by F. X. Toole
Ernie’d thought he was afraid of Abdul, but once he saw the picture I painted for him, he sat straight up on the ring stool. At the bell, he shot out of the corner. In 56 seconds he broke Abdul’s jaw and knocked the prick into the front-row seats.
In the dressing room after the fight when we were alone, Ernie closed the door. He shook my hand.
“I know what you did for me out there. I’ll never forget it, Pops.” He hugged me to him. “Man, I owe you forever.”
“Part of my job.”
Ernie never pissed his pants again.
“I got to ask you,” he said. “Would you have done what you said?”
I shrugged. “Try me again.”
Getting so many KOs, Ernie’s in all the papers and on TV. They interviewed him about his comeback from jail and booze, made him like a lily. Everybody’s proud of him, they’re talking role model. All the attention gave Ernie confidence he needed outside the ring.
Me? I keep on punching.
Vinnie Vincenzo and his boys showed up in the gym, talking Italian like they’re in Palermo. Vincenzo’s making faces like he knows what Ernie’s doing in the ring, but I know it’s his act.
A movie star is a big thing in a gym, and everybody started sucking up. But it wasn’t no big thing between Ernie and Vincenzo. They shook hands, a little kiss on the cheek, that dago bullshit Vincenzo signed some autographs, posed for some snapshots, took off with his dead-eyed ginzos.
Right after that, Ernie hooked up steady with a redheaded German girl out of Hannover, Inge, a scholarship track athlete running the 880 for UCLA. She had blue Mongol eyes and was so clean and shiny you needed sunglasses to look at her. Her legs made your heart do the cha-cha.
I cornered her when Ernie was in the showers one day. “Is he drinking? Tell me the truth. Even if it’s a little wine.”
“No,” she said, and her eyes danced for me. “And I would know.”
Ernie had three more fights. Blew the opponents away, two KOs out of three. Newspaper and TV guys are matching him against the champ, making him the favorite because of his power. We get rated number two and four by three different sanctioning bodies. A German kid, Willyboy Wächter, KO’d some Africans and was right on our tail. But by then I figured we could beat anybody behind us or ahead of us, and I slept every night with the WBO champion in my dreams.
The champ is Ugo Lagalla out of Naples, a slick European stand-up boxer who liked to move. In between us and him, the sanctioning body let Lagalla have another payday fight with the number nine guy, and Lagalla won from his bicycle.
Then it was our turn. But there was a problem. The fight was to be in Germany, and the purse was for only $35,000. We had to sign a contract to fight a second fight for the same German promoter, in Germany, if we beat Lagalla. The opponent would be Willyboy Wächter. That’s not a problem, but Ernie’s bitching about money again. Besides, once we’re over there, we learn that the German government will automatic take 30 percent income tax off the top. That’s $10,500, or only $24,500 to split between me and Ernie. It was a detail the kraut promoter didn’t bother to tell me about until we got to Germany, and Ernie already signed the contract. It had never happened in any other country I fought in, so up front I never even thought to ask. Willyboy Wächter was on our undercard against a Dutch nobody. That set him to fight the winner of our fight. The promoter’s the guy backing Willy, and his idea was to build up Wächter, make the German public hungry for a German champ. A Pescetti-Wächter fight in Germany would be a money fight, Ernie being an American. But it was my screwup, so I told Ernie I’d only take five grand as my cut. He still ain’t happy.
“We win the title, then we got some leverage, Ernie. It’s business.”
“Business is supposed to mean money, right or wrong?”
“Ernie, when you fight the bear, they pay you to fight the bear. When you fight the bear’s sister, they pay you to fight the bear’s sister. Lagalla’s a cupcake.”
“Don’t seem right when other guys get so much and I don’t.”
Though he don’t say it, I can see that Ernie’s thinking maybe I did some kind of business on him with the promoter. I’m cleaner than a unblown whistle, but he don’t credit me for it. I was about to say screw the fight and walk out, but I think about it and decide to hang in until we beat Lagalla. Making a champ, after all, that’s the propeller in my ass.
The Lagalla fight was to be held in Leipzig, which is Wächter’s hometown. It’s 80 miles or so south of Berlin and close to Poland and Czechoslovakia. Leipzig had been part of East Germany only a few years before, and you could still see the dead spots left over. But we stayed in a new hotel behind the big post office and about a half mile from the center of the old town.
We’d brought a black sparring partner with us out of Dallas, Danyell Harris, and it was clear that the people this far east weren’t used to seeing brothers. It’s not that they were hostile, in fact people would stop us and ask if we were talking English and then try to practice talking English with us. I’d tell them we was there for the fight. That got them excited, and now they ask about Willyboy. I tell them he’s the best, and they’d walk off pumped. We got there 10 days before the fight. We had one room for Danyell, and one for me and Ernie. See, you got to sleep and eat with your fighter, you got to check his shit and the color of his piss. You got to watch how shiny his eyes’s getting and make sure he’s not in top shape too long before the fight, or he gets crazy on you and starts punching walls. You got to squash temptations of broads and food. With Ernie, you got to squash any chance of liquor.
First day we’re there, two hookers come prancing up to the room, the kind with that sulky look. Somebody is sending them, and they keep coming back every day. It ain’t easy for me to run them off, especially when I’m alone and Ernie’s watching TV down in the lobby with Danyell. I finally sent them to Danyell’s room, told them that he was Ernie. That kept them away from Ernie and got Danyell a daily double freebie on whoever is trying to drain us. Then food starts getting delivered to our door. Cakes and fruit pastries. We got 10 days and only five pounds to lose. I gave the food to the housekeepers, bitter-looking old white ladies who started to love me. Somebody is scared for Lagalla, but the housekeepers was all dancing in the halls.
And every day Ernie is working better with Danyell, always moving in, slipping shots and coming back. People in the gym never seen nothing like it.
As the fight comes close, Italian fight fans start flying into town. Trains dumped them into the depot in big crowds, and you’d see them in the old quarter. Some of them march and sing and carry red, white and green banners with Lagalla’s name and face on them. It was like being in the south of Italy at Easter, and you looked to see if maybe somebody’s carrying a statue of the Virgin with money stuck all over her outfit. Near the crowded square, I thought I saw somebody familiar, but they were gone in a blink and I decided I was wrong.
At dinnertime the day before the fight, the three of us were supposed to go down to eat, when I get a long distance call from Sophia. She talks with Ernie, and then she wants to talk to me. She keeps talking and Ernie’s waving at me he’s hungry, so I send him and Danyell to the dining room. Sophia’s all proud of her baby brother and says she’s been talking to her father. Looks like the old man is softening up about Ernie, and she chokes up. “God bless you both,” she says.
I get to the dining room and who’s at the table next to Ernie is Vincenzo’s goombahs from the gym in L.A. These are the same dead-eyes I thought I recognized in the old-town crowd. They’re with three bamalam Frenchy-looking gals out of some fashion magazine. They’re all smiles and flirty with Ernie, but I can see they been told by the goombahs to stay away from Danyell. They leave when I get there, leave half their mineral water on the table. The gooms don’t even give me a nod.
I ask Danyell to leave us alone. “Ernie, what’s the deal here?”
“Ain’t none. They said they came up from Rome. They were in here looking for rooms whe
n they saw me. I didn’t remember them.”
“I remembered them. You didn’t remember them?”
“I never talked to them before, for Chrissakes.”
“Ernie, if there’s anything you should talk to me about, you should say it now.”
“What the hell, ain’t nothin’ to say.”
The weigh-in was held at the Peugeot dealership near stretches of crumbly brick walls and ghosty railroad tracks. TV was there, flashbulbs up the ass. We hit 147 on the button, 66.8 kilos. Lagalla was 66.4 kilos, 146. The weights’re announced in German and Italian and English. The crowd applauded like they’re surprised the fighters make weight. They applaud in France same way.
Lagalla’s 26 years old and five feet 11 inches tall, to Ernie’s five-nine. Ernie by now’s almost 31. Lagalla had a slight upper body but powerful legs, which he depends on. He was pretty, like today’s movie stars, but his eyes were tired, and he made hardly no eye contact. Like I say, he was a cupcake, but the guineas in his corner were badass old-timers out to win. The fight is for the next day. That night, Inge flew in. All of us had a big meal, with German desserts and ice cream. I want Ernie to gain six, eight pounds. Before we go to sleep, I have Ernie eat again. All day long I have him drinking water, taking potassium.
I woke up early like always. I told Ernie to sleep in. I went down for breakfast alone. Danyell slept in late too. Everything is nice and smooth. I took a long walk after I ate, smoked a $18 Montecristo and then went back up to the room to check on Ernie. It’s nine o’clock by now and time to check his shit. He’s half asleep, he says he already done it.
“Let’s go eat.”
He looks sleepy when we’re downstairs and picks at his food. Eat, I tell him.
“I’m getting tired of this German food, man.”
“Let’s go get some pastry in old town. We’ll take a cab,” I said, not wanting to walk him before the fight.
Same thing in old town, except he says to excuse him while he goes to the can. I start to go with him, but it’s a one-unit stall and people looking at us are going to think the wrong thing.
Ernie was funny with his food later on, and there’s dark around his eyes, and there’s no shine to them. I weighed him in the hotel kitchen, and he’s at 146, a whole pound down.
“It’s title-fight nerves.”
“Are you drinkin’ your water?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
The fight’s at 11 o’clock that night. At five I made him eat. Thick soup and good German bread, and pasta and fish. I sat there while he swallowed, had him drink hot tea. I go up with him while he takes a nap, read some more about Leipzig. The promoter came by to check on us. I went downstairs and tell him everything is fine. He wanted to see Ernie, but I tell him Ernie’s sleeping. That gets the promoter happy. I was starting to feel good too.
When I go back to the room, it smells sour in there.
“What’s the stink?”
“One of the old broads came in to straighten up, and then she puked in the John, fuckin’ drunk.”
“But you’re okay, right?”
“In the pink.”
The arena was packed, as much to see Willyboy as us for the title. Our fight came up right after Willyboy won his, and we had to stand through three national anthems. Before that there’s the introductions of some German fighters, and then all of a sudden there’s Vinnie Vincenzo up in the ring taking bows. He’s got his face on, like he’s ready to kick both fighters’ ass at the same time, like in the movies. The crowd loves it. Before the fight, Lagalla weighed 154, gained eight pounds. Ernie was at one fuckin’ 45. Then he goes to the can again. Now he weighs less. He flushed before I could see. From the smell I can tell it’s loose.
I’m thinking he’s scared to death, was why he was shitting himself, and now I’m scared he’ll go dog on me. By now his dark circles are almost black. But when I look at him close in the eye, he’s calmer than I’d ever seen him.
So now I’m the guy with the loose ass.
Danyell helped me in the corner, not that there was that much to do. Ernie went out good in the first round, bobbing, weaving, working his way in. Went good to the body, just like the plan, and Lagalla’s backing up. Ernie’d catch and counter, slip and bang. He had Lagalla’s knees jerking up under his chin. But Lagalla’s scoring too, and Ernie’s face is turning colors, getting peachy. Then Lagalla gets off a shot. Ernie’s wobbling across the ring, but we still won the first.
At the end of the second, Ernie goes down from a body shot. The bell saves us. In the corner, I jump his ass. “What’s this shit?”
“Caught me with a good shot.”
“Lagalla ain’t got a good shot!” About the middle of the third, Ernie flat runs out of gas. His legs’re mush, his hands are down, and Lagalla’s doing a tarantella on his head. In the corner, I hit Ernie with the wet towel, with ice down his dick, with adrenaline inside his lips and up his nose, but all he can do is gasp. Only thing ain’t happened is he’s cut, but Lagalla couldn’t cut you with a razor.
Fourth round’s ham-’n’-egger time. Ernie’s tongue is hanging out, but he makes it to the bell. In the fifth, the shit happens, and it’s a disgrace. Lagalla knocks Ernie out with a chicken shit tap to the liver. It’s all in slow motion, like in a silent dream when you’re punching some unknown thing and you can’t hurt it. Cameras’s flashing, everybody’s yelling. I feel like I got no stomach.
The Italians are singing and dancing, and the Germans are raising their fists and hollering for a Willyboy fight. Lagalla and his corner came over to shake hands. Ernie’s smiling, trying to talk guinea. I look across the ring. Three rows back Vincenzo and the gooms are together. Not a smile between them, not even a smirk. Business.
I got to kill somebody.
The postfight party was at Lagalla’s hotel. I had no party in me. Ernie didn’t care if I went or not, but Inge and Danyell drag me along. Loud, lousy music, musicians who look like roadkill. Ernie is dancing with one of the three Frenchy broads, Vincenzo’s dancing with another, and Lagalla’s with number three. Inge’s not happy with what she sees. She taps me to dance.
Inge rubbed it up on me. She said, “I still do not understand how Lagalla could win.”
“Lagalla didn’t. Ernie lost.”
I left her in the middle of the dance floor and got a cab back to the hotel. I tore up our room. I figure it’s that shit, or even booze, but I’m a dummy. Hidden deep in Ernie’s gear bag is two bottles. Labels’s in English. That tells me he brought the bottles from home. A small brown bottle, ipecac. And a green one, like a soda-pop bottle, magnesium citrate. Ipecac is to make him puke. Magnesium citrate, which is like salty 7-Up, is to make him shit quick. Ernie made himself sick to make his dive look real. Hollywood.
I tore some small pieces off the labels. I stuck the bottles back where they were and put the room back the way it was. I carry stuff I left in Ernie’s room over to Danyell’s and pack my bags.
Once a fight’s over, promoters want you gone, so our driver picked us up at 6:30 for our eight o’clock flight out of Leipzig. The others had stayed up all night, checked all their luggage and slept most of the way home. We cleared customs in Dallas, and Danyell got off to see his family. Ernie ate like a horse when the stews brought the zapped food around, then crapped out again. The Dallas-Los Angeles flight was near empty, and we were able to pull up the armrests in the middle section of seats and stretch full out. I don’t sleep 30 seconds.
As we come in to land at LAX, I sat on the outside seat next to Inge, who was in the middle. Ernie was in the window seat, all of us strapped in to land. He was rested and happy, like we was the ones who won the title. I leaned across Inge, I motion to Ernie. He leans in.
“You awake?”
“Yeah, I’m awake, what the hell.”
“Then I’m just gonna tell you this once, Ernie, so listen good.”
“Yeah?”
“You gonna have to kill me, understand?”
Ernie went pale. In
ge looked at me like I just jumped out of the plane. I show Ernie pieces of the labels from the medicine bottles.
Ernie lied through his teeth. “I was bloaty from the kraut food, man, and afraid we’d have to call off the fight.”
“You don’t hear right, Peachy? You got to kill me, or I got to kill you, unerstanI’msay? And your buddy Vinnie can’t save you.”
Ernie got rabbit eyes again. I told Inge to leave us alone.
Ernie tried to get his balls back. “You don’t tell her nothin’.”
“No. You don’t tell me nothin’.”
I nodded at Inge and she went to a seat across the aisle where she can see and hear. I tell Ernie what I know.
He said, “So what? It’s my life.”
“It was our title. How much did you get? Don’t fuckin’ lie.”
He shrugged. “Seventy-five clear. In Inge-baby’s name.”
“Does Inge know this?” I looked over at her.
Inge shook her head hard, her face was mad.
“She knows now,” Ernie said. He blew a kiss at Inge and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. He held up a small black book done in morocco leather. He flashed the plastic bank card inside it.
“Banco Milano-Zurigo, Svizzera. Seventy-five Gs American.” He slipped the bank stuff back into his jacket and starts eating peanuts. “Banco Milano-Zurigo, Svizzera … that’s Bank of Milan-Zurich, Switzerland. I learned that from Nunzio. Ha.”
“Dummy shit-for-brains, why didn’t you tell me you wanted to do business? I couldda got us 200,000, maybe three. Both of us wouldda made money.”
“Naw.” Ernie talks to me like I’m nothing. “See, our contract’s almost up, you and me. Vinnie’s gonna be my new manager, bring in a Italian trainer from New York. Willyboy beats Lagalla, then I beat Willyboy for a couple of million. Then I retire a champ and go into film with Vinnie. Form our own company.”
“Ach,” said Inge. She headed up the aisle and never looked back.
I said, “Wise guy, what makes you think Vinnie won’t dump you again?”