Fabio returned the smile, shrugged, lifted both hands palms up. “Such things have been known to happen.”
Aldo shook his head. “You put too much confidence in money, Fabio. Too many things can go wrong. The Angel could slip and fall. He could have a heart attack after the first punch. He could, himself, have an 'investor' who would guarantee a win for Zuccala.”
Fabio shrugged again and waved a dismissive hand as they got up to take their turns.
***
Roberto was sure that if he could talk to Olivia again, they could work out a compromise. Perhaps she would withdraw her threat if he guaranteed this would be his last fight.
Still looking angry, she said, “Alright, I'll listen—this once.”
Roberto was surprised and overjoyed at how quickly she had come to even that much of a compromise. Over coffee, in one of Barzini's booths after her shift, he broached his proposal. Before he could say more than a few words, she interrupted him.
“How good do you think you are as a painter, Berto?”
He gave the question serious thought before answering. “I know where I want to go. I think I can get there. I know I want to try my best.”
“How good do you think you are as boxer?'
Roberto broke into a smile. “I'm very good. I know what I can do. I'm sure I could be middleweight champion. In fact, the promoter promised me if I win this fight, he'll match me with the third in line from the champion. If I win that match, I'll take on the champion. No other fighter has moved up that fast.” The smile faded as he spoke, knowing that he would never have the chance to test his abilities against the best.
“You think you can beat the Angel?”
“I know I can. Easily. I've watched him. He's old, almost thirty-five. He's slow. And his reflexes are not what they used to be. He drops his guard when he jabs with his left. I could finish him with one blow.”
“You're sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Does anyone else believe that?”
The smile came back. “I've heard that the odds are ten-to-one in my favor. I guess some people must share my views.”
Olivia paused for a moment before answering. Looking thoughtful she said, “I believe you. If I let you fight this one fight, and if you swear on your honor that you will never enter the ring again after that, I will marry you just as soon as we have enough money to rent a small apartment—even if it's just one room.”
Roberto was overjoyed. There had been no argument. This was a greater victory than any he could aspire to in the ring. It was exactly what he had come to the restaurant to plead for.
“But I am asking one more thing of you, Berto.”
What she asked threw him into a turmoil. It was impossible. Olivia made it plain, however, that it had to be. When he finally agreed, and just before they parted, she kissed him. The kiss was like none that had gone before. It was filled with a passion promising far, far more. Roberto knew he would walk through fire for her. He also knew that his promise to her could result in something far worse than walking through fire.
***
“You waited too long, Aldo,” Fabio said, as they sat over their glasses of red wine at Terzi's Cafe.
“Waited too long for what?”
“To bet. The odds against the Angel have shrunk to two-to-one. The bets you make now are worth much less than a week ago.”
Aldo shrugged. “Why are the odds going down? Is there growing confidence in the Angel?”
Fabio laughed and shook his head. “No, it's my investment, and believe me it is a large one, that has teased out the gamblers and driven down the odds, but I stopped betting at eight-to-one.”
“Two-to-one are still good odds for what you consider a certainty. Wouldn't that be a good investment, too?”
“Ah, but I am now betting on something that is even more of a certainty. It would have been a certainty, even without my investment. Are you sure you wouldn't care to join?”
Aldo continued to look skeptical.
Fabio went on, “Some idiots are betting that Zuccala will knock out the Angel in the first round. Can you believe that there are people who are that foolish? I feel almost ashamed taking their money. But every professional gambler is taking it, and so am I. A fortune will change hands after this fight.” He raised his glass. “Let us drink to the fools of this world.”
Aldo raised his glass and said, “Yes, I am willing to drink to them—every one of them.”
***
Roberto lost all doubt as he entered the ring. He no longer cared. Looking around, he saw Olivia, who had come to the fight as she said she would. Seeming even smaller sitting out there in the midst of burly fans, and half-hidden by the large package she held, her eyes and smile gave him all the encouragement he needed.
***
Because of all the anticipation, Fabio was annoyed and disappointed when he came down with the flu on the day of the bout. Aldo volunteered to join him, and sat by his bedside as the fight announcer on the radio droned on. Ordinarily, only the heavyweight match would have been broadcast, but interest in the Zuccala-Angeli encounter prompted the station to include live coverage of that fight as well.
Fabio, though weakened by his fever, managed a grin, “Third round. Angeli will jab him with a left and knock him out with a right hook.”
The bell sounded, the announcer broke in. “Zuccala is out first. Angeli throws a left. Zuccala jabs with a left, throws a right hook smack on Angeli's jaw. Angeli is down! The referee is counting. Three! Angeli is flat on his back. Five! Six! He's motionless. He'll never get up in time. Nine! Ten! The crowd is roaring. I've NEVER seen anything like this!!!! Believe me folks the next middleweight champion of the world is right here in the ring tonight.”
***
The feeling he was in a dream began in the dressing room as his second unlaced his gloves, though there had been hints of the dream even as the reporters and well wishers surged around him on the way out of the ring and up the aisle. But it was Olivia who cast a spell around him. “All right, Berto,” she said, reaching into the package she was carrying. “Put these clothes on, right away. Right over your trunks. There's no time to waste.”
Roberto hesitated. The second grinned. “Go ahead, Roberto. I think the little lady has some big plans for you tonight. I'll get you out the back and tell the reporters to go screw themselves.”
As they rushed out through the auditorium's back halls, Roberto was torn between asking questions and trying to tell Olivia something of utmost importance.
“Shush, Berto. Wait until we're in the taxi, and then I'll explain everything.”
A taxi was waiting. As soon as they'd pulled away from the curb, Roberto managed to say, “I didn't tell you Olivia, but I was supposed to throw that fight. I'm a marked man.”
“I know, Berto. And that's why we're going away. The Normandie has a night departure tonight, and we have a cabin on it. Uncle Aldo is paying for it. He says a large investment he made came through today and that this is the least he can do for his only niece. And he's also going to pay for you to go to the best art school in Paris.”
Roberto tried halfheartedly to shake himself awake. “What about passports?”
Olivia smiled. “Uncle Aldo took care of that.”
“But the cabin. Are we going to share it?” This had to be a dream.
Olivia's smile broadened. “Uncle Aldo took care of that, too. The captain of the Normandie told him there was a priest on board who is scheduled to marry us as soon as we're at sea.”
The most dreamlike part came after they stepped out of the taxi. The driver pulled out the two small suitcases. Olivia gave him a whole dollar and told him to keep the change.
____________________
MATCHMAKER
“Just what in the world did you do in college?” Chuck Willard asked.
Martin Sullivan gave a wry grin. “I was a grade grubber. I really didn’t have much time for dates. All I could think of was the degree. Graduate school was even wo
rse. I had a reputation for being a brilliant student. Actually, I had to work my tail off, and I didn’t have time for anything else.”
Chuck was a senior engineer in the Engineering Department and had been an enormous help to Martin during the six months he’d been working for the city. They had soon become friends, and Chuck had him out to the Willard home several times. It was probably those visits, which did more than anything else to convince Martin he was missing out on an important part of life.
Chuck and Louise had a comfortable home, two bright young children, and an obviously happy relationship. That was what Martin had decided he wanted once he had settled down securely, in what promised to be a satisfying job.
“Why not a singles club?” Chuck asked.
“I’ve tried that. But everyone seems too eager. I don’t know. The atmosphere is just unpleasant.”
“What about all those matchmaking clubs on the Internet?”
“I’ve tried those too, but after hearing about all the scams going on and being bombarded with porno ads, I thought better of it. What I really want to do is to meet someone special in an ordinary way. In a cafeteria line, for example. I’d even try a church group if I thought it would work, but I’m afraid I’m not very religious, and there’s no point in starting off with someone who has different values.”
Chuck laughed. “What about at work?”
“Aw, c’mon. There are three women in the office. You know that, and all three are happily married, or at least happily living with someone.”
“I tell you what. Just walk down the street and through the park with a dog on a leash. That’s always an opening gambit. You’ll be amazed at how many people will stop and talk to you or want to pet the dog. A certain percentage of them will be women.”
“I don’t like dogs. Actually I’m kind of afraid of them. I was bitten when I was six, and I keep remembering that whenever I’m around a dog.”
“Even around Sam?”
Sam was the Willard family’s dog, a golden retriever. Less a dog than an occasionally perambulating piece of furniture, Sam’s idea of high excitement was to look for a place to lie down. Since one spot seemed about as satisfactory as another, he managed to simply occupy space. Maulings by the two grade-schoolers were treated not with resignation but merely with indifference. It was difficult to envision Sam showing much interest in anything other then rest and food, with the former engaging the major portion of his time and energy.
“Yeah. I don’t mind Sam. Actually, I don’t really notice him except when I trip over him.”
“No problem, then. Try him out on Saturday. I’m taking the family to the beach, so you can have him all day. The exercise will do him good, and you can just leave him in the yard if you’re through with him before we get back.”
Martin couldn’t remember ever holding onto a dog leash before. The experience turned out to be rather enjoyable, since Sam was as tractable as a pull toy. An occasional rare stop to sniff a post, a lifted leg at one or two fire hydrants, and only the most cursory inspection of the few other dogs being paraded through the park that morning were the sole interruptions to what Martin now began to feel was a pleasant, if so far unproductive, stroll.
A homeless man started to shuffle by, caught sight of Sam, commented, “You got a nice dog there,” and then wandered off. Two young children, over the protests of their mother, swooped down on Sam, who treated them with the same unconcern he showed his own family. They soon tired of him and moved on.
One likely prospect came by, glanced at Sam, made brief eye contact with Martin, then sped by. Martin convinced himself that she was in a hurry to get someplace, was very likely married, and probably preferred cats to dogs.
After one leisurely circuit of the park, Martin sat down on a bench along the footpath, having decided to give his companion a break from his strenuous efforts. Sam settled down on the ground almost immediately, and Martin dropped the leash—which had probably only been needed to keep Sam from lying down anywhere and everywhere.
The morning was cool and pleasant. A delightful spring day. Martin must have been daydreaming, because the low growl made only the barest impression on him. When he did become fully aware of it, he still couldn’t quite believe the sound was coming from Sam. Looking in the direction in which Sam was glaring, he immediately saw a slim, attractive blonde woman approaching along the path. Only then did he realize she too had a dog in tow. Only this dog was no Sam.
Some mixed breed, of which Doberman was a major ingredient, the creature clearly resembled the dog that had torn flesh from the leg of the six-year old Martin. And he felt certain the animal’s bared teeth and manic look were as much directed at him as at his canine companion. Sam, immediately taking up the challenge, jumped up and launched himself at the other dog who tore loose and met him half way.
The dog’s mistress screamed. Martin tried unsuccessfully at first to grab Sam’s leash, all the time frantically yelling, “Sam! Stop it, Sam! Stop it!” The other dog walker joined in with ineffective tugs at the leash she’d managed to retrieve and her own futile commands: “Down, Cookie! Down!”
Only the intervention of onlookers finally managed to pull the dogs apart, but not before Sam had sunk his teeth into his opponent’s shoulder and neck and after Cookie’s mistress had become tangled in the leash and fallen to the ground.
Martin’s first and fleeting impulse was to simply run, with or without Sam. But civility and civilization were stronger than the impulse. After finally securing the enraged and wildly lunging Sam to the park bench, he joined the crowd now gathering around the two victims of the fracas. As he’d expected, the woman was furious over what she considered an unprovoked attack on her dog. Fortunately for all concerned, a burly male was now restraining the now bloody Cookie with an iron grip on his collar.
“My God,” the woman was saying. “Look what your dog did to Cookie.”
While Martin felt that Cookie had gotten exactly what he deserved, he also recognized that the rules of engagement for humans had little application to dogs. Had they been two children, the question would have immediately focused on who had hit whom first. But with dogs, there was no point in trying to determine who the aggressor had been. The only fair thing was for Martin to take on full responsibility for the wounded. He still found it difficult to understand how anyone could be so affected about anything happening to a dog, especially one possessing Cookie’s obviously murderous nature. But the woman was clearly very upset and very concerned about the creature.
Martin would have volunteered to take Cookie to the vet, under suitable and close supervision of course, but the diminishment in the flow of blood indicated that death was not imminent. Christine Trotter—an exchange of cards had followed Martin’s acceptance of total responsibility for the damage done to Cookie—indicated she would drive Cookie off for treatment, and Martin agreed to pay the vet. He would have agreed to practically anything by now in order to get Sam home and retreat to a lonelier but far more peaceful existence.
The return was uneventful, since Sam showed as little interest in his surroundings on the trip home as he had on most of his jaunt through the park. With relief, Martin swung open the gate to the Willard’s yard and released Sam, who promptly stretched out in the path.
It was during the noon news that the phone rang. Christine was reporting back from the vet’s. Despite appearances, damage had been minimal. Martin was relieved to hear that the bill came to only forty dollars, having prepared himself to find out that Cookie would need major surgery and a week’s rest and recuperation at the vet’s. Christine told him she would send him the bill. But Martin, feeling it was only fair to save her this additional inconvenience, and by now having decided that Sam probably had been the aggressor, asked to meet her at a nearby café for coffee.
Initially, the best part of this second encounter with Christine was Cookie’s absence, but as coffee burgeoned into lunch, Martin found himself caught up with his companion. The conversation s
hifted very swiftly from Cookie’s medical condition to other topics.
Occupation? Insurance adjuster. Martin had only the dimmest notion concerning what insurance adjusting entailed, but was also aware that “civil engineer” probably meant even less to Christine. Soon they were talking about common interests. They skirted around politics and found that neither was much concerned, committing themselves to performing their civic duties entirely at the ballot box. Neither had either religious fervor or religious preferences. Mutual addictions consisted of black coffee and TV-quiz shows. The hour was a pleasant one. Vague promises of keeping in touch were made.
Monday morning at work, Chuck came by Martin’s office for a report on his adventures with Sam. Martin soon made it clear that the experiment with Sam had not been a glowing success, as he gave Chuck the details of the canine combat.
“I can’t believe it,” Chuck said, shaking his head. “Sam has never so much as growled at another dog, never mind attacked one. You sure you were walking the right dog? But look at it this way, you met someone and she looks good—no eye in the middle of her forehead or anything like that.”
Martin admitted that Christine looked very good, that she had considerable charm, that they had a series of compatible values and interests, that she probably wasn’t married, since she wasn’t wearing a ring, that he hadn’t asked her if she was because they’d just met, that she had a lot going for her. But she also had a dog whose dislike of Martin seemed matched only by Martin’s dislike for Cookie.
“She might be willing to part with the dog,” Chuck suggested.
“No way. She was really upset at what happened to that monster. In fact, she was so upset, that I’m amazed she even accepted my invitation to lunch. You can’t imagine how concerned she was about Cookie.”
“I’d be more concerned about someone who would give their Doberman a name like Cookie. But don’t give up. Give her a call. Maybe the dog will die of a heart attack.”
Martin looked glum. “I doubt he’s very old. He looks healthy as a horse… and about as big.”
Dear Diary, I'm In Love Page 21