Felony Fists (Fight Card)

by Jack Tunney

  I looked over at Tombstone. “Cohen didn’t send that note?”

  Tombstone just smiled. “Had to see what you were made of.”

  I looked back at the chief.

  “Did you know you were up against Cohen’s men last night?” Parker asked.

  “Sure. I recognized two of them.”

  “They try to get you to back down?”

  I shrugged.

  “Why didn’t you arrest the kid they were beating on?” Parker asked.

  “What was the point?” I asked back.

  Tombstone chuckled. “He bedded him down at Bonnie Wallace’s place. Paid to put him on a bus to the same orphanage in Chicago where he grew up.”

  I felt embarrassed. “I’m going to have to talk to Bonnie about telling tall tales.”

  “If she hadn’t, you might not be here,” Parker said, bringing my attention back to him.

  “Is this for real?” I asked, hefting the detective badge.

  “As long as you do exactly what I tell you to do.”

  “What might that be?”

  The chief chuckled. “First, you’re going to be partners with the only Negro detective on the LAPD. Is that a problem?”

  I looked at Tombstone. “No, sir,” I said.

  “Then let me give you a problem. A big one. I need you to go into the ring and knock out Solomon King.”

  ROUND 5

  It took a moment of shock before the chief’s statement sunk in. When it did, it still didn’t make sense. And if it had, I might have handed him back the detective badge. I wasn’t sure I wanted it that bad.

  “Do you know what a policeman is in boxing parlance?” Parker asked me.

  “A fighter who other fighters have to get through in order to get a shot at the champ,” I said.

  “Well, you’re going to be Archie Moore’s policeman,” Parker said, referring to the current light-heavyweight champ.

  “Willy Stevenson already has the job,” I said. Stevenson was a fighter past his prime. He’d never challenge Moore for the championship, but he was a tenacious and smart fighter. Anybody wanting a shot at Moore had to beat Stevenson first.

  “Okay, then you’re going to be the fighter Solomon King has to go through to get to Stevenson. And you’re not going to let him.”

  “Why not let Stevenson handle King?”

  Tombstone weighed in. “Stevenson can’t handle King.”

  “And you think I can?” I was feeling exasperated. “I’m not even a pro. I’m an amateur middleweight. Nobody is going to let me in the ring against King. It’s ridiculous.”

  Parker gave me his hard stare. “I’ve heard about your boxing record in the navy, both official and unofficial. They say you never backed down or went down, not even when you were up against much bigger men.” He shrugged. “But if you don’t want the job . . .” He held out his hand.

  The detective badge felt hot and heavy in my fist.

  Tombstone spoke again. “You at the top weight for your class. Ten pounds of muscle will see you up to light-heavyweight.”

  Chief Parker picked up the pitch. “I’ve got people with the Boxing Commission,” he said. “Your license to fight pro comes along with the badge.”

  “I still don’t see how this gets me on a card against King,” I said.

  “One step at a time. You’ve got six weeks before you fight Trevor Haywood at the Olympic. It’s a done deal. Once you put Haywood down, you’ll fight King.”

  I shook my head. “No way King’s camp is going to be interested in fighting some guy with one pro win,” I said. “Assuming I even get past Haywood. And I’m not fighting somebody who’s going to take a dive, if that’s what you’re planning.”

  “Haywood is on his way to Palookaville,” Tombstone said. “He’ll fight square, but you’ll get past him.”

  “Neither Stevenson’s nor Moore’s managers want their fighters to go up against King,” Chief Parker said. “Both camps have agreed not to accept a fight with King until he faces you.”

  “Okay, this is still crazy. I don’t understand the point,” I said.

  “What point?” the chief asked.

  “Why I’m fighting King in the first place?”

  “Boxing is crooked enough without letting Cohen get his claws in,” Parker said. “Cohen is a cancer on this city. I’m going to see him taken down. Every time he flexes his muscle to expand his crime empire, I’m going to be there to thwart him.”

  “You shut down King,” Tombstone said, “and there’s no way Cohen will get a championship fight for him. Then, we put pressure on Cohen’s machine everywhere else, and he be too busy to find another prospect.”

  “How about you get in the ring with King,” I said to Tombstone. I was feeling testy.

  “My momma raised me smart,” he said, showing his teeth in that grin I was already beginning to find irritating.

  “So, that’s it?” I asked the chief. “I’m a fool?”

  “You’re my fool,” Chief Parker said. “A blue fool. You in or out?”

  I heaved a sigh. This wasn’t how I saw myself making detective. Then I felt something inside me click. I felt suddenly strong. It had been too long since I’d actually fought for something. Nobody could possibly believe I could beat King, but it seemed both Tombstone and Chief Parker felt otherwise. What did I believe?

  I looked over at Tombstone, raising my chin at him. “Where do I get one of those fancy hats?”

  ROUND 6

  Pops was obviously delighted when he found out the details of Chief Parker’s crazy plan.

  “I finally got me a contender,” he said before rushing off to find his wife, Mama Hawk, to get her started feeding me correctly.

  I had to put on ten pounds to qualify as a light-heavyweight, but it had to be ten pounds of muscle and quick, not fat and slow.

  “Isn’t Mickey Cohen going to know this is a set up?” I asked Tombstone. It was something that had been bothering me since the beginning. “It’s going to be kind of hard to hide the fact I’m a cop.”

  “Don’t make no never-mind,” Tombstone said. “He know you a cop, but he also gonna know if he wants to get his boy a championship fight, he gonna have to go through you.”

  I shook my head, still caught off guard by it all. Yesterday, I had been fighting just because being a fighter was what I was. Today, I suddenly had a cause, a reason – a reason beyond survival, like when I was a kid, and a reason beyond simply getting to the next fight. I had a reason to win, and I was going against the odds, way against the odds – so, I felt right at home.

  Tombstone had been right, Trevor Haywood was a fighter on his way down. He was a good fighter, but not a great fighter. The fact his camp would accept a fight with me under these circumstances spoke loud and clear. They were desperate for easy targets to get him back on track.

  I couldn’t take Haywood lightly. He’d fought over twenty light-heavyweight bouts with a record of 10-8-2. Six of his ten wins had been by K.O., but it was the two losses in his last two fights that told the story. He had a stunning right cross. I’d have to be very careful not to get in front of it, but if I could put on the weight and maintain my quickness, I should be able to dance around him.

  From the gym, Tombstone took me along to Del Floria’s Clothing, a menswear store in the middle of the downtown garment district. Del Floria’s was a wholesaler, but they were known to be good to police – meaning they sold direct to cops at wholesale or below.

  Getting out of the car, I asked Tombstone about the tuft of white hair that fell like a comma over his forehead.

  “Knife wound,” he said. His voice was clipped, telling me I’d asked a too personal question – telling me we weren’t friends yet. “Hair grew back in white.”

  The tone of his response told me not to ask him how he received the knife wound. So, I simply accepted what he said and followed him through the front door of the menswear store.

  Del Floria himself was a fussy little first generation Italian. He’
d taken over the business from his father, who had immigrated from Sicily, and his grandfather before him, who had been in the rag trade back in the old country. He told me all of this within the first minute of entering the store with Tombstone.

  Del Floria might have been willing to give cops a good discount, but Tombstone clearly made him nervous. Since I really didn’t have anything of my own to go along with my new detective status, the little Italian whisked me into a couple of off the rack suits, rounding things out with shirts, shoes, ties, and socks. Even with the police discount, I made a large dent in my bank account – especially when I added in the cost of a black felt, wide-brimmed, Borsalino fedora. I was starting to feel my oats.

  Chief Parker had explained Tombstone and I were on probation with The Gangster Squad. We wouldn’t be working with the others until we successfully shut down Mickey Cohen’s plans for the fight game. We completed the job and we were in. If we didn’t, we’d still be detectives, but we wouldn’t be playing with the big boys. I bought the Borsalino on faith.

  Outside of Del Floria’s, I loaded my purchases into the back of the dark green detective sedan I’d seen Tombstone leaning against the night before. I then settled myself on the front passenger seat.

  Tombstone didn’t start the engine immediately. I looked over at him.

  “It really don’t bother you I’m driving, does it?” he asked.

  I was confused. “Why should it?”

  Tombstone shook his head and turned the key. The engine rumbled into life. “My cousin told me you were this way. Said you didn’t see coloreds like most white folks.”

  “Who’s your cousin?”

  “Calvin Arlo Washington.”

  I shook my head. “Never heard of him.”

  “He’s a big boy,” Tombstone said. “Bigger than me. He got himself into a little scrap with some Southern crackers while on shore leave in a little know-nothing bar along the Yangtze River.”

  All of a sudden, I remembered. “A Navy gob,” I said. “Didn’t quite understand how odds worked. One on twenty rarely comes out in your favor.”

  “That’s my cousin. All he wanted was a drink, but the crackers didn’t like the way the Chinese barmaid was paying attention to him.”

  “Didn’t help they were from a different ship.”

  Tombstone was cruising through the light traffic. “Calvin said you walked through the door like you was ten feet tall. Started throwing sailors off him like they was kids on a playground.”

  “They were drunk and mean. I was sober and mean. That and a stout truncheon was all I needed.”

  Tombstone nodded. “Calvin said you didn’t stop with the crackers.”

  I smiled at the memory. “Nope. Calvin was drunk and mean too. He squared off on me.”

  “And you took him down . . .”

  “Like chopping down a redwood.”

  “He also told me he woke up the next morning in his rack instead of the brig. Heard later the crackers weren’t so lucky.”

  “His ship was leaving. Also, he didn’t start the fight.”

  “But he was Negro.”

  I looked at Tombstone. “Is that what this is about?” I’d figured this was coming. Somehow it always did in one form or another. “I don’t care what color you are. You do your job, you cover my back, and I’ll do the same for you. I got enough problems right now fighting Haywood, let alone Solomon King. If you have a problem with my lily white skin then grow up, and get over it.”

  Tombstone laughed. It was a full-throated sound, rich and deep. “You is too much. I hope your fists be as fast as your mouth.”

  “I’m serious,” I said. “Are you in my corner on this or not? Are you going to be my partner or not?”

  Every cop knew there was a difference between partners and just some cop with whom you were assigned to work. Partners went deeper, as deep as the bone and beyond.

  Sometimes, cop partnerships built over time and shared experiences. Sometimes, they happened instantaneously – a manly version of love at first sight. A partner was somebody you would lay your life down for without even thinking about it because you knew, without question, he would do the same for you. Partners were bonded. It was deeper than marriage. You either had it with the guy you worked with or you didn’t.

  I wasn’t stupid. I knew somebody like Tombstone faced racism every day. But I’d faced it too. Every day of growing up there was somebody who hated Mickey and me because our last name was Irish. The Polish kids hated us. The Jewish kids hated us. Even other Irish kids hated us. And I hated them.

  Father Tim beat that hate out of me and out of Mickey. He didn’t beat it out of us with a stick or a belt. He beat it out of us in the ring. He taught us being a man had nothing to do with the color of your skin or in what country your family originated.

  Being a man had to do with standing up when you got knocked down, with always doing what you said you were going to do, and with fighting fair – never cheating, never taking what wasn’t yours, and never, never, backing down from a challenge.

  Tombstone pulled the car over to the curb and put on the parking brake. He turned in his seat to look at me. His face was a carved ebony mask.

  “I’ve never trusted a white man in my life.”

  “Seems you trust the chief,” I said.

  “Only so far,” Tombstone said. “He is stirring the pot by promoting me, but at least he’s honest about it.”

  “So what’s it going to take?”

  Tombstone stuck out his hand. I looked at it for a second. It was a huge mitt. I put my own hand into it. Tombstone’s grip was firm, not crushing, he wasn’t out to prove anything.

  “Partners,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

  “Partners,” I said.

  ROUND 7

  After four weeks of hard training, I was getting into a rhythm – up at six and out the door for six miles of roadwork. Then a full breakfast at Mama Hawk’s table. She found ways to load calories into fruits, cheeses, eggs, and rare meat like nobody’s business.

  While breakfast settled, I talked strategy with Pops, who’d dug up some raw films of Trevor Haywood in action. Some fight venues had recently started filming bouts. Somehow, Pops had managed to get himself access.

  In the late morning, I started in on one of Pops’ specially designed workouts – everything was about keeping me fast. He had me on the speed back and the dodge bag, but also working my abdominals – no lifting weights, but loads of isometric exercises. After lunch, I’d work up a sweat again on the heavy bag and then into the ring to spar with Donovan Hawks, Pops’ eldest son – a heavyweight Golden Gloves contender and Olympic team hopeful.

  At twenty-one, Donovan was strong and cocky, a lot like Billy Two-Shoes only more experienced. When I was sparring with Donovan, I always got the feeling he felt he was the better man – that it should be him going in the ring against Haywood for a shot at Solomon King.

  The fight with Haywood was only two weeks away and I was still five pounds underweight. Mama Hawks cooking wasn’t to blame, I was just working so hard I was burning all the fuel she put into me. Pops wasn’t about to let me ease off until a few days before the bout, but he assured me he had a plan to help me make weight.

  Chief Parker had been as good as his word. The Boxing Commission had come through with my license and Willie Stevenson’s and Archie Moore’s camps were stonewalling Cohen when it came to scheduling a match with Solomon King. Cohen was supposedly fit to be tied, but there was nothing he could legally do at this juncture.

  The chief also made it clear he didn’t want me or Tombstone doing other police work on the street unless it pertained to the fight with Solomon King, or was connected in some way. It made my training a priority, and Tombstone was always there with Pops to help out.

  That morning, Pops had me on the heavy bag early. I was working intervals – forty seconds of punching, twenty seconds of rest, and back to punching again. With his jacket off, tie lowered, and sleeves rolled up, Tombstone
was leaning in to steady the bag. He was always around, watching, helping, supporting. If he resented taking a backseat to my fighting, he didn’t show it.

  “Make it pop!” Pops said.

  “I am making it pop,” I said, hitting the bag with a hard left.

  Pops pushed me out of the way. “I said make it pop, not flop.”

  Pops shot out a right jab from the middle of his squat body and the bag popped! Tombstone was forced to take a step backward to keep control of the heavy bag.

  “How long is it gonna be before you learn? You’re still hitting from your shoulders,” Pops said turning to me with frustration on his face. “That’s good enough for drunks and pugs, but you’re getting into the ring with a heavyweight contender.”

  Pops maneuvered me back in front of the bag. He put his hand on my right hip and another on my right shoulder, as he’d done a hundred times before.

  “Slowly throw your right,” he said.

  I threw the punch.

  “Slowly!” Pops yelled.

  I threw the right in slow motion. As I did so, Pops pushed my shoulder and twisted my hip into the punch.

  I almost fell over my own feet. Tombstone wasn’t helping things. He didn’t laugh, but he did give up one of those wide, full-toothed, irritating grins of his.