Otto Penzler (ed) - Murder 06 - Murder on the Ropes raw

by Unknown Author

  “I didn’t think so, but I hadda ask,” Pitts said. He stepped closer to Joe. “Us white fighters gotta stick together, man. Ain’t that many of us left.”

  “Mickey Morales said he had a deal with you.”

  Pitts looked down at the floor. “Yeah, I was gonna go down in the middle of the second. Not a knockout; down three times for a TKO. Then, after the fight, I could complain that one of the knockdowns was really a slip, you know, and that Avila didn’t really knock me out.” Pitts shrugged. “It seemed like a good way to pick up some extra scratch, you know? Without getting hurt.” He looked back up. “This guy hits like a fucking train wreck, man. I seen him against Derrell Carr and Julio Trejo. He broke both their jaws. He’s a killer, Joey.” Pitts quickly glanced around again. “Why don’t you make a deal with Morales?”

  “No,” Joe shook his head. “I gotta go in to win, man.” “Look,” Pitts said, “I’m gonna level with you. Morales asked me to come have a talk with you. Just to explain how it would work, with the three knockdowns and all. He wants you to come see him and have a talk, just the two of you. He lives in that new apartment building over on Floral and Carmelita, you know the one?”

  “That big orange one?”

  “Yeah. He asked me to ask you just to stop by. If he ain’t in, his girlfriend will page him for you.”

  Joe was shaking his head the whole time Pitts was talking.

  “No, that ain’t for me, Danny. Forget it.”

  “Look, man,” Pitts lowered his voice, “this kid is La Familia. He’s low level, but still connected. He ain’t just some fat punk. Joey, it is serious to mess with this guy.”

  “What serious?” Joe said, unimpressed. “The guy made me an offer. I turned it down. That’s all. It ain’t like I spit in his face, Danny.”

  “Okay, man,” Pitts said with resignation, “it’s your call. Antonio Avila is gonna mash you, man. Shit, he’s being groomed to go for a title somewhere down the line: Vargas, Trinidad, Mosley, 1 don’t know who. The guy’s a killer. If you want to take that kind of punishment for what Ortega’s paying you and not pick up nothin’ on the side, it’s your business, man.” He looked at his watch. “Listen, I gotta split. Good luck, man.”

  “Yeah. Take care of that wrist. When all this is over, maybe we can get Ortega to put you and me in together. I’ll kick your ass.” “You couldn’t kick my sister’s ass, you pussy,” Pitts said over his shoulder, walking away.

  The next afternoon, as Joe was walking up Soto Street on his way home after training, he saw Mickey Morales coming toward him. At first he did not think it was Morales, because the pudgy Latino was alone, absent the two homeboys Joe was accustomed to seeing him with. Joe tried to go past him, merely bobbing his chin in recognition but not pausing to speak. But Morales had other ideas. Casually he took Joe’s arm.

  “Hey, man, how you doing?” he said, smiling. “I was jus’ thinking about you. Got a minute?”

  “I have to make it quick,” Joe said. “I’m on my way home to eat.”

  “Tha’s cool,” said Morales. He let go of Joe’s arm and gestured toward the doorway of a vacant storefront. Joe stepped off the sidewalk with him. “I guess you didn’t make out too good with Pitts, huh? He tol’ me you didn’t want to talk to me no more.”

  “I don’t mind talking to you,” Joe said. “I just ain’t gonna buy into your proposition, is all. It’s got nothing to do with you, man. It’s the proposition I don’t like.”

  “What if I was to cut you in for a little bigger piece than Pitts was getting? I had him in for fifteen hundred; I’ll sweeten that to two grand for you.”

  “The amount of dough’s got nothing to do with it,” Joe said, shaking his head for emphasis. “I just don’t go in the tank, period.” “Look, man,” Morales said patiently, “it ain’t going in the tank. Going in the tank is throwing a fight that you could win. You got no chance of winning this fight. Fourteen guys have gone up against Avila and none of them have gone past three rounds. That’s why there’s so much betting action not only on which round you’ll go in, but which minute. But you wouldn’t be going in the tank, man. You know and I know, everybody knows you gonna lose; all’s you’re doing is controlling when you lose.”

  “I’m sorry, man, I just can’t do it.” Joe started to walk away. “Come on, man, wait a minute,” Morales urged, taking Joe’s arm again. “You really putting me on the spot, you know. We been taking bets on this fight for three weeks. We got bets covered on every minute of the first three rounds except for the second minute of the second round. If you don’t go out in the second minute of the second round, ese, I’m gon’ to lose a whole lot of money.”

  “That’s your problem,” Joe told him evenly. “I can’t help you.” He took another step, but Morales stopped him again, not with his hand this time, but with words.

  “Say, man, how’s your wife doing at that little cafe where she works? What’s it called, the Arabian Cafe?”

  Joe turned back, his expression hard and mean. “She’s doing fine. You trying to say something?”

  “Not me, man. I jus’ asked how she’s doing. I’m glad to hear she’s doing fine. I hope she keeps doing fine, man. I’m the kind of guy likes to see everybody happy.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t talk about my wife, see? She’s got nothing to do with this.”

  Morales shrugged. “Sure, man. Whatever you say.” He smiled at Joe. “Listen, we still got a few days to make a deal. You keep thinking about it, okay. We’ll talk again.”

  Morales walked away, leaving Joe in the doorway. As he watched Morales walk off down the street, Joe’s hard, mean expression morphed into a concerned frown. The words of Danny Pitts surfaced in his mind. He ain’t just some fat punk, Joey. It is serious to mess with this guy.

  At supper the next evening, Gladys asked, “You know a spic kid named Mickey?”

  Joe tensed inside. “What about him?”

  “He was in the cafe today. Him and a couple other young spic guys. They asked if I was your wife.”

  “What’d you tell them?”

  “Well now, what do you think I told them, Joe?” Gladys asked sarcastically.

  “Well, what’d they want? What’d they say?”

  Gladys shrugged. “Nothing much. Just how you were doing in training, how you were feeling, stuff like that. They each had a Pepsi, sat around a while and left. The one named Mickey said to tell you hello for him.”

  “He didn’t make no threats or nothing, did he?”

  Gladys froze, a fork halfway to her mouth. Her eyes got wide. “Threats? Why would they make threats? What’s going on, Joe? Are you mixed up in something?”

  “No, I ain’t mixed up in nothing. This guy is trying to get me to go in the tank in the second—”

  “Oh, my God! Did you report it? Did you tell Ortega so he could tell the boxing commission?”

  “No, because then they’d cancel the fight and I don’t want the fight canceled. We need the dough. Especially if you’re gonna be out of work.”

  Gladys looked down. “What if I could keep working for

  Hass?”

  “I thought he was moving to Beverly Hills?”

  “He is. We found a really nice vacant property on Olympic near Beverly Drive. It’s not in the mainstream around Rodeo or anything, but it’s perfect for a start-up place; you know, build up a clientele, build up a reputation. Hass wants me to work with him getting the place ready; you know, decorating, buying tables and linens and everything. Then he wants me to be his hostess when it opens. Greet customers, seat them, make sure service is satisfactory, that kind of thing—”

  Joe fixed her in a flat stare. “You wanna work in Beverly Hills? Nights? You’re crazy, Gladys.”

  She leaned forward eagerly. “Listen, Joe, it’s a chance to get ahead. Hass will pay me good money. Why couldn’t we find an apartment that was closer? Not in Beverly Hills, we couldn’t afford that, but someplace close by, like West Hollywood or the La Brea area—”
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br />   “Where would I train, Gladys?” he asked. “They got any gyms out there?”

  Gladys sat back and looked at him in disbelief. “How often do you think you’re going to have to train, Joe? This is your first fight in ten months. You probably won’t get another one for a year after you lose this one—”

  “Who says I’m gonna lose?”

  “Everybody says you’re going to lose. You’re not a contender anymore; you’re not even a main-eventer. Stefi says you’re a trial horse now.”

  “Stefi? When’d you talk to Stefi?”

  “She called me from the gym today. She said you told her I’d be looking for a job soon and asked if she knew of anything. She called to tell me about an opening in a chili joint over on Eastern. Strictly a blue-collar joint, six to four, no weekends.”

  “Sounds good,” Joe offered.

  “To you maybe, not to me; I told her I wasn’t interested. Anyway, getting back to you, Stefi said that Gil said that you should maybe start looking around for some other line of work. Stefi says Gil thinks you’ve got maybe two or three fights in you after this one, and then you’d be washed up. All you’ll be able to get is four-rounders with kids starting out, and someday you’ll end up punch-drunk, shining shoes on the street.”

  “That ain’t gonna happen to me, Gladys,” Joe said coldly. Pushing his unfinished salad away, he rose and pulled on an old sweater.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Going out for a walk,” he said. “I got some thinking to do.”

  On Friday, the day before the fight, when Joe was halfway through his last training session, Race weighed him and he was down to one-fifty-eight.

  “Okay,” said Race, “we got a two-pound buffer. Watch what you eat for the rest of the day.”

  “Race, you think I can take this guy?” Joe asked, wiping the sweat off his arms with a ragged towel.

  “Sure you can, boy,” Race replied offhandedly.

  “No, Race, I mean really. No bullshit. Can I take this guy?”

  Race stopped what he was doing and stared thoughtfully at Joe Bell for a moment. In Joe’s face and eyes he saw all the dreams and nightmares of every fighter he had ever known. Dreams of greatness, nightmares of failure. Taking more punches than they made dollars. A spirit strong and alive, an ego still thriving, in a body being slowly beaten to waste. And the pain, oh sweet Jesus, the pain—

  “Look, Joey,” Race said in the quietest tone Joe had ever heard him use, “I been around this here boxing game a long, long time. Two things I know. One, any fighter can beat any other fighter of equal weight on just about any given night. All it takes is one perfectly timed, perfectly placed punch, and the other guy is out of it. I’ve seen world champions beat the shit out of challengers round after round after round, then get knocked cold in the last half minute of the fight. Second thing I know is this: usually the fighter who’s younger, quicker, stronger, hungrier and meaner will win the fight. You ask me, can you take this guy? Yeah, sure. Will you? Probably not one chance in a thousand. I don’t see no perfectly timed, perfectly placed punches in your future, Joe. Wish I did— but I don’t.”

  “Do you think I can go six with him? Stay the distance?”

  Now Race frowned. Six rounds. Eighteen minutes of fighting. Antonio Avila was young, strong, hungry and mean. But he wasn’t particularly fast. Then again, neither was Joe Bell. But Joe might be just a lick faster. And Joe had a huge edge in ring experience: he had fought a hundred and ninety-four rounds in his career. Avila, because no one had ever gone past three with him, had fought thirty-nine.

  “Yeah,” Race decided, “you could take him the whole six. You’d have to run most of the time, and the spic crowd out in Indio would boo the hell out of you. You’d have to back off and take a lot of grazing shots. Do a lot of clinching and take a beating to the body. Catch a hell of a lot of power shots on your forearms and upper arms. But, yeah, 1 think you got a chance of taking him six. You gonna feel like a sixteen-wheel highway rig run over you when you done, but yeah, I think you can do it.”

  Joe smiled. “Thanks, Race.” Impulsively he hugged the old black trainer. Race immediately pushed him away.

  “Quit that, boy!” he chastised. “I don’t like no boys be hugging me!” He looked up at a big Coors Beer clock on the gym wall. It was ten past noon. “Go on next door and eat. Mixed salad, no dressing, one hard-boiled egg, nothing to drink but water. Be back in half an hour. I want us to take one more pound off, jus’ to be safe. Go on.”

  Before he left, Joe got a telephone number for Danny Pitts from Stefi, and used the gym’s pay phone to call him.

  “Danny? Joe. I want you to put a bet down for me with that guy you know in El Monte. What kind of odds can you get on me taking Avila the distance?”

  “You joking?” Pitts asked derisively.

  “No, I ain’t joking. What kind of odds?”

  “A gazillion to one, man. No way you’re gonna go six with Avila, I couldn’t go six with him, and I can kick your ass.”

  “Look, I ain’t got time to fuck with you, Pitts. You want me to take the bet someplace else?”

  “Hell no, man, not if you’re serious,” Pitts said quickly. He got a small percentage of all losing bets he brought in. “I can probably get you thirty to one. How much you laying?”

  “Three grand.”

  “Jesus, Joey! Are you sure you know what you’re doing, man? Three long ones is a lot of scratch.” Then a thought occurred to him. “Wait a minute. Is Avila in on this? Did you work something out with Morales? ’Cause if you did, man, I want in on it—”

  “Avila and Morales got nothing to do with it, Danny. This is my call. I think I can do it. Put the bet down. If I lose, come over to the gym Sunday morning when 1 get my purse and I’ll pay you off.” “Word of honor?”

  “Word of honor.”

  “Okay, you got it, man.”

  “Thanks, Danny.”

  Joe hung up, feeling good, feeling loose, strong, right, like a winner. But when he walked out of the gym to go next door, all that good feeling vanished, because waiting outside, leaning up against the building, were Mickey Morales and his two homeboys, Luis and Manny.

  “Hey, hombre,” Morales said, “I’m going to give you one more chance to make some money with us.”

  Joe stopped and faced them, keeping far enough away to give himself punching room if he needed it. “I don’t want no last chance,” he said flatly to Morales. “What I do want is for you and your girlfriends here to stay the fuck away from my wife.”

  Morales shrugged. “I was thinking of going to see her today, man. You know, jus’ to ask her to have a talk with you about this thing. Does she know you got a chance to pick up some easy money here? I mean, maybe she could reason with you—”

  “You stay the fuck away from her!” Joe closed a fist and shook it in front of him. “I mean it, Morales.”

  Morales’ eyes narrowed into a squint that made him look Asian. “You threatening me, hombre? You threatening somebody in La Familia?

  “I’m making a threat to you, punk! If my wife tells me you’re in the cafe bothering her again, I’ll come looking for you. I’ll kick your ass good. Your two girlfriends here, too.” He shook his fist at Luis and Manny. “I’ll kick all your asses! Don’t say you ain’t been warned.”

  As Joe walked away from them, Morales yelled after him, “You jus’ made a bad mistake, tough guy!”

  Without looking back, Joe gave him the finger.

  It was nearly six when Joe finished his last training session and showered and got dressed. He and Race went into Ortega’s office.

  “He weighs one-fifty-seven, boss,” Race told the gym owner. “He’s strong and sharp. Should give Avila a decent go.”

  “Okay,” Ortega said to Joe. “Be here at nine in the morning and we’ll drive out to Indio. Weigh-in’s at two. Then we’ll feed you good and get three, four pounds back on. Okay.”

  “Yeah, sure,” said Joe. He swallowed briefly. “S
ay, Gil, can you let me have a couple hundred in advance. I need to pay the rent.”

  Ortega peeled two hundred off a roll of twenties and fifties. “Here. Don’t be late tomorrow.”

  “An’ eat light tonight,” Race added. “Drink lots of water, flush yourself out.”

  “Yeah, sure. See you tomorrow.”

  Joe walked home, feeling good, feeling, as Race had said, strong and sharp. It felt good to have the excess weight off his midsection, to feel his rib cage and stomach taut and hard. He was aware of the strength in his biceps and forearms, his thighs and calves. He knew that today, if he had to, he could have flattened Morales and his two homeboys with no problem. They wouldn’t have had time to pull out their handle knives before he had decked them all. That was the difference between a professional fighter and an ordinary guy: the timing, power and ability to land telling punches. That was why a professional fighter’s fists were considered legally to be deadly weapons outside the ring. A fighter outside the ring was like an ordinary guy with a hammer or a tire iron in his hand. How you used what you had, and what you used it for, made a difference.

  When he got to his apartment building, the landlady was sweeping the front hall. “Your wife said you’d have fifty dollars for me today,” she told Joe.

  “Yeah, sure.” He gave the woman a fifty.

  “She didn’t say when she’d be back,” the woman said.

  “Huh?”

  “Your wife. She didn’t say when she’d be back. She left with three guys.”

  Joe turned cold inside. Three guys. “Uh, what—what’d they look like?”

  “I don’t know. Like Mexicans, I guess. They all look the same to me.”

  Joe hurried into their grubby little apartment. Everything looked all right. Nothing was missing, nothing out of place, nothing had changed.

  Except Gladys wasn’t there.

  An image of Mickey Morales surfaced in Joe’s mind. The words of Morales resounded in his memory. You jus’ made a bad mistake, tough guy!

  Beginning to seethe with anger, Joe dragged a canvas bag from the closet in the living room and rummaged around in it until he found a pair of old, worn training gloves, the knuckle padding flat and hard from hundreds of hours of concussion from the outside, dried sweat on the inside. Shoving them into his back pocket, he left the apartment and walked briskly down the street.