“When do you get paid?” Gladys asked. There was a time when her first concern had been how good a fighter the other guy was.
“The day after the fight.”
“Oh.” She sounded disappointed. Joe picked up on it.
“Why? We short again?”
“Yeah, but it’s okay. Hass will give me an advance. He’s good about that.”
“I’ll get an advance from Ortega. I don’t want you asking Hamed.”
“Why not, for God’s sake?” she asked, annoyed. “I’ve asked him plenty of times before.”
“You have?”
“Well, sure I have, Joe. Jesus! How do you think we make ends meet when you can’t pick up any day work?”
“I don’t know. I guess I didn’t think.”
“Well, maybe you better start,” she told him. Her voice was an edge beyond annoyance now.
Hassim Hamed walked in from the front of the cafe. “Hello there, Joe,” he said. He was tall, slim, thick black hair over a cafe au lait complexion and perfect teeth.
“Yeah, hiya,” Joe said sullenly. He began to sulk. Hello there. What the fuck was wrong with just plain hello?
Hamed filled a tray with bowls of salads to put in the glassdoored refrigerator behind the lunch counter. Joe watched him, studying the man’s flawless face. It looked like it was made of cocoa butter. Not a mark on it. Unlike Joe’s own, which had a ridge of scar tissue above the right eye, a crescent-shaped scar on the left chin bone, and the beginning of some cauliflowering in the cartilage of his right ear.
“So, how have you been, Joe?” the Iranian asked.
“I’m okay,” Joe said.
“Good. Very good,” Hamed said. He smiled a dazzling smile and left with the tray. Gladys gave Joe a scathing look.
“I swear to God, you are so rude. Least you could do is be polite, for God’s sake.”
“You be polite to him,” Joe said. “You’re the one who works here.” He went to the back door, which led to an alley. “1 gotta go start training,” he said, and left.
He took a bus to a multiplex down in Whittier and spent the afternoon watching two movies.
Joe started training with Race the next day at Ortega’s Gym. He was glad it was Race that Ortega was letting get him in shape. Race was easy to work with, as long as a fighter did exactly what Race told him to do. Race didn’t take any shit from fighters; he had been around the fight game a long, long time, since back in the days of Basilio and Fullmer and the real Sugar Ray—not Seales or Leonard, but the man himself, Ray Robinson. Race knew what it was all about.
“Firs’ thing we gots to do is get that baby from off yo’ middle,” he told Joe. He wrapped Joe’s body from armpits to hip bones with Saran Wrap, then bundled him in double sweats and started him on some rope work. Joe was usually good at rope work; he had a smooth, steady rhythm and even toe balance that he had learned from watching videos of Sonny Liston working the rope to the Harlem Globetrotters theme song, “Sweet Georgia Brown.” But after ten months of gym inactivity, and bundled up the way Race had him, he felt and looked like a fat man climbing steep stairs. Race shook his head dismally at the sight of him.
“You some sorry-lookin’ mess,” he said when Joe begem to pant. “Put the rope down and get over here on this exercycle.”
As he pumped away on the cycle, with Race tightening and loosening the tension in increments, Joe asked, “Race, do you think I’m a trial horse?”
“Why you ax?”
“Ortega told me I was a trial horse. It’s why he ain’t paying me as much as he was paying Danny Pitts.”
Race chewed on the inside of his mouth a bit before answering. “I reckon he might be pretty much right. You ain’t no contender no more, fo’ sure. But I’d say this: if you a trial horse, you a good trial horse.”
That made Joe feel a lot better. He had never minded being anything, as long as he was good at it. Every once in a while he found some day work on a garbage truck, hanging on the back end as it went from house to house, pausing so that Joe and another guy could swing off and heft big trash barrels to empty them. Once, the driver had said that Joe was the best extra helper he’d ever had. It had made Joe feel good, even if it was about working on a garbage truck.
After the exercycle work, Race had Joe spar in front of a training mirror for ten two-minute rounds, with one-minute rests in between. Joe felt good being back in training again. The heavy, sweat-filled air of the gym was like a fragrance to him; the grunts of the men working out, mixed with the thud of leather training gloves against the canvas of the heavy bags, and the thump-thump-thump of speed bags, tap-tap-tap of rope work—it was like music. He had not realized how much he missed boxing. It was good to be part of it, even if Gil Ortega did call him a trial horse.
While Joe was working in front of the training mirror, three young Hispanic men, wearing white shirts buttoned up to the neck and baggy trousers, sauntered over from the bleachers to watch. They stood observing for a while, talking among themselves, and then one of them, who was fleshy but not quite fat, and who stood between the other two, said to Race, “Hey, how’s your boy looking there, man? He going to be in shape for Avila?”
“What’s it to you?” Race asked, annoyed. He did not like to be bothered when he was working. Fixing the younger man in a baleful stare, he asked, “You writin’ a sports column or something, boy?”
“Hey, I ain’t no boy, hombre," the young Hispanic said. “You trying to be funny?”
“If I was tryin’ to be funny, I’d dress like you,” Race said dismissively. “Get the hell out of here. Go on home and suck on your momma’s titty.”
“You maiate—!” the youth spat. In a blink, he had a four-inch handle knife out and open. Race did not flinch or get angry, even though he knew that a maiate was a large black roach that lived in manure. Race was cool.
Gil Ortega came out of somewhere and stepped between the two men. “That’s enough,” he said evenly. He bobbed his chin at the youth. “Paying spectators are required to stay in the bleachers. You’re not allowed on the training floor.”
“Do you know who I am, man?” the youth challenged.
“Of course. You are Mickey Morales.”
“Si! And I am La Familia!
A silence fell between them as Mickey Morales and his two friends waited for some reaction from Ortega. They got none. He remained as calm as Race did.
“Well?” Morales finally asked.
“Well what?” Ortega replied.
“Well, do you respect La Familia or don’t you?”
“Of course. If I did not respect La Familia, I would not pay Chico Puente a monthly tribute to protect my business and all my employees. Do you know who is Chico Puente?”
Mickey Morales pursed his lips, then said, “Everybody knows who is Chico Puente, man.” Chico Puente was the top boss of all La Familia members in Los Angeles County.
Ortega took some currency from his pocket and handed Mickey Morales three dollars. “Here’s back the money you paid to get in. Don’t come around anymore, and I won’t mention to Chico Puente that you were being disruptive here. That way, there’s no trouble for either of us. Okay?”
Morales took the money and smiled. “Sure, ese. Whatever you say.” With a nod of his head, he led his two friends out of the gym.
“Try to be a little friendlier with the customers, will you, Race,” said Ortega.
“Yassuh, boss man,” Race replied. “Y’all wants me to dance a little jig for ’em, too?”
Ortega walked away, shaking his head resignedly.
“Get yo’ ass back to work!” Race snapped at Joe. “I didn’t call no time-out!”
“Yassuh, boss man,” Joe said. He resumed training.
The next morning, Race wrapped and bundled Joe again and said, “You know where Evergreen Cemetery is?”
“Yeah, it’s up on Lorena Street.”
“Right. I wants you to go up to First and Lorena and jog all the way ’round the cemetery thr
ee times. Jog up there and back, too. Get!”
It was one mile to Evergreen Cemetery, one mile completely around it, and one mile back. In any other neighborhood except around the gym, Joe imagined he would have been the object of numerous curious looks, swathed as he was in heavy sweats garb and trotting along like a dray horse, but the people on the streets of East L.A. hardly noticed him. In a world of gang-bangers, drunks, day hustlers and old men wandering around with vacant stares, a scar-tissued pug doing road work didn’t even raise an eyebrow. When he got to the area around the cemetery, it was still poor but less Skid Rowish; there were more Latina mothers out pushing strollers and dragging preschoolers along by the hand, and old women out with their own straw baskets to shop early for the best fruit and vegetables at market stalls.
Evergreen Cemetery was very old, some of its grave markers dating back one hundred and twenty-three years. As Joe diligently did his running, he took note of some of the more ornate and elaborately hewed tombstones, but would not interrupt his pace to pause and study any of them. Maybe some weekend, after the fight, he and Gladys could walk over and just leisurely stroll around, looking at the names and dates. There were undoubtedly generations of families buried there. It might be interesting.
It was just as he turned the corner on Lorena to begin his third lap that Joe saw Mickey Morales and his two friends strutting toward him. Experiencing a brief flash of anxiety, he then remembered, and was glad, that he had not said a word during the previous day’s altercation in the gym. All he had to do now, he decided quickly, was be cool and not show any disrespect.
The three blocked his way. Morales, smiling, said, “Hey, man, how you doing?”
Joe paused and ran in place. “Good, man. You?”
“Me? I always do good, man. So do my homeboys here—
Luis, Manny,” he pointed to each of the others. “Hey, man, listen, no offense to you about yesterday, you know? We were jus’ trying to see how you looked, since you going to be fighting Antonio Avila. He’s our carnal, you know?” Carnal meant a street brother.
“I didn’t know that,” Joe said, panting a little.
“Sure, man. He’s married to one of Manny’s cousins,” he bobbed his chin at one of his friends. “Hey, listen, man, how you like to make some extra money on this fight?”
Joe shook his head. “No offense, but I’m not interested.” “Hey, look, I don’t mean take no dive, don’t misunderstand me. I wouldn’t disrespect you by asking you to go in the tank. But look, man, Avila going to take you anyway—you know it, I know it, everybody knows it. Fourteen fights, fourteen wins, fourteen knockouts, come on. See, we don’t make no money on the fight. We make money on the round. And the minute of the round.”
“No, sorry,” said Joe. He tried to move around them, but they casually blocked his way.
“Look, man, it’s money in the bank,” Morales said. “And it ain’t even like gambling; it’s a pool, man. We get bets from all over; money goes down on first minute, Round One; second minute, Round One; third minute, Round One—you know, like that. But if we know ahead of time which minute of which round you going to fall, we close the book on it, see. Don’t take any bets. We tell anybody who asks that bets were too heavy on that round and minute, so we can’t take no more action. But see, really, we never take any. There’s no payout at all. It’s beautiful, man!”
“Yeah, but it ain’t for me,” Joe said. “I’m in the fight to win, man.”
Luis and Manny laughed. Mickey Morales just shook his head in disbelief. “Come on, man, get real,” he said. “Antonio’s going to flatten you. Probably sometime in the first three rounds. You might as well make a little extra money for it.” He leaned closer, confidentially. “Danny Pitts was in for a piece.”
Joe’s lips parted in surprise.
“I ain’t shittin’ you, man,” Morales assured. “He was going to drop in the second minute of the second round. That’s the round and minute we ain’t been taking bets on.”
Joe shrugged, as if the information was of no import. “Well, that’s him, man, not me. I’m in it all the way. Sorry, man.” This time he shouldered his way past them.
“Listen,” Morales shouted after him, “jus’ think about it, okay? We’ll talk again!”
Joe started his last lap around the cemetery.
At supper a few nights later, Gladys said, “You’ll have to eat out tomorrow night. I’m going to Beverly Hills with Hass.”
Joe stopped eating. “Beverly Hills? What for?”
“He’s going to look at some vacant properties that might be suitable for a boutique restaurant.”
Joe grunted derisively. “Come on, Gladys. He ain’t going to open no restaurant in Beverly Hills. That’s just bullshit talk to impress you.”
“That’s what you think, Mr. Smart Guy,” she retorted with a smirk. “His two older brothers are coming over from Tehran in a couple of days. They’re going to finance him.”
“When did all this come about?” Joe asked, almost indignantly.
“Just in the last couple days. See, Hass had a serious falling out with his father in Iran because his father didn’t want him to come to the U.S. So Hass was kind of disowned for a while. But his two older brothers have been working on the father ever since to forgive Hass and help him succeed over here. Well, finally the father gave in. So Hass’ two brothers are coming over with a line of credit for him to open a new place, real classy, in Beverly Hills.”
“Oh.” Joe fell silent and resumed eating his salad, which was dry except for one tablespoon of olive oil. He was down to one-sixty-six, with eleven days to go before the fight. He knew he would make one-sixty easy. And the dietary supplements that Race had him taking were keeping his red blood count up, so he wasn’t losing any muscle strength, and his endurance was not affected.
After thinking about it for several minutes, Joe said, “I don’t see why you have to go to Beverly Hills with the guy. Can’t he look at places by himself?”
Gladys stiffened slightly. “He wants me to go along, Joe. I’ve been helping him with ideas and stuff.”
“What does that mean, ‘ideas and stuff’?”
“For the kind of place he wants. How it should be decorated, what color tablecloths and napkins, how the food servers should dress— ”
“Food servers?”
“Waiters, Joe.”
“Well, it seems to me you’re just wasting your time, Gladys. You won’t be working for him anyway. You can’t go all the way to Beverly Hills to work. You’d have to take two or three buses to get there, leave at four o’clock in the morning if you worked the breakfast shift.”
Gladys looked at him incredulously. “Joe, the kind of restaurant Hass is going to be opening won’t be serving breakfast. It will be open for dinner only.”
“So what are you going to all the trouble for? Even if it was closer, I don’t want you working nights.”
At that, Gladys fell silent. She began clearing the supper dishes, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with his last comment. Usually, Joe knew, when she assumed that attitude, it was because she took exception to a position of his, whatever it was, but was not prepared to argue about it just then. It always came up again later, after she’d had time to properly prepare her argument—and at that time she generally won the dispute. Now and then, when the issue was something that Joe was determined not to yield on, such as the idea she once had for Joe to become a fry cook for Hamed, he would press the matter and insist it be resolved immediately so it would not be on his mind. At those times, Joe won.
But he decided not to do that in their present disagreement, because he was pretty sure it would resolve itself without further argument when Hamed closed his cafe and moved to Beverly Hills. Gladys would be left behind, and that would be that. Tomorrow, Joe thought, he would ask Stefi, Ortega’s wife, if she knew of any waitress jobs Gladys could get in East L.A. Maybe she could get on at one of the Mexican places. Then she wouldn’t have to work for foreigners anymor
e.
The next day, as Joe was finishing his afternoon workout on the speed bag, Danny Pitts came into the gym with a cast on his right wrist. He walked over as Joe was using his teeth to pull off his training gloves.
“Hey, Joey,” he said.
“Hey, Danny. How’s the wrist?”
“Doc says it’ll be as good as new in six weeks. I heard you got my slot against Avila. I’m glad you got a slot, but I ain’t glad it’s against Avila.”
“I can prob’ly hold my own with him,” Joe said.
“In your dreams,” Danny replied. “I don’t think I could hang in with Avila, and I’m better than you.”
“In your dreams you’re better than me,” Joe scoffed. “I can kick your ass anytime, Danny.”
“Shit, you can’t kick my ass and you know it, Joey. Lonnie Green beat you in eight, unanimous, and I mashed Green in five.” “You didn’t mash dick, Danny. You beat Green on a cut eye. I took him the distance—and I fought with the flu that night.”
“Well, I ain’t gonna argue the point with you, man. Fact is, I don’t think both of us together could take Antonio Avila. They don’t call him ‘The Anvil’ for nothing, man. Sucker hits like he’s got concrete in both gloves. How much is Ortega paying you?”
“Enough, I guess. Not as much as he was paying you.”
“You want to lay your purse on Avila? I know a guy over in El Monte that’ll handle it for you.”
Joe shook his head. “I don’t bet against myself. It ain’t right.” He stepped over to a bench and opened a bottle of distilled water that was half full. In a long, continuous swallow, he drank it all, then wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his T-shirt. “Listen, Danny, I need to ask you something,” he said, looking around to make sure no one was close enough to hear. “A kid named Mickey Morales had a talk with me. He mentioned you.”
“You tell anybody about it?” Pitts asked at once, concerned. “No, man. You think I’m fucking stupid, I’d talk about something like that?”
Otto Penzler (ed) - Murder 06 - Murder on the Ropes raw Page 21