Million Dollar Baby

by F. X. Toole

  “What if she call the po-lice?”

  “So what? No witness. After I talk wit her, she give us her money because she love us.”

  “When we go after that uppity-ass Puddin Mr. Olympic?” asked Fridge, his eyes already dead at sixteen.

  “We get the boy when the time right. First we get the money. Puddin hear about that, chump’ll come to us.”

  Air Jordan staked out the Acapulco for two more days. He also took some photos of the señora’s daughters with a Polaroid camera he grabbed from a Hollywood camera shop during the riots. The pictures came out just fine.

  “I just got the call from Vegas about my featherweight, Enrique,” said Mac. “Eight rounds preliminary at the Mirage.”

  Puddin was toweling off after his workout on Wednesday afternoon. His weight had dropped to 182, and Mac didn’t want him down to 178 until a few days before his first fight in Barcelona, so he had him just work the mitts and the bags and do sit-ups.

  “Cannonball and Enrique and I’ll be driving up tomorrow morning.”

  “When you be back?”

  “Saturday afternoon. No big thing. Not Long’ll be closed, so I want you to go to Sewing Machine gym tomorrow, Friday, and Saturday. You gotta go in early, remember, because Saturday they close around one-thirty, two.”

  “They know I’m comin?”

  “I just called over there. But just a light workout, okay? Run easy in the mornings like always, then shadowbox, do the rope and sit-ups. You’re weight’s good, so we don’t have to sweat that, and so’s your wind.”

  “When you say you be back?”

  “Enrique fights Friday night, so we’ll start back about nine Saturday morning.”

  “How long it take?”

  “Six hours, give or take. Maybe a little longer because first we got to drop Enrique off in Carson.”

  “I see you Saturday night?”

  “Yeah. I been promising Cannonball a steak dinner at the Pantry.”

  “Yeah!”

  Air Jordan and his homeys had been up all night partying. At nine o’clock Saturday morning, they pistol-whipped a woman and hijacked her van in a market parking lot near Hawthorne Boulevard and Sepulveda in the South Bay. It was a part of town, going west toward the beach, that was upscale and 95 percent white, an area where new vehicles were plentiful. They struck at nine because morning traffic would be light and because Saturday cops would still be having coffee at their favorite donut shop. Once they were back in South Central, L.A. cops wouldn’t be looking for a South Bay van. They switched license plates on the spot and drove leisurely away. Air Jordan put on a blond ponytail wig.

  Fridge slouched down on a backseat. It had taken less than two minutes.

  Shareef and Emil drove Jordan’s car, a dark, nondescript ’86 Ford, taking the four guns with them in case Air Jordan and Fridge got popped. Even so, Air Jordan wouldn’t give up his cane. The two vehicles would travel by different routes and meet at a chop shop in Maywood, where they would receive five hundred dollars for their work. From there, the plan was to head to the Acapulco. But on the way, Air Jordan got hungry for breakfast—for some more crack cocaine, each little rock in its own small plastic bag. Because it was still early, it took them longer to score than they expected, but once they had lit up, they shared a small, tar-crusted glass pipe. Inhaling deeply, Air Jordan began to feel his invincible self again. So instead of driving directly to the chop shop, he decided to first go by the Acapulco, where he’d terrorize the señora, impress Fridge, and have some fun.

  Fridge jingled like a set of keys. “Bitch give us shit, I make her piss in a glass and drink it.”

  “My man.”

  Air Jordan pulled off his wig at 11:05 A.M. He parked the stolen van near the dog-leg turn on Compton Avenue, which was only a short block north of the Acapulco. He parked there to be out of the señora’s line of sight, and so he and Fridge could approach the Acapulco from the rear.

  At six o’clock that same morning, Puddin hit the street running. He’d stretched and warmed up and did his run at an easy pace, going the three miles in just under thirty minutes. Returning home, he showered, drank some grapefruit juice, and went back to bed. He woke again at nine. Air Jordan was beating a woman senseless at the time. Puddin did some homework while Willa fixed him a breakfast of hot cereal, toast with honey, and nonfat milk. He took his time, since he would be working out at Sewing Machine instead of Not Long, and finished with a crisp apple at ten-thirty. Willa was staring out the kitchen window. Her other two sons were playing catch in the driveway, but she didn’t notice them.

  “Anything wrong, Mama?”

  “What? Well, yes, there always somethin wrong. But they always somethin right, too, like us. I was thinkin about all the folks got hurt by the riots. But we so lucky havin each other we blessed by God. I was thinkin about you daddy, too, thinkin how he up there helpin us, thinkin about how proud he must be of us all, specially a you.”

  “He a good daddy, my daddy.”

  Willa turned away so her son couldn’t see the tears.

  Air Jordan and Fridge quietly moved along a side wall of the Acapulco, then swiftly toward the door. Air Jordan slowly turned the knob, but the door didn’t open. He tried again, then yanked at the door, but it was locked tight. He saw Señora Cabrera inside as she ran to the phone. He broke the door glass with the brass duck-head handle of his cane, reached in, and unlocked the door. He and Fridge stormed through, knocking the señora down as she tried to dial 911. Air Jordan ripped the phone from the wall. His wrist was bleeding from breaking the glass.

  “Bitch!, why you make me cut mysef?” he yelled into the señora’s face, causing her to wince. “Why you make me do you like this?”

  He yanked her to her feet by her braid and slapped her hard. He was whispering calmly to her as Puddin got his old bike from the garage.

  Air Jordan said, “Bitch, this what it is. We been too nice a you, protectin you Mex ass and not chargin you our regular price, understand what I’m sayin?, not stoppin in for what we earn?, but that shit all over wit now. Now you gonna pay what you owe.”

  “I no espeak Ingli.”

  “Don’t be jivin me, ho!” Air Jordan shouted. “I put a broom handle up you pussy and pull it out you mouf!”

  “I got no monies.”

  “See, you talk good as me. But you got plenty a money, so don’t try a bullshit.”

  “No monies.”

  “No? No monies? You sure?” asked Air Jordan, his words pumped with crack cocaine. “Because you don’t come up wit a hundred dollar a day, we go see you pretty little nursey daughters, know what I’m sayin? Cora and Dora whatever the fuck they name.”

  “I no espeak.”

  Air Jordan yanked the braid. “You speaky all right, bitch. So we be back tonight after you make all you money, understand what I’m sayin?, and since you lie a me about talkin Merican, we go in pick up all the money you owe us for every day this whole week. That six hundred dollar, mama, case you don’t know. Maybe we have you fry up some shrimp, too, and put out a plate a fries, drink some a you Mexicano beer.”

  “Yeah!” said Fridge. “Drink up a whole mess a Mexicano beer!”

  “Please go, for the name of God.”

  “Not so fast, mama. Startin this Monday, we be comin in every day for our hundred dollar, so git use to it.”

  “I got no money,” said Señora Cabrera, but she was thinking of how she’d poison these hijos de la chingada madre sons of the fucked mother when they came in to eat. She had the pistola under her apron, but Air Jordan was so close that she knew he’d take it from her before she could fire.

  Puddin left his house thinking to first go by the Acapulco and then head for Sewing Machine. He wore high-top white boxing shoes and dark blue sweats. On his back, in big, red block letters trimmed in white, was USA. He carried his gym bag on his handlebars.

  Air Jordan showed the señora the color Polaroids he’d taken of her daughters. They were wearing their white nurse�
��s uniforms as they were leaving the señora’s white house. The señora leaned against a table, her knees ready to fold.

  “Got no money, huh? Then you better git you some, hyuh?, because you don’t, I give Cora and Dora some babies what look like me. You want them have some babies look like me?, understand what I’m tellin you? Or maybe me and my homeboys we run a train on Cora-Dora, choo-choo!, understand what I’m sayin?”

  The señora understood, the faces of her beloved Maria and Magdalena clear in her mind, but her mouth went so dry from fear that she couldn’t answer. She hoped Air Jordan wanted to eat. She’d feed him rat poison right now. She knew she had the will to do it, she knew that, but she was so terrified for her daughters that she couldn’t translate from Spanish to English and continued to stand there dumbly.

  Air Jordan turned the handle of his duck-head cane and pulled. The shiny blade of a grooved sword slid free of the cane. He let her see twenty inches of steel, then shoved it back into the cane. He carefully placed the bill of the brass duck against her left nipple.

  “Check it out, maybe I won’t give Cora-Dora a baby,” he said. “But you don’t come up wit our money tonight and every night, maybe I just cut Cora-Dora titties off instead, hear what I’m sayin’?, have you fry up some nipple tacos.”

  “I gib you money now.”

  “See there?” Air Jordan said to Fridge. “Money talk and bullshit walk, like the man say.” He looked the señora in the eyes from up close. “Somethin else, and you better understand this most a all: you call the po-lice, huh?, you shoot off you Taco Bell mouf a them, understand?, we come back and set you and Cora-Dora on fire in you little house. You be roastin inside because we fix the iron bars on the doors so you can’t get out, hear what I’m sayin?”

  “I gib you money.”

  “Every day Say it.”

  “Ebry day. I tell no one. I gib you my money now.”

  She turned to the cash register, opened it, and began pulling bills from the drawer.

  Fridge said, “Look out,” pointing to the door.

  Puddin had just pulled up and was lowering his kickstand.

  Air Jordan turned back to the señora. “Leave the money in the drawer and close it,” he said. “Now.”

  Puddin walked in. He hadn’t pieced together the parked van and Air Jordan and was surprised. “What you want here?” he said.

  Air Jordan said, “What you doin in here this late, my brothuh? It Saturday, you suppose a be at the gym by now sweatin.”

  “What you want here?” Puddin said again.

  “Come in for McDonal, what you think?”

  The señora signaled Puddin to leave, but he ignored her.

  “You in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Puddin told Air Jordan.

  Again, the señora signaled Puddin to leave, not only for herself and her daughters, but also to protect Puddin.

  “Why you dis me, man?” said Air Jordan. “I never say you mama a ho, I never say you little brothuhs take it in the ass for a dolla and give you change.” Air Jordan smiled, having just said what he said he never said.

  Fridge chimed in. “Fuck wit Air Jordan you find you ass scatter around town like used dick sacks on Saturday night.”

  Puddin knocked him out with a straight right, then came back with a left hook and knocked out Air Jordan.

  He turned to Señora Cabrera. “They hurt you?”

  “No yet.”

  Puddin dragged both gangbangers out by their collars. He dropped Fridge on the sidewalk and dumped Air Jordan on top of him. He pulled Air Jordan’s pants and shorts down around his ankles. He went back for the cane, stuck the duck’s head in the crack of Air Jordan’s ass, and waited.

  Fridge woke first, saw Puddin, and ran north on Compton, disappearing around the dog-leg turn.

  Air Jordan woke a moment later, remained there blinking for a few groggy seconds, and then realized his pants were down. Lying on the sidewalk, he jacked his pants up. It was then he noticed Puddin standing there.

  “What the fuck you doin a me, man?”

  “I helpin you white ass get a tan, muthuhfucka.”

  Air Jordan reached for the cane, thinking to pull the sword, but thought better of it when he felt the lump on his jaw and realized that his vision wasn’t clear. He fumbled with his belt and wobbled to his feet and then followed after Fridge. Looking over his shoulder, he said, “This you last time. Remember what I say, muhfuh, remember it for the rest a you life.”

  Puddin said, “I remember you mama turnin tricks and suckin white dicks.”

  The señora stood in the doorway shaking her head. “Now things get worse,” she said under her breath. She looked over to Puddin and said, “When does Señor Mac come back?”

  “Today,” said Puddin. “Not long.”

  “No long,” repeated the señora.

  “They playin you for money again?, they say they hurt you or somethin?”

  “No,” she said. She would tell Mac everything when he got back.

  Puddin was on his bike again. Crossing Long Beach Avenue, he was halfway to Sewing Machine. East of Long Beach was all Latino. Cars in the area were driven by men in straw sombreros, the back-seats full of kids all speaking Spanish. Air Jordan was on Puddin’s mind. He wished he hadn’t lost his temper. Fighters who lose their tempers lose the fight.

  Mac checked his watch. 11:45 A.M. He’d just driven through Baker, California. He figured that Puddin was halfway through his workout. Cannonball and Enrique were both asleep, Cannonball on the passenger side of the front seat with Mac, Enrique in the back. Mac reached for his cellular phone and dialed Puddin’s number. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t disturb the kid, but Mac was still excited about Enrique’s fight, about the way Enrique had won, and wanted to tell Puddin.

  Puddin was still on the bike when his phone rang. He fished it from his equipment bag and answered. “Talk a me about long-leg girls and piles a money!”

  “It’s the old man,” said Mac.

  “Say, Pops!”

  “You in the gym?”

  “On my bike. Got a setback,” said Puddin.

  “Enrique won, beat a good fighter, knocked him out in the third!”

  “Awright!”

  “Promoter wants us back for Enrique’s first ten-round fight,” said Mac.

  “Awright, Enrique!” shouted Puddin. “Where you at?”

  “About halfway to L.A. Be back in three, maybe four hours after we take Enrique home and dump my stuff at my place. You hungry?”

  “Always hungry.”

  Mac continued. “Then we stop by Cannonball’s so he can dump his stuff. We’ll pick you up at your place around five.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  “What set you back?” asked Mac.

  “Air Jordan.”

  Mac didn’t say anything.

  “You still there?” asked Puddin.

  “Is the señora all right? Are you?”

  “Oh, yeah. But some shit go down.”

  “Yeah? What kind?”

  Puddin said, “He come in wit that hot dog punk Fridge. Did somethin to the señora, I don’t know what. And they talk some shit in my face.”

  “And?”

  “I put em bof asleep.”

  “Aw, shit. A fighter’s supposed to be cool.”

  “Talk about my mama, what I’m suppose a do?”

  Mac said, “Maybe it’s better you just go on home now and hang there all day. I’m picking you up anyway.”

  “I’m almost at Alameda.”

  “Okay,” said Mac. “But be careful.”

  “Air Jordan know better than mess wit me.”

  “Yeah, well, call me as soon as you get back home, all right?”

  “Sure,” said Puddin. “You think it all right we take my mama and my brothers a eat, too?”

  “Why not?”

  Puddin sped up, riding across the tracks on Alameda Street, which was divided for a stretch north and south of Vernon by railroad tracks. On either side of the tr
acks, traffic moved in both directions on the poorly paved roads. When a train passed through, traffic backed up and drivers cursed. Latino street vendors loved the train and did a brisk business with cursing drivers, selling chilled coconut meat, half flats of strawberries, ripe papayas, and slices of watermelon. Crossing Alameda, Puddin rode flat out the rest of the way to the gym.

  Just before noon, he swung into the driveway of the 150-by-250-foot bleached asphalt parking area going so fast that he almost collided with an exiting truck. Still at full speed, he crossed to the rear of the parking lot. He pulled up to a high chain-link fence next to the gym entrance and chained his bike to a metal pole supporting the gate. Going through the gate, he saw several Latino fighters who were already leaving, their gym bags heavy with sweated-out clothes, soaked equipment, and wet towels. They shook Puddin’s hand and wished him luck in Barcelona. It made Puddin feel good that people he didn’t know knew who he was.

  What he didn’t know was that Air Jordan and Fridge had followed him in the stolen van, had watched him chain his bike to the fence from the driveway on Vernon Avenue. Air Jordan met Fridge’s cold eyes. Both nodded. Air Jordan smiled ever so slightly. They smoked another rock as Air Jordan drove carefully to the chop shop, which was only ten minutes away. Shareef and Emil were asleep in his car as he and Fridge delivered the van and collected. When Air Jordan woke them, Shareef said, “What the fuck happen y’all face?”

  Emil said, “Shit, man, you look like you been fuckin wit a bear.”

  “That right, a big-ass Olympic bear. You ready go huntin?”

  “Do Michael Jordan fly through the air?”

  Air Jordan tucked his Walther inside his belt, Fridge did the same with a Beretta .40-caliber. The two-hundred-pounders had 357 Smith & Wesson revolvers with six-inch barrels that made the stainless steel weapons look a foot and a half long. When all four drove back to Sewing Machine in Air Jordan’s ’86 Ford, Puddin’s bike was still chained to the fence. They lit up another rock.