Oates, it was good enough for her. But she had studying to do and if the paparazzi found out that Mick Mantoro was robbing the cradle, they’d start hounding her and she’d never get her work done.
Why had she agreed to go out with him? Why hadn’t she just left the interview where it ended, at the restaurant? She had pursued the interview so that she could prove that Mantoro was all show, no substance, an icon with nothing but image, a statue without a plinth. Her father was the real hero. But she had been disarmed by Mantoro’s praise of the boxer he’d beaten; and, if she were honest, she had to admit that her curiosity was piqued by the reference to her, to Carlos Jimenez’s daughter. She wondered what he’d been intending to say about her before she’d interrupted his sentence by choking on her wine.
He didn’t tell her where they were going; he just told her to dress casually and comfortably. Which was a good thing because her wardrobe didn’t lend itself to red carpet events. She chose black jeans, a black-red-and-cream sweater with a knitted red scarf that complemented her pale hair, and black boots. She wore, as she always did, the diamond stud earrings that her father had given to her mother on the day Carli was born. When Hilary Hanover Jimenez died, Carlos, his eyes red and wet with tears, had given them to Carli. He’d told her, “Your mother was my diamond. Now you’re her diamond.” It was more than a bequest; she’d understood that, even as a nine-year-old girl. It was a charge.
She was standing in front of the coffee shop when she noticed the driver’s side window of the red Mustang across the street. It was rolling down. “How inconspicuous do I have to be?” Mick Mantoro’s face appeared.
; She crossed the street. By the time she’d reached the car, Mantoro was out of the car and on the driver’s side, holding the door open for her.
“Is this what you call traveling incognito?” she asked when he entered the car and got behind the wheel.
“There are lots of Mustangs. I’m still not sure why I have to sneak you out on a date.”
“I told you, I don’t want people to see me with you. They’ll think I’m looking for a father figure.”
Stopped at a red light, Mantoro used the time to give her a long, speculative gaze, eyebrows raised, eyes intent and searing. “I should warn you,” he told her as the light turned green and the Mustang moved forward, “I’m not feeling fatherly right now. Are you feeling daughterly?”
If he only knew. She kept her eyes focused ahead although she knew that he’d turned his head again to look at her. “Now that you mention it, no.”
“That’s better.”
“So where are we going?”
“You limited my options.”
“Because I said we couldn’t go anywhere where photographers would be likely to notice you? Why? Is it that hard for you to stay away from the limelight?”
“Most reporters who interview me are a little less cynical.”
“Boxing inspires cynicism.”
“You’re too young to be cynical.”
“Are you cynical?”
“No. I’ve been too fortunate to be cynical. Am I still being interviewed?”
“Will that change your answers?”
“Maybe.”
They were in an unfamiliar part of town, one with tree-lined streets in a residential neighborhood where the houses were well-maintained but not extravagant. Christmas decorations, not yet taken down although the holiday had ended three weeks earlier, lighted the street with joyful angels, reindeer, and sleighs. Mantoro made two more turns and then pulled into the parking lot of what, according to the wooden sign in front, was the Community Public Library.
“The library?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. Do you think boxers only hang out in bars and gyms?”
Those were two of her father’s favorite haunts, not for the drinking—he could make a bottle of beer last until halftime when he was watching Monday Night Football—but for the camaraderie, the memories of games and matches, and the aroma of sports. Her father had given up smoking when he married her mother, but he liked the fermented scent of tobacco and alcohol.
“Are you going to check out a book?” she inquired, getting out of the car.
“I’m a regular here, believe it or not.”
It was a nice-looking library, in a sedate, other-century kind of way. Even when she went inside, the row of computers against the wall almost seemed out of place among the wooden shelving and tables. The mural on the wall was an array of book covers, and author names from Homer through Steinbeck. Mantoro led the way past the circulation desk into a rabbit warren of offices.
“Mickey!” greeted a dark-haired woman wearing a brightly colored skirt that reached past her knees and a bright red shawl over a cream-colored blouse. She arose from her desk; the nameplate on the door read Rita Mantoro Rothstein.
Mantoro? The billionaire boxer was related to a librarian?
There was a glint in Mantoro’s eyes as he stood next to the woman, as if he knew what Carli was thinking. “Reet, I’d like you to meet Carli Hanover. Carli, my sister Rita Rothstein.”
Carli’s hand was taken between Rita’s two hands, the nails extravagantly manicured in red tips dotted with silver stars. “Carli, nice to meet you.” She gave her brother a speculative glance. “A little young for you, isn’t she?”
“That’s what she keeps saying,” Mantoro said, unperturbed by his sister’s candor. “She’s convinced I’m five steps away from AARP.”
“Boxers age faster,” Rita Rothsten said. “When are you getting out of the ring? Are you going to fight Guerrara? He says you’re afraid of him.”
“I read that,” Mantoro replied. “You saw my answer.”
Carli had read it too, in the New York Post. When asked if he would accept the younger boxer’s challenge, Mantoro had replied that he had to wait for his social calendar to accept the challenge. It was a glib answer, and a popular one, but it revealed the truth of the sport. There was always a younger boxing prince climbing his way up, waiting to dethrone the sitting king. Carli wondered what Mantoro really thought.
“I wish you’d just quit,” Rita said. “You’ll mess up that pretty face if you wait too long.” She smiled at Carli. “Mickey got all the looks in the family. We want to preserve him. So this is where he takes you on a date?”
“It’s not a date—“ Carli disputed.
“Yes it is,” Mantoro retorted. “She won’t let me take her any place where she’d be seen. She’s ashamed of being seen with a boxer.”
“No, I’m not,” Carli protested.
Rita patted her hand. “Relax, honey. If you can keep Michael Mantoro guessing, you’re managing to do more than most women. You’re here for the movie?”
Mantoro nodded. “I figured it’ll be good for her. Young thing that she is, she probably knows nothing about boxing movies.”
Following Rita, they walked down a hallway into a small room seating forty or so chairs. On an easel was a sign that read “Box Office Boxing: Featuring Commentary by Boxing Heavyweight Champion Michael “Mick” Mantoro.
As Mantoro was greeted familiarly by the audience, Rita explained. “We did a fundraiser in the fall. Anyone donating $250 or more would be a guest at one of our movie nights. The theme for tonight is boxing, and we’re showing ‘Rocky.’ You’ve never seen it?”
Carli had seen every boxing movie ever made: all the Rocky movies, Raging Bull, Million Dollar Baby—Carlos Jimenez didn’t like it, he didn’t like girls in the ring—The Champ, the Joe Palooka films, Cinderella Man, The Joe Louis Story, and others. Her father was no film critic but he was a relentless critic of bad boxing and he enjoyed ranking the movies based on their authenticity.
“I’ve seen it,” she replied.
“That’s a relief,” Mantoro said. “I was wondering if there’s any hope for this younger generation.”
Rita ushered Carli to a seat and sat beside her while Mantoro went to the front of the room. A large-screen television was mounted on the wall. It was a room designed for function rather than esthetics, but framed movie and television posters from Lawrence of Arabia, Gone with the Wind, Roots, To Sir With Love, and others attested to the its purpose. Stenciled above the posters was the legend “From Book to Box Office.”
“Mickey didn’t mind me using him as a pledge reward,” Rita whispered. “We made quite a bit of money off this campaign. We’ve been running a movie a week since January and we’re going into the first two weeks of February; that’s how many people donated money so that they could listen to Mickey give some boxing play-by-play for the series. Are you really dating Mickey?”
Fortunately, Carli was saved from having to answer because the move started, the score wrapping the audience in the beloved tale of Rocky Balboa. Although she’d seen it many times, Carli was caught up in the drama, and at the conclusion, she joined the audience, crying out “Adrian” along with Rocky as his victory extended beyond the boxing ring. “Can you lend me a hand?” Rita asked. “We’ve got cookies and coffee after the movie; Mickey will be chatting and signing autographs. He’s really good about things like this; I know that you’ve probably heard a lot of things, but he’s a good guy. I’m sorry if I sounded rude when I met you.”
“You didn’t sound rude.”
“I shouldn’t have made that comment about you being so young. But he’s my brother and I just don’t want him to end up with a broken heart.”
Chapter Four
Mantoro insisted on driving her home. “I promise that I won’t start stalking you,” he said. “But I’m not leaving a woman alone to make her way home at ten o’clock at night.”
She couldn�
��t argue with his logic. He didn’t know that her father had made sure she knew how to defend herself. So, reluctantly, she told him where she lived, in an old 19th century mansion that had been turned into apartments for college students.
“How’s the security?” he asked her as he parked in front of the house.
“It’s fine. I don’t need an escort.”
“What about a guest for the night?”
She laughed.
“It was worth a try. I’d like to see you again.”
“Why?” She was genuinely curious. She’d seen photographs and footage of the women he’d dated. She wasn’t in their league. Sure, she was a natural blonde, and people told her that she had beautiful blue eyes, and she figured that her features were okay. But she was short and slender, small-breasted, and compared to the statuesque cleavage queens that he was usually seen with, she just didn’t measure up. Rita’s concern that her brother’s heart would be broken by a 21-year old graduate student who took the subway because she didn’t own a car and owed her wardrobe to the thrift store was sheer fantasy. Her involvement with Mick Mantoro had begun as an assignment to camouflage her need to bring him down as he had brought her father down. Now she was confused. He was charming; she acknowledged that. He was a good listener. He could laugh at himself. He was smart. Smart enough to take her to the library for what was an unexpected kind of date, if they’d been on a date. She wasn’t sure what to call the evening, and she wasn’t at all sure if she should see him again, as much as she wanted to.