It took the coppers a good forty-five minutes to arrive. The uniforms came first, to make sure it was bona fide. The Evidence techs would be dispatched, the officer told us, but he wasn’t sure just when they’d get here. I tried to glance surreptitiously at my watch, but I felt Laurie squeeze my arm.
“I know you have to go. I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?”
She nodded. “Thanks for everything, Ron.”
“You aren’t still planning on staying here to night, are you?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Well,” I said, trying not to alarm her. “The place is a mess. Where will you sleep?” I hesitated to tell her that my place had been burglarized in similar fashion a week prior. But in this one I’d checked both doors and found no signs of forced entry. That meant that the guy had to either be a human cockroach, or that he had a key.
“Oh, I’ll manage,” she said. “I can clear a place in the bedroom. I’ve even slept on a floor or two in my time,” she added with a smile. “Now go to your fight.”
“Okay, but call me later. You have the number?”
“I’ve got it written down.” She got her address book from her purse and read it off to me. “And I’ve got your beeper number here too.”
“Great. I’m not that far away to night, so if there’s any problems, anything, you beep me right away, okay?”
“Okay,” she said, holding up three fingers in a mock salute. “Girl Scout’s honor.” I left her there and trotted down the stairs. Against my better judgment, I stopped in and told old Mr. Turner about the burglary.
“Yeah, figured as much,” he said. “Saw the cop car pull up. I try to keep an eye out, but hell, it’s hard.”
“Well, Paula’s cousin’s staying up there,” I said. “I’d appreciate it if you’d kind of keep a special watch on her.”
“Hell, sonny, I ain’t no security guard,” he said, his lower lip curling down tremulously.
I thought of a bunch of smart replies, but held my tongue. It would serve no purpose to piss the guy off. Instead I just nodded politely and left. When I got outside, the cold wind hit me like a stiff body punch. I zipped up my coat and rolled my stocking cap down over my ears as I made a quick run to the alley where I’d left the truck. When I finally got there I found a parking ticket stuck on the windshield wiper. It was gratifying to know that, even in this subzero cold, an eagle-eyed civil servant had observed the egregious transgression and taken appropriate action in dedicated fashion.
The pick-up started with a quick turn of the key, but the engine seemed to moan and squeal with the cold. I shivered behind the wheel and let it warm up before I started driving. When I did pull out, I made a wide turn and drove back past Paula’s building before getting on Clark and heading north. The lights seemed to be burning brighter on the fifth floor.
CHAPTER 10
I got to the Aragon in about fifteen minutes, and pulled the truck into the big parking garage right next door. During the drive I’d been ruminating about how much I disliked this second, coincidental burglary. One thing my experience in the field had taught me is that a true coincidence usually comes around about as often as Halley’s Comet. I crossed the alley and bypassed the line standing in front at the ticket booth. Hirum, the old security guard at the door, nodded and smiled. He knew me by sight from the many times I’d worked and fought at the place. When I walked down the hall I saw Chappie pacing by the stairs. “Hey, boss,” I said. “What’s happening?”
“You seen Alley?” he asked me. Alley was his nickname for a young Russian kid Chappie was training. From his expression I could see he was worried.
“He ain’t here?”
“Nope. I asked him last night if he needed a ride, but he told me he already had one. I thought you was taking him.”
“He never said anything to me.” I glanced at my watch. It was already closing in on seven.
“Shit,” Chappie muttered. “We got forty-five minutes to show time. The first cards are already warming up. I better go find Saul and talk to him.”
Saul Bloom was the promoter and a hell of a nice guy. He’d gone the extra yard numerous times, putting on some of the kick-boxing matches as a favor to Chappie and me, even though they weren’t as big a draw as a straight boxing card. I was just about ready to tell Chappie that I could go look for Alley when I heard some kind of ruckus by the front doors. We looked over and saw Alley and a crowd of people arguing with Hirum. He was raising his radio to his mouth when Chappie and I ran over there.
“Alley, where the hell you been?” Chappie asked. The kid smiled broadly and said something in Russian to a bearded, barrel-chested guy standing next to him.
The big guy smiled, spoke back to Alley, then said to us in a deep baritone, “Ah, you are the people that Allyosha has told me about.” He extended a big hand. “I am Father Boris Dilousovich.”
“Ron Shade,” I said. “Glad to meet you.”
“And this must be Mr. Oliver,” Big Boris said. He looked to be in his fifties, his dark beard flecked with gray, but I figured that in his younger days he could have given George’s partner, Doug Percy, a run for his money.
“Alley, where the hell you been?” Chappie repeated, after shaking Boris’s hand briefly. “We got a fight in about forty minutes, maybe sooner.” Alley flashed a sheepish smile.
“Perhaps I can explain,” Boris said. “I am the minister for the Russian Orthodox church on Diversey. Allyosha wanted to light a candle for his loved ones in our homeland before the contest to night.” He grinned broadly. “You see it is Christmas.”
“Christmas was last month,” Chappie said, tugging on Alley’s sleeve. “And he don’t get warmed up, he gonna get more than coal dumped in his stockings.”
“Oh, but today is our Christmas,” Boris said, his broad smile never faltering. “Russian Orthodox Christmas.” He laughed heartily, said something in Russian that started the crowd around him laughing and singing. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Oliver.”
“Da, Chappie,” Alley said. “Merry Christmas.” He leaned forward and grabbed Chappie’s shoulders and kissed him twice, once on each cheek. Chappie jerked away and scowled.
“Cut that out, you crazy Russian,” he said. But he saw me laughing and cracked a slight grin. “What the fuck you laughing at? He probably gonna do you next.”
“Not on your life,” I said. “I was ready for him. I saw Casablanca.”
“Good,” Chappie said. “Now take him upstairs and start getting him ready. I’ll square the Red Army here with the ticketman.”
Saul always kept a stash of guest passes at the front booth in case we had any special VIPs, like reporters or friends, show up. That way we could just slip them in with no fuss. I motioned for Alley to follow me and we headed toward the long hallway. I heard someone call my name and turned to see George and Big Doug walking down the stairs.
“We got here earlier,” George said. “Been looking for you. Thanks for leaving them guest passes at the booth for us.”
“No problem,” I said. “Where’d you park?”
“In the alley,” Doug said. “We took the unmarked. In case we might want to serve a warrant later.” He chuckled. I knew that meant that they were still on the clock technically, subject to call. I introduced them to Alley and they shook hands.
“Watch him to night, guys,” I said. “You’re seeing a future champ.”
“When you fightin’ again, Ron?” Doug asked.
“Next Friday night,” I told him, trying to make it seem farther away than it was.
“For the title,” George added. “And this time nothing’s gonna stop him. I might even bet on him if the odds are right.”
“Your confidence is inspiring,” I said, grinning. “Oh, by the way, I need a favor.”
“Don’t you always?” he said. “What is it this time?”
“You still got your Chinaman in traffic division?”
“Yeah.”
“Can you get a parking tic
ket pulled for me?” His expression soured and I quickly added, “It’s for Laurie Kitter-mann.”
“Laurie?” George said. “Paula’s cousin?”
“Yeah,” I said. “She came down here to get Paula’s stuff and she got tagged by some meter maid. Poor kid’s lost. She wants to come by to see you regarding the progress of the investigation, and to thank you, too.”
“All right, god dammit,” he sighed. “Give it to me.”
“Oh, I’ll have to get it from her,” I said, wondering how I could erase the license number of his truck without him getting suspicious before I gave him the ticket. “Say, do you know that Paula’s apartment was burglarized just like my place?”
“That so?” said George.
“Well,” I said, “do you think there could be a connection?”
He frowned. “Ron, do you know how many burglaries there are in this city? They got a regular cottage industry reading the obits and then burglarizing the house during the funerals.” He paused and sighed. “So, you call it in?”
“Yeah,” I said, thinking that Paula’s obituary wouldn’t have been in the local papers. “I was just hoping you’d keep it in mind or something.”
“Sure thing,” he said. Then to Doug, “Let’s grab a couple of brewskis before things get started.”
“We gotta go upstairs to get ready. See you two ringside.”
“Knock ’em dead, kid,” Doug said, raising a ham-like fist.
Alley grinned and said, “Da.”
On the way to the locker room I reflected on how low it was of me to lie to George about the ticket, but I rationalized that the thing really was for Laurie. Sort of. I mean, I wouldn’t have parked in that alley in the first place, if I hadn’t been helping her. And anyway, I thought, that’s what friends were for, right? Besides, I knew he’d do the same to me if the positions were reversed, especially if it was still his truck.
Inside the locker room Alley changed into his protective cup and trunks and draped his robe around himself to keep warm. I let him put on his socks and shoes and lace them up so they were comfortable. Then I got out the gauze and tape and waited to start wrapping his hands.
“Need any help with that?” I heard someone say. I turned my head and saw a grizzled old face that went with the voice. It was Vic Roddy, our cut-man. Vic, who’d been around boxing his whole life, had worked the corners of some pretty big names. He’d also been Chappie’s cut-man when he’d been a contender. Since he lived in Chicago, he’d pretty much been available for us whenever we needed him.
“Far be it from me to pass up an honest buck,” he always said with a lopsided grin. “Or to see a good fight either.”
His white hair stuck out from beneath a wool stocking cap and his cheeks were still flushed from the cold wind.
“I think I can manage,” I said. “Vic, this is Alley, our fighter to night.”
“Pleased to meetcha,” Vic said.
“Da,” Alley replied.
Vic shot me a quizzical glance.
“Not too much English,” I said.
Vic nodded. “Polish?”
“Ruskie.”
Vic grunted an approval. He took off his coat and hung it in an open locker, then sat stolidly on the end of the bench while he checked his kit.
Presently Chappie came in with the officials and said Nate Ross’s cornerman would be in shortly. Chappie and Vic shook hands warmly, and Chappie thanked him for coming.
“I’m always available for you, Champ,” Vic said.
I went to the other locker room to watch Nate get taped up. The rule about having the opposing camp in to watch this part of the preparation stemmed back to a tradition from one of the great heavyweight fights of the early twentieth century. When Jack Dempsey had knocked out Jess Willard to win the heavyweight championship, Willard’s manager had cried foul, and alleged that Dempsey had put plaster of Paris powder on his taped hands, making them extra hard once his sweat moistened the tape. Willard, who suffered a terrible beating, was barely able to get up. He probably never even should have been in the ring with Dempsey in the first place, anyway. But out of that fight the regulation came, and probably for the better, too. I doubted that the Manassa Mauler had needed any extra help to pulverize the lumbering Willard, but many other unscrupulous managers had tried various games through the years in this vicious and dirty sport. Anything to help safeguard the fighters was all right in my book.
I nodded to Nate Ross as he sat on the steel table in his purple and scarlet robe. We knew each other slightly, having met at previous fights around the area. He lived in Whiting, Indiana, and worked full-time as an automobile mechanic. In the evenings he trained himself as a fighter, and he’d developed into a pretty good journeyman. Tonight’s bout was listed as a cruiserweight, which is just below the 200-pound level. I knew Alley was about 190, but Nate looked a lot heavier. A roll of fat, visible between the open lapels of his robe, looped over the top of his trunks, and he made no effort to hide it. But in shape or not, he could be one rough son of a bitch, and usually gave as good as he got. I hoped that Alley hadn’t been overmatched in his first pro fight.
After the gloves had been initialed, I went back to our locker room. Chappie was holding the focus pads for Alley, who was throwing a series of quick punches. The worst thing for a fighter to do was to enter the ring cold, which increased the susceptibility of being knocked out. Ideally, a thin layer of sweat was best as you stepped through the ropes. The ref came in and gave us the abbreviated pre fight instructions. The first fight had only gone three rounds before ending in a knockout, so we were up next. Chappie nodded and slipped Alley’s robe back over his shoulders. He still looked a little dry to me.
The trip from the locker room to the ring has been described as the longest walk in the world. And, from experience, I knew that it really was, too. Next week it’ll be my turn, I thought, as we entered the main auditorium. The sounds and smells washed over us like an incoming wave. Cigarette smoke hovered in the air, and the pervasive stench of beer and sweat seemed to be everywhere. Hundreds of indistinguishable voices buzzed in a discordant drone. Some heads turned to watch us, but most seemed oblivious. Unless you were a big name, or the main event, all you were to these people was a human punching bag, a face to get bashed in, or, as Jack London once said, a piece of meat.
We went up the ring steps and I held the ropes for Chappie, Vic, and Alley to step through. The judges were seated at the center of three of the ringsides, and the two cable TV announcers were at the fourth. A cameraman holding a camcorder on his shoulder moved deftly on the ring apron. The announcer shuffled through his cards, then began his spiel. After “Ladies and Gentlemen…” the crowd quieted. He murdered Alley’s name, introduced him as “The Mad Russian,” and then did the same for Nate Ross, whom the announcer called “The Fightin’ Mechanic.” We moved to the center of the ring, and I saw Chappie’s eyes dart to the roll of fat around Ross’s waist. The ref tightened up his instructions and Alley and Ross tapped gloves. As we stepped back to our corner, Chappie said, “Work the body,” as he smeared a tad more Vaseline over Alley’s eyebrows.
The bell sounded and Alley moved out of the corner and began circling to his left. His jab snaked out beautifully and caught Ross on the forehead. He repeated the jab several more times, then stepped inside and hooked to the belly. Ross clinched and pushed. He was using his guile to survive. The fat around his waist jiggled like Jell-O as Alley smacked his gloves to the rib cage while he waited for the ref to break them.
After the first round I figured we were out of the woods. Alley looked pretty much warmed up, and his body attack had slowed Ross visibly. Chappie gave him some water to rinse out his mouth while I massaged his shoulders, arms, and neck. I couldn’t help thinking again that next week it would be me on that stool gasping for breath between rounds.
“You doin’ great, kid,” Chappie said. “Keep jabbing your way in, then punish that body.”
Alley nodded. His face looked f
lushed from the effort as Chappie smeared on more Vaseline. The timekeeper called for “Seconds out,” and Chappie and I stepped back through the ropes. When the bell rang, Alley stood and I grabbed the stool. Alley continued to work the jab and then hook to the body. But Ross was able to tie him up when he moved inside. By the middle of the round Ross seemed to have warmed up sufficiently to start firing off counter punches that caught Alley as he tried to move in. They clinched and Ross spun Alley into the ropes, threw a combination, and tossed in an elbow at the end of his last hook. “Damn him!” Chappie yelled.
But that wasn’t the worst of it. At the end of the round Ross came in again with a looping right and hit Alley low. The ref ignored it, and Alley glanced over his shoulder as he limped back to our corner. We were in the ring in a flash, Chappie holding the kid’s trunks and protective cup away from his stomach to let him breathe easier, and me slapping the ice bag against the back of Alley’s neck. Chappie told him to stay outside and work the jab more, then look for an uppercut.
“You know, uppercut,” Chappie said, mimicking the punch. The ref strolled by and Chappie’s head whirled as he called, “Hey, ref, you gonna keep lettin’ him hit low like that?”
“It looked borderline,” the ref said.
Chappie scowled and said, “Like hell.” But at least he’d planted the seed. Maybe the ref would call the next one. The minute was up and the timekeeper called for us to vacate again. As Alley stood, I grabbed the stool and jumped off the ring apron. Alley kept shooting out the jab, and was catching Ross with an occasional hook to the body. Chappie had wanted him to coast slightly this time so he could go all out in the last round. Things were going pretty well until, with about thirty seconds left, Ross moved back against the ropes and Alley came in trying to follow up. Ross grabbed for him and they clashed heads. When the ref broke them from the clinch, a stream of blood snaked its way down Alley’s face. It looked to be over the right eye.
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