“Simple to you, maybe,” Mick smiled. “Me? I was always lousy at math.”
Brooks was right. The Sunlight thing was a gimmick, nothing more. But sometimes sugar pills cure cancer. Mick practiced the technique as he jogged the five miles back to the Alamo Apartments. Most days, not having a car was major-league inconvenient. Not today. It made his timing perfect.
He’d been trying to meet the woman from the fourth floor for weeks. She was just starting up the outside stairs carrying an armload of books. Small and slender with cinnamon skin, she was classier than most Alamo transients. Short, shaggy dark hair, probably styled it with her fingertips. Dressed well, though, dark suits, heels. A teacher, somebody said.
Mick couldn’t guess her age. Twenty-five? Thirty-five? Didn’t matter. She had the most penetrating brown eyes he’d ever seen.
“Hi,” Mick said, overtaking her at the first landing. “Can I help you with those?”
“No thanks, I can manage.”
“You’d be doing me a favor. I need the exercise. I’m Mick
Shannon. I live upstairs on seven.” He held out his hands.
She eyed him warily, then shrugged and gave him the books. “Theresa Garcia. You’re the boxer, right?”
“Guilty. Irish Mickey Shannon. You a fight fan?”
“No. Someone mentioned your name and I...wondered about it.”
“Wondered what?”
“No offense, but it’s kind of redundant, isn’t it? Isn’t a person named Mickey Shannon automatically Irish?”
Mick almost gave her a song and dance about Great Irish Fighters. John L. to Sean O’Grady. Didn’t though. He was having a strange day. A day for truth.
“In Ireland, any Mick Shannon would probably be Irish,” he conceded. “In Detroit, Irish Mick on a fight card means I’m white. Saves promoters the trouble of printing my picture.”
“I don’t understand. What difference does your color make?” “Inside the ropes, none. But the fight game’s a business. Most Motown fighters are black. A white guy helps sell tickets.” “So you’re...what? A token white guy?”
“Not a token. More like a condiment. To spice up the mix, you know? And not just me. There are Korean fighters, Russian fighters. Couple years ago there was even a guy from New Zealand made some noise. Had the tribal tattoos and all. What do they call those guys?”
“Maoris?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Name was Thunder. Heavyweight. Real strong, real slow.”
“And did you ever fight this...Mr. Thunder?”
“Me? No, I’m a middleweight. Fought a Nigerian, though. Last night, in fact.”
“Last night? Really? Aren’t you exhausted?”
“Nah, it was only a four-rounder. I can go ten rounds easy, went twelve once a few years ago. Not so much lately, though. Mostly shorter stuff.”
“Why is that?”
Mick swallowed, choking back his bitterness. Luckily, she was looking down, didn’t notice.
“Prelims are all I can get,” he said carefully. “My career’s in kind of a slow phase now. But it’s looking up.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” she said wryly, her smile taking any sting out of her words. A good smile. He wanted to see it again.
“Why should you be sorry?”
“Because if things get better, you’ll be fighting more, won’t you? You might get hurt. Are you married, Mr. Shannon?”
“Nope. But this is so sudden, Miss Garcia. We only just met.”
“It’s Mrs. Garcia and I’m semiserious. I can’t imagine a man like you having a wife. My ex-husband was a cop. I had trouble with his job being so dangerous. What do you do? I really don’t understand it at all.”
“And I had such high hopes for us. Some fighters are married, though. Heck, some fighters are women.”
“I know. I’m sure you think I’m a hopeless square, but you seem reasonably bright—”
“Thank you.”
“—and you even have a certain charm,” she continued, smiling again, white teeth flashing against caramel lips. No lipstick, no need. “I guess I’m asking why you do it. Surely you must be able to do something else?”
“I plan to someday,” he shrugged. “Nobody boxes forever. But...the truth is, Shannon’s not even my real name. I got dumped at an orphanage, one of the sisters was from Shannon, Ireland, and she named me. Lucky thing too. Baby Doe’s a terrible name for a fighter.”
Another quick smile. Good.
“Anyway, I grew up going in and out of foster care. Learned to box in Boys’ Club. It was the first thing I was ever good at, I mean really good, you know? People noticed me. Made nice. Went in the Marines after high school to earn money for college, wound up
boxing in the Corps too. I even went to the Olympics. In Barcelona.”
“Really?” Impressed at last.
“Wasn’t that big a deal. I was only an alternate. De la Hoya won everything that year. But I got to march into Olympic Stadium wearing American colors, eighty thousand people on their feet... I’m babbling, aren’t I?”
“No. I had no idea. So, all this time, you’ve been trying to...what? Recapture that feeling again?”
“Not that so much. I didn’t win anything at the Olympics. Didn’t prove anything. I want to make a mark, you know? Win a belt. Be somebody.”
“I don’t have a championship belt,” she noted quietly. “Does that mean I’m nobody?”
“Of course not, but...I guess I didn’t explain it very well.”
“You did fine. It doesn’t make sense to me, but I can see why it matters to you. A little anyway.”
“And that’s good?”
“I don’t know. You’re not at all what I expected...” She reached up, her fingertips hovering near the scar tissue around his eyes. “It must be very hard,” she murmured, as much to herself as to him, “to love something that can’t love you back.”
“Or someone.”
“Or someone,” she agreed, smiling, meeting his eyes. He almost kissed her. Sensed a gap in her guard, could have moved through it. But she sensed it too and stepped back, startled by the intensity in the air. “Thanks for carrying my books, Mr. Shannon,” she stammered. “This is my floor.”
“I’ll walk you to your door.”
“No need. Good luck with your career.” And she was gone.
“Thanks,” he muttered to himself. “Same to ya.”
Kayoed. Another loss. So what? She wasn’t so special. Except she was. Not like the bimbos and star-fuckers around the arenas. Theresa was bright and pretty and...she said he wasn’t what she expected. So maybe she’d noticed him too. And wondered.
Or maybe not. One thing for sure. She might think a belt didn’t matter. Mick knew better. Everybody loves a winner. Nobody knows you when you lose. Ten years of hard training, hitting, getting hit. He didn’t have a belt, didn’t have a goddamn car and was halfway to getting his legs broken by Ducatti’s goons. He needed to win something. Fast. But first he had to get out from under.
Tracked down Tommy Duke at his New Millennium Motors operation. Premium Pre-owned Vehicles, Fleet Leases and Repossessions. A used-car lot, but a posh one.
Tommy’s office was just as posh. Thick green carpet, a carved desk, a brag wall displaying dozens of awards and color photographs. Tommy with Ali, with Evander. At Kronk’s gym with Emmanuel Lewis, at a banquet with Mayor Archer and Coleman Young.
The man himself looked like a before-and-after commercial. Tommy at the casino was before, today was after.
Eyes red-rimmed, hands trembling, skin patchy, he was morphing into Mick’s cornerman, Nate Cohen. Hag-ridden by permanent thirst.
His bodyguard, Ramos, was leaning against one of the narrow windows, looking out over the lot. Could have been wearing the same gray silk suit from the casino.
“It’s about time, Irish,” Tommy said absently, scanning some paperwork. “I was beginning to wonder. Thought we might have to go lookin’ for you.”
“No need. I talked
to Brooks. He won’t hassle your sister anymore. Ever.”
“Roughed him up pretty good, did you?”
“No place that shows,” Mick said evenly. “But if he sees her coming he’ll run the other way. I guarantee it. And we’re even now, right?”
“Even? You’ve gotta be kidding. Nine large to straighten somebody out? That’s a five-cee job, Shannon. You and your pals are still down eight and a half large.”
“Dammit, you said if I handled Brooks—”
“I said I’d take care of you. And I will. You met my boy Kroffut last night. He scare you?”
“Hell no. I’ll fight him in your garage if you want. Even money.”
“Jesus H. Christ, Shannon. Have you got a death wish? You couldn’t handle K on the best day of your life.”
“Couldn’t even handle Kid Ibo,” Ramos sneered.
“You want your money and I need the work,” Mick said stubbornly. “Besides, we both know his wins were nobodies. I’m not a big name, but I was a contender a few years back and K needs legit fights to get anyplace.”
“Not just fights, Irish. Wins.”
“You just said you think he can take me. So what are you afraid of?”
“Afraid?” Tommy rolled his eyes. “Afraid’s got nothin’ to do with it, you stupid bastard. It’s business. You been around long enough to know the game. I paid seventy grand for K. If we pad a half dozen wins onto his eighteen I can get him a title bout. Win or lose, my end of that fight will be half a mil, easy. I’m not riskin’ that kind of money against the chump change you owe, punchy. You want to fight K, Irish? I can arrange that. But only if we can work a deal.”
“What kind of a deal?”
“I’ll write off your debt and pay you...six grand on top to fight K, a four-round warmup bout in say, three weeks? Six thousand. Two grand a round. For three rounds. You followin’ me? You’re gone in the third.”
“No fuckin’ way. I’m not taking a dive, not for six grand or sixty.”
“You don’t get it, do you? You can’t beat K in a straight fight anyway, Irish. He’d kill you. This way you get a payday, K gets a workout and pads his pedigree. Everybody wins.”
“I don’t.”
“Sure you do, only you’re too dumb to see it.”
“But if I beat him—”
“—it would only prove K’s as big a nothin’ as you are. Nobody’d care and I’d be out seventy grand. So that ain’t gonna happen, understand? K may lose to the champ, but not before. That’s the deal, Irish. Three rounds, six grand. Do you want the gig or not?”
“Stick it up your ass.”
“How about I stick my nine-millimeter up yours?” Ramos said, coming around the desk, reaching under his coat.
“Whoa, not here,” Tommy said, waving him off, his eyes still locked on Mick’s. “Irish Mick’s a real tough guy. Stupid, but tough. So we’ll save him for last. You’d better talk to your management about this. Because your dumb ass isn’t the only one on the line here. Now get the hell out. While you still can.”
Papa Doc’s Soul Barbecue, best babyback ribs in Eastpointe. Papa Doc, a squat ex-welterweight, parked a tall diet Coke on the counter as Mick walked in. Mick carried it to the back corner booth where Deacon Washburn did breakfast, lunch and business every day from ten till two. Nate Cohen was with him, sipping Irish coffee, wispy hair awry. His face was bruised, his left eye swollen nearly shut. Mick stared down at him a moment, then slid into the booth across from Wash.
“Ramos?” he asked grimly.
Wash nodded. “He was waitin’ outside Nate’s place this morning. To send us a message.”
“I’m going to find that skinny sonofabitch and—”
“Hold on,” Wash said, grabbing his arm, pulling him back. “You find him, so what? Tommy’ll just send somebody else.”
“It’s okay,” Nate slurred. “I took plenty worse back when I was fightin’. Back in ’78 I went six rounds with—”
“Cork it, Nate,” Wash snapped, cutting him off, “we got troubles of our own. I take it negotiations with Tommy didn’t go real well?”
“He wants me to fight Kroffut. For three rounds of a four rounder. I told him to stick it.”
“Pretty bold, Mick. Only Nate paid the tab for it.”
“I’m sorry, I never—” Mick shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” Wash said. “Nate put his money down same as I did and he was old enough to vote last time I checked. The question is, what do we do now?”
“I’m not going in the tank, Wash.”
“Nobody said you should. Only...”
“Only what?”
Wash sipped his coffee, considering. “We’ve been friends a long time, Irish. Too long, maybe. Makes it hard to see what’s right in front of you sometimes. Hard to say what needs to be said.”
“Like what? Like you said, Wash, we’re friends. Say your piece.”
“Okay, then, here it is. You can still fight, Mick. You train hard, you’re smart...” He looked away, avoiding Mick’s eyes. “Smart enough to know there’s no belt waitin’ with your name on it. Ibo got lucky with you the other night. Couple years ago, he couldn’t have. You’ve paid your dues to the game, Mick. Maybe it’s time the game paid us back.”
“By losing, you mean?”
“Losing to Kroffut will get us out from under. If I put the word around we’re dealin’, we could line up half a dozen bouts in a hurry. You could bank maybe sixty, seventy grand by Christmas, then get the fuck out. Maybe make some kinda life with that little honey you been moonin’ over. What’s her name?”
“Theresa. Look, I know it doesn’t make sense, Wash, but I just can’t do it.”
“Why the hell not? You think you owe the fight game somethin’? Like what? Your brains? Your life? You want to end up like Ali or Jerry Quarry or ol’ Nate here?”
“There must be some other way. Can’t you get me another fight?”
The fat man’s shrug said it all. “Sure, Mick, you can fight a few more kids like Ibo. I can even get you a rematch with him if he’s stuck in your craw. But you already know what it pays. And how it’s gonna turn out.”
“That’s not much of a choice, Wash.”
“Listen to me, Irish. You’ve been living in the same dump ten years waiting to move up. You got no car, no prospects. It’s time to pack it in. Don’t do it for me or Nate. Do it for yourself. Let me make the calls.”
Mick glanced away, idly touching the bruises on Nate’s cheekbone. “Okay,” he said, taking a deep breath. “Do it.”
“You sure?”
“I said so, didn’t I? What’s the matter? I turn crooked and suddenly my word’s no good?”
“Nope. Man, I didn’t think you’d ever wise up.”
“Thanks, Wash, I appreciate that.”
Wash eyed him oddly. “All the years I been with you, Irish, and I still can’t tell when you’re kiddin’. I ain’t jokin’ now. We talkin’ serious shit here, with serious people. You even think about welshin’ or backin’ out, they’ll come after us. All of us.”
“I know. Go ahead, make your calls.”
“Not from here,” Wash said, easing his bulk out of the booth, brushing off his vest. “Some deals you don’t do over a phone. But don’t be piggin’ out on me now. You still gotta make weight and look good on fight night, same as always.”
“Not quite the same,” Mick said.
Nate toyed with his coffee after Washburn left, a faint smile crinkling his swollen mouth.
“What?” Mick demanded. “Spit it out.”
“I’m glad,” the old man said simply. “Wash is right. Best to step away, before you get hurt.”
“And the right and wrong of it?”
“The game belongs to the promoters, Mick, not the fighters. Always has. In the old days, gamblers ran it. Now it’s all TV. A guy like K with a dead man in his record draws big ratings. Kinda like that Survivor show in reverse. People tune in hopin’ he’ll kill somebody
up close and personal. He might, too. I’ve seen film on him. He’s for real. A serious slugger.”
“He’s got no reason to come after me. Hell, I’m bought and paid for.”
“Wouldn’t count on that. Deal or no deal, he likes to hurt people. Why do you think Tommy Duke gave you the gig? Because you’re such big pals? When are you supposed to fall?”
“In the third,” Mick said slowly.
“Right. Assuming you make it that far.”
Staring at Nate’s battered face, Mick began to understand what he’d bought into. All of it.
“Did you say you had film on this guy?”
They watched it on the old Motorola TV in Wash’s dingy office at the back of the gym, footage from a club fight in Tijuana. Jerky images, filmed in black and white with a hand-held camera. K and a Mexican. No sound.
At the casino in a suit, K looked somnolent, like a sleepy crocodile. In the ring, he was transformed. Bowlegged, barrelchested, with jailhouse chains tattooed around his biceps and waist, K fought like a pit bull on amphetamines. Marched out of his corner at the bell, hands down, daring his opponent to hit him. When he tried, K slipped his punches and countered with brutal body shots, low and hard. Mick winced in sympathy.
“Carries his guard low,” was all he said.
“Muhammad Ali started that shit,” Nate grunted. “Young fighters oughta ask him what he thinks of it now. Only they wouldn’t understand his answer. Ali don’t talk so good anymore. What do you think of Killer K?”
“I can take him,” Mick said automatically, then caught himself. Nate was grinning, shaking his head, then they both burst out laughing, roaring, a manic mix of despair and absurdity, laughing at themselves, their lives, the universe. Laughing until the tears came, laughing until...
K put his man down on the small screen. Hooked him to the liver, dropped him like a rock. The Mexican tried to rise, fell back. Then went utterly still.
The ref waved in the ring doctor, a pudgy chump in a rumpled suit who knelt over K’s opponent. The screen went to static.
Otto Penzler (ed) - Murder 06 - Murder on the Ropes raw Page 3