by Jack Tunney
It was a big risk and a big assumption that Cardone would never check up on my story. By then I could be in Chicago with Lola.
To emphasize his point Kelly tagged me on the nose twice. We had a short dust up right before the bell rang that seemed to ignite a little fire in the crowd. I wondered how many of them had money on the fight. How much of that sucker dough was going to make it into my pocket?
I searched the crowd for Cardone and Whit as I made my way back to Sal. Neither man seemed terribly interested in the fight yet. Whit and his boys laughed at something, not a single one of them looking toward the ring. Cardone whispered sweet nothings into the ear of his lady friend, ignoring his enemy across the room. She smiled and blushed at whatever the old charmer had said.
“Have a nice nap out there?” Sal asked.
“We were feeling each other out.”
“You were picking out china together is more like it. I don’t care what you do in the end, but when you’re out there on that canvas you represent me. And if you can’t fight like a man, I might as well throw this towel in right now.”
I’d never seen Sal so angry in the corner. I needed to remember this was getting to him almost as much as it was me.
“I’m sure Cardone will still give you your money, Sal.”
“We won’t even make it to the fourth?”
“What am I supposed to do? Go a whole round without hitting him?”
Sal had that pained, losing-my-money look.
I slapped my gloves together. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“What, Jimmy? What can you do?”
I had no answer. For the first time the bell saved me from the corner.
ROUND 10
Round two began as a slow dance between partners who didn’t like each other. We shuffled around, never getting too close, acting like we didn’t want to touch. Kelly threw some punches and I threw a few, but each landed on gloves or whiffed in the air.
I heard the radio announcer say something about a “lackluster fight so far,” and the two of us in the ring moving, “like sleepwalkers.” I found it hard to argue, but I still wanted to punch him in the face, or better yet in his honey-toned throat.
Lines of patrons were up in the aisles on their way for more popcorn and more beer. The main event was two heavyweights and most people had given up hoping for a drop of blood until the big guys hit the ring.
I spotted Lola because she moved against the crowd. In her hand was a suitcase. I wished she hadn’t come at all. I didn’t tell her emphatically to wait for me outside or at her place. As she’d been in the habit of coming to all my fights, I guessed she figured whatever trouble I had didn’t have anything to do with the bout that night. Boy, was she wrong.
With my head turned, Kelly landed a punch to my temple that blurred my vision. I stumbled and took a knee, shaking my head to bring my world back into focus. The people still paying attention perked up and cheered. I heard more than a few calls to, “Finish him!” I wasn’t sure if they had it out for me or if they just wanted this dud of a fight to be over with.
I looked up at Kelly and the expression on his face was confusion. Everything in the book said to charge me, put me down with another sock to the head. But Whit’s eyes bore into his back and held him frozen in place.
Luckily, the ref stepped in and backed Kelly off. He gave me a standing eight and looked me in the eye, asked, “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Fight!” he said, and chopped down with his hand.
“A little bit of excitement snuck into the second round, folks,” the announcer said. “Like a jolt of strong coffee into this dreary quicksand match. And speaking of coffee, Chock Full ‘O Nuts is your choice for that first morning cup.”
He rambled on with his ad copy and I tried to tune him out. I wished they would sit in a booth in the back like a baseball announcer. They all liked to claim they needed to be up close to give the listeners the full experience. The sights, sounds and smells. I could have saved him the trouble. Every fight hall in America smelled like stale sweat, stale popcorn and stale beer. They all sounded like desperation. The desperation in every punch the poor kid from the streets slugged out to maybe make it to someplace better. Every desperate shout from the guy in row three who was on the tail end of a losing streak and couldn’t buy his way out of trouble. The desperate pleas of a woman who wanted to go someplace decent and nice for a change. And above all, the desperate cries of blood hungry fight fans growling like spectators at an execution.
I knew I shouldn’t, but I caught Lola’s eye again in the stands. She hadn’t sat down, that crinkled brow look of concern on her face from seeing me get hit. She wore white gloves, her best skirt and jacket, a pillbox hat. Her traveling clothes. She didn’t belong in a place like Vet’s Hall on fight night. She didn’t belong with a palooka like me. I vowed right then to dedicate the rest of my life to making her decision to stay with me worth it for her.
I swung at Kelly’s midsection, working him over like a ball of dough. He tightened his iron abs and took what I gave him. He could have taken ten more rounds.
Kelly wrapped me up again, taking the time to make another meeting out of it.
“Is this your first time at the dance or something? Make it look good.” He broke off with me and swung at my head.
I swung back and connected. It felt good.
We had about thirty seconds left in the round and we lit up the place. We traded frustrated punches, angry uppercuts and jab after jab where I saw only Vic’s face instead of Kelly’s.
By the time the bell rang I was winded and the crowd had gotten interested again. I even heard the announcer chime in as I headed back toward Sal. “Looks like we have some life yet in these two pugilists. A flurry of punches like a midwinter snow fell on the ring late in round two. Can they keep it up? We shall see right after this word from our sponsor, Sterzing’s Potato Chips.”
Sal put out my stool, wiped sweat off my forehead with his towel. At least I had worked up a sweat this round.
“Round three, Jimmy. What are you gonna do?”
“He wants a fight, I’ll give him a fight.”
“You gonna put him down like that other guy wants?”
“Maybe Cardone will think it’s an accident.”
“What if he don’t?”
Easy for Sal to say. He’d only dealt with one half of the equation.
“Look, Sal,” I said. “Whatever happens, I got you covered. Hand me my bag.”
“What?”
“Hand me my bag,” I said louder.
Confused, but beyond arguing, Sal handed me my gym bag. I unzipped it and reached to the bottom, awkwardly shoving aside my clothes with my gloved hands until I saw the white of the envelope.
“Grab that,” I said. “It’s for you.”
Sal reached in and took the envelope just as the bell rang for round three. I stood. The referee had to scold Sal to take the stool out of the ring. Sal couldn’t take his eyes off the envelope.
I kicked the stool aside and it slid out onto the floor. Sal had peeled the corner up on the envelope and ran a thumb across the two hundred bucks inside. I turned and headed into the ring, as curious as anyone in the place about what might happen next.
ROUND 11
The bell rang again after I’d taken two steps into the ring. Both Kelly and I looked around, confused. The ref was at the ropes shouting into the crowd.
A fight had broken out in the front row. Two drunks and another two of their drunk friends had started their own match when ours wasn’t up to snuff.
The ref could have shouted all night long and it wouldn’t have done any good. The crowd around the men was finally getting the blood it wanted.
Drunk fights were always ugly affairs. No gloves, no technique. The first thing to go were the knuckles. A couple of would-be tough guys spent the night drinking beer and watching the pros do it, and all of a sudden they thought they know all there was to know about the s
port. Bare fists pummeled into faces. Joints popped on cheek bones and skin split over knuckles and on lips.
After that first exchange things usually slowed down into more of a grappling match than boxing. These guys were determined, though. One wore a green suit that was already stained with blood from his own nose. The other wore grey pinstripes and was leaking bloody saliva from his mouth. I didn’t know him before, but I’d have bet you dollars to donuts he came in with more teeth than I saw in his mouth.
The two friends came around and took up the main action, working like tag team wrestlers. They were slightly smarter and started with gut punches. Both guys were a little heavy so there was plenty of target. One fat guy sent another backward, but the crowd of bloodthirsty savages behind him threw fatty back into the mix.
Kelly and I stood and watched in stunned silence. I couldn’t hear any of what was being drunkenly slurred between them, so I had no idea what the beef was about. I knew it bought me a bit of time, so I wasn’t complaining.
Two thick guys came down from the lobby. Ex-punchers from the looks of it. Hired security now. Both of the men that came to stop the fight could give lessons in broken noses.
The radio announcer was up on his feet and calling the fight in the stands like the heavyweight championship.
“You wouldn’t believe it, folks. The action in the stands tonight is more exciting than anything going on inside the ropes. Our amateur sluggers could teach the pros a thing or two on this night.”
The fat men had started aiming for the face.
“OH! A solid right to the nose and one man is down. Better call the doctor, folks, or better yet a chef because that side of beef is done.”
The two bouncers arrived, but quickly found they had their hands full with the foursome. All four men lurched and stumbled, slipping on pools of their own blood. The screaming men surrounding the fight tried to make a human blockade to keep the bouncers from breaking it up. A crowd like that was the type of guys whocould never get enough, and the ones who usually pay were their wives when the jerks want just one more bloody nose.
The fat man still standing turned to the crowd and held his hands over his head in victory, ignoring the blood that coursed down his face.
“Looks like we have a winner, folks,” the announcer said. “Get that man a pair of gloves and send him in the ring. Heck, send my Aunt Sally. Anything is better than what we’ve seen so far.”
The bouncers got to the melee and in no time had the two original fighters apart. The man in the green suit took a beer-soaked swing at one of the old pros. That did not go over well. The pro let go of the man’s lapels, set his feet, and plowed a right fist across his jaw so hard I thought it would come off and land in the last row.
The green-suited man was unconscious before he hit the floor. He’d wake up in a drunk tank tomorrow with the worst headache he’d ever had.
It took another two minutes for the excitement to die down. I found Whit in the stands laughing with his boys, enjoying the chaos. Cardone was shielding his date’s eyes from the blood as the men were taken up the aisle right past his seat.
Lola sat stiffly in her seat. If it wasn’t for me, she would have never set foot inside a fight hall. I kept telling her not to come, but she said if anything happened to me she wanted to be there to see it, or otherwise, I’d make up some fool story about the next day.
The bell rang again and the ref called, “Fight!”
Kelly and I stood for a few long seconds not knowing what to do. The crowd was still on its feet, milling around, turning fallen chairs back over. No one paid much attention to us inside the ring. We weren’t the ones putting on the best show.
But show time started now.
Kelly stepped in close to me, giving me the opening. I didn’t take it. We slapped gloves a few times with about as much punch behind them as if we were playing pat-a-cake.
The buzzing mosquito of an announcer started in again.
“And back to the ring where apparently it’s still nap time for the toddlers. Perhaps one of our new sponsors is Elmer’s glue. At least that would explain what’s on the bottom of the feet of Kelly and Wyler as they shuffle lifelessly around the ring.”
Kelly looked me right in the eye, lowering his gloves slightly to make it easier for me to get a shot through. The seconds ticked off.
I saw Whit in the stands over Kelly’s shoulder. He had taken a sudden interest in the bout. He and Vic and the rest of his boys all watched the ring like a strip show might break out.
Kelly came at me with a few jabs, which I batted away. I sent a few meaningless shots into his gut.
My body was torn. I wanted to send him down to the canvas, have it all be over with. Take my licks from Cardone and put it all behind me. But, then I saw Sal in my corner, the white sprout of the envelope poking up from his belt.
He had his money. Even if Cardone took his share back from this fight, he’d still get his operation.
Kelly swung at me again, begging me to come and get him.
I stayed neutral, unable to decide. The rage of indecision burned red in my brain and I forgot where I was for a second. I saw Vic lean over to Whit and complain. Whit shut him down with what I expect was a reassurance I would come through.
Regret weighed down my gloves, dragged my feet through the mud. The long list of things I never should have done hung like a noose around my neck. All the way back to: never should have left Chicago.
I swung at Kelly just to have something to do. He took the chance and stepped into the punch – a punch that couldn’t have knocked over a house of cards – and Kelly went down.
The crowd booed and the sound bore a hole in my skull. Kelly was no actor. He fell like a kid play-acting and hoping for a gum ball after a scraped knee. I didn’t want it to go this way.
The referee stepped over Kelly and started counting. He’d seen enough fights to know a fix, but he did his job just the same. Kelly rolled around like he’d been knocked loopy, but I knew as well as anyone in the place that he could have stood up and recited the Gettysburg address if he wanted to. His brain wasn’t scrambled in the least.
“Kelly’s down and for no earthly reason,” the announcer raged. “A hit as soft as a pillow put him on the canvas and it makes this reporter think of the days of Al Capone and the rackets. A disgraceful showing tonight at Veteran's Hall, one I would think the boxing commission will soon look into along with both of these fighters. Men who are a discredit to the sport of Kings.”
Something in me popped. I had been holding back hitting for so long that I had to hit something, someone, right then.
I turned and lunged through the ropes, reaching for the announcer and his big silver microphone. He leaned away from me and snatched up his mic in one hand, started calling the play by play of the attack.
“My goodness, ladies and gentlemen, the fight has come to me now.”
I didn’t let him finish. I slapped the microphone out of his hand and punched him square in the chest. I heard him wheeze for air over the roar of the crowd. It had gone from a real dud to the best fight night of the year.
The ref had stopped counting over Kelly and ran to the ropes where he grabbed me around the waist and tried to haul me back inside the ring.
There wasn’t the power I wanted behind my punches, but I got in three more good shots on the bastard announcer before I let myself get pulled back.
The scoring table roiled in chaos. The front three rows were on their feet cheering me. They would have voted me for president right then.
I turned and Kelly was up, looking over at the side of the ring with a lost look on his face. Was this part of the setup? he seemed to be asking.
“What the hell was that all about, kid?” the ref asked me angrily.
I didn’t have time to answer. The bell rang. End of round three.
ROUND 12
Kelly wandered back to his corner in a daze. He kept looking over his shoulder at the spot where he’d hit the canvas a
s if he was expecting to still see himself there.
I stopped before I got to Sal and turned to the stands. Whit and his boys were up and stomping out. I saw Vic point in the direction of Cardone, but Whit slapped his hand away and tugged his hat down tighter on his head. He was angry, that much was clear. What he might do about it was clear as mud.
I sat down on my stool and Sal began rubbing my shoulders.
“Well, your bed’s made now, I guess,” he said.
I watched for Cardone and found him in his seat sipping a beer. Nothing too out of the ordinary. I wondered if he thought my outburst with the reporter was merely a ploy to get the fight to go into the fourth, and would he be proud of me? I’d hate to have to tell him the microphone jerk simply made me mad.
“Well, are you?” Sal asked.
“What?” I said. I’d missed the question.
“Are you going down in the fourth?”
“One way or another I’m going down for sure real soon.”
I still had a chance to play dumb with Whit. Kelly had gotten up off the mat, all I did was act on a personal grudge. Could be he’d understand.
My deal with Cardone could still stand. The trick was that Whit knew I’d had my deal with Cardone and now I’d be choosing sides. Something told me Vic would be paying me a visit to finish what he’d started.
I looked for Lola in the crowd. She sat on the edge of her seat, looking more nervous than usual. The air had that feeling in it. If you cut through the sour sweat and the cigarette smoke, you felt it – something about to happen. It was what you wanted in a fight hall. The impending knockout, the haymaker punch that sent a guy to sleep. This hummed in the air a little different, though, and I could see Lola felt it too.
A hand clamped down on my shoulder. I turned, expecting to see Whit with a razor in his hand. The manager, Mr. Foy, a pudgy man with a loose tie and a drooping mustache.
“Listen up, Jimmy, I don’t like that stunt you pulled.” Meaning attacking his ringside reporter. “Normally, I’d toss you out on your ear, but I haven’t seen a crowd this into a fight in a dog’s age, so I’m gonna let you keep going. You work ‘em up, get ‘em good and thirsty. But no more monkey business, you understand?”