Ultimate Sports

by Donald R. Gallo

  “And this was the first time you ever went with Eddie to collect?”

  “Uh… no. I done it before.”

  “And Eddie paid you, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Then let’s get things straight, boy. You were strong-arming for a loan shark when this ’something’ happened.”

  “I wouldn’t put it that way,” Randy said.

  Harlow smiled. “I can think of a half dozen judges and DAs who would. But go on with your story.”

  “When me and Eddie found the guy, I had to run him down. He was taking off on us. I knocked him down on the sidewalk, right off Ralph Avenue and Jefferson Street.

  “All of a sudden, the dude pulls out a piece and starts shooting. I didn’t know Eddie had a gun, too. Before I know it, there’s bullets flying all over. I got out of there, fast. I took in a movie over on Broadway.” He reached over to his jacket and took out a ticket stub.

  “Figuring that if anyone came looking for you, you’d say you were at the movie all along?” Harlow asked.

  Randy nodded. “When I got back to my street, there was talk already. Eddie was dead. The other guy was in the hospital in bad shape. But word on the street was that he’s saying Eddie shot at him first. And the cops are looking for me.”

  “I’m not a bit surprised. But what brought you out here to me, Randy?”

  “Well, Mamma always talks about how you were in trouble once. That you did time, upstate. I thought maybe you, knowing about these things, could tell me what to do.”

  Harlow shook his head. “Francie always had a mouth on her. Did she ever tell you what I was in for?”

  “No.”

  “I was in for being stupid, that’s what for. I did six years out of eighteen for manslaughter. I killed a man with these.” Harlow held up two knotted fists. “Some fool got wise with my woman one night at a restaurant. He swung at me when I told him to buzz off. I punched him out. But he hit his head on a table when he fell. He died.”

  “Then it wasn’t your fault,” Randy said.

  “Oh, but it was. I was a pro—a boxer. To the law, my hands were deadly weapons. And it was my fault, too. I could have talked my way out of it. But a hot temper runs in the Fuller family. Your daddy had it too. It could have made him great in the ring. But it’s no good if you can’t control it outside the ring. That’s what happened to me.”

  “And you did all that time for it.”

  “Nowhere near what it could have been. After a few years, I got another lawyer and a new trial. When I came out, I was an ex-con. I lost my license to fight. It was hard to stay straight. Then I started in training young fighters that I thought looked good—kids who could be champs. I’ve done okay. I get respect as a businessman these days. But I still haven’t found my champ—that kid who can make it all the way to the top.”

  “So you never were a real criminal, were you?”

  “Sorry to let you down, Randy. I was stupid and made a bad mistake. I paid for it, too. Even one day in a cage would be too much. I did over two thousand days. Most hotheaded kids never know what it’s like inside—until it’s too late.”

  Harlow got up from his chair. “Now, what am I going to do with you, kid?” He saw the look on Randy’s face. “Don’t worry—I ain’t going to turn you in. But it’s a matter of time before the police start checking out the whole family. They will come here, sooner or later.”

  “If I can stay a few days…,” Randy began.

  “Are you hungry, kid?” Harlow asked. “Did you eat at all today?”

  “Not since breakfast.”

  “You go on into the kitchen. Help yourself to what’s in the freezer. You know how to run a microwave?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Get yourself something, then. I have to go down to the basement and set up a place for you to sleep.”

  “In the basement?”

  “Can’t have you up here. I got a finished basement down there, though. I got a door that locks from the outside. If anyone checked, they could see no one’s using my other bedroom. I’m gone in the daytime, at my gym on Jamaica Avenue. Emile keeps people away from the place while I’m out.”

  “He’s some kind of dog.”

  “Ain’t he ever? I named him for Emile Griffith. That’s what Emile looked like when he was welterweight champ. All muscle, steel wires, and teeth. Now, you get something to eat while I go downstairs.”

  A half hour later, Randy followed his uncle down the basement stairs. Harlow swung open a door to a large, wood-paneled room. There was a mattress in one corner. A heavy bag hung from a chain in the center of the room, and a light speed bag was in the far corner. On the walls were bright, shiny weights for bodybuilding. Between two paneled doors was a rowing machine. The only light came from a bare bulb that hung from the low ceiling.

  “Okay, kid,” Harlow said. “It ain’t much, but it’s going to be your home for a time. You can’t keep the light on at night—people could see it through the basement windows.” He waved at the barred windows set high in the walls. “Once the sun comes up, you’ll have light enough down here.”

  “But what will I do down here?” Randy protested. “There’s no radio, no TV—”

  “What do you think you’d have in jail, boy?” snapped Harlow. “You want to do something, hit the speed bag or the heavy bag. There’s a pair of workout gloves in that closet and some sweats that should fit you. They’re mine. There’s a little John behind that other door. I’ll bring you a toothbrush and some shaving stuff when I get back from work tomorrow. Now I have to get some sleep.”

  Harlow closed the door and shut off the light switch alongside it. “But this is like jail!” Randy protested from behind the door.

  “You don’t know what jail is,” Harlow said. “You got your own health club in there, kid. Use it.”

  He went upstairs, brushed his teeth, and went to bed. As he turned out the light, he heard a slow, regular thumping sound from the basement. He smiled. “Fool kid’s hitting that heavy bag in the dark,” he thought as he drifted off. “Yeah, no doubt of it. He’s got that Fuller hot blood.”

  • • •

  Early the next morning, Randy was awakened by a rough hand on his shoulder. Without thinking, he swung hard at its owner. His large fist hit nothing but air. He opened his eyes, for a moment not remembering where he was. He saw his uncle standing over him, smiling.

  “You do wake up a bit sudden, don’t you, Randy?” Harlow said.

  “What time is it?”

  “Six o’clock. Time to be up and doing, boy!”

  “Leave me alone,” Randy grunted, rolling over. “I don’t get up at home until noon.”

  “This ain’t home, kid,” Harlow said. He grabbed at one corner of the mattress on the floor and tugged mightily. Randy rolled out onto the hard tile. The young man got to his feet with fists at the ready. Harlow laughed.

  “Come on, kid. Anytime you’re ready.”

  Randy rushed at the older man, swinging a wild, overhand right. Harlow barely moved. As the force of the blow carried Randy past him, Harlow gave the younger man a hard shove that sent him sprawling onto the floor.

  Harlow then threw the mattress over Randy. As the young man got to his hands and knees under the mattress, Harlow placed a well-aimed kick on his padded rear. Even through the mattress, he could hear Randy’s grunt of surprise and pain.

  “This is no way to treat somebody who’s brought you breakfast, Randy,” Harlow said to the form on the floor. “Aren’t you hungry?”

  “Mmmmph” came from under the mattress.

  “I guess that means yes,” the older man said. He walked to the open door and picked up a tray from the bottom step of the stairs. When he returned, Randy was sitting up in the center of the floor. Harlow set the tray before him.

  “What’s this?” Randy asked, eyeing the tray.

  “High-protein drink, high-fiber cereal, and skim milk. Some complex carbohydrates and a handful of vitamins.”

 
“This is garbage,” Randy said. “Ain’t you got any Froot Loops?”

  “You’re something else, boy,” Harlow answered. “Here you show up at my house, on the run. I take you in, give you a nice place to stay, and you try to punch me out. Then you complain about the eats. You sure got a short grip on being grateful, boy.” He pointed to the tray. “If you’re hungry, eat it. If not, I’ll be taking it with me, along with the mattress.”

  “What are you taking that for?” Randy asked. He had secretly intended to go back to sleep once his uncle had left.

  “I got it off the bed in my spare room. If anyone came by to look for you, they’d wonder where the mattress was.

  “I’m going to be gone for most of the day. When I get back, we’ll have dinner.”

  “But what will I do for lunch?”

  “That’s why I gave you such a big and healthy breakfast. Eat it, or don’t.” Harlow grinned widely as Randy began to try the cereal. He was still smiling as he locked the heavy door behind him and tugged the mattress upstairs. As he reached the top step, he heard Randy call out through the door.

  “What am I supposed to do in here all day?”

  “You could do a couple of things,” Harlow called back. “You could think on how you got yourself into this mess. And you could also do your body some good. You may look okay, but you’re slow on the punch. The only thing you could hit for sure is the floor.”

  As Harlow left the house, he could hear thumping coming from the basement. He paused outside to feed Emile before getting into his car. He patted the dog and whispered, “You take care of things around here, Emile. I think we got us a heavyweight, all right.”

  • • •

  It was growing dark when Harlow returned to his home. He was greeted by Emile. He reached into his car, took out a large paper sack, and walked into the house. He checked his answering machine, then went downstairs. As he did, he heard the rat-a-tat of the speed bag. It didn’t last long. But then it began again, after some muffled curses from Randy.

  Harlow unlocked the door to find Randy flailing away at the speed bag. “I told you that you had slow hands,” Harlow said, setting the paper sack on the floor. “Didn’t anyone show you how to use that bag right?”

  Randy turned and looked at his uncle sullenly. “Nobody ever showed me nothing. But I had to do something. I’m going crazy down here.”

  “After only one day? What do you think you’d do in a jail cell?”

  “Maybe I’d have somebody to talk to there.”

  “Maybe you would. But I’ll tell you this: In the six years I listened to jail talk and yard talk, I never heard anything worth two cents. And best you get used to being here. It may be a while before you see the outside.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “That ’dude’ you told me about. His name was Arnold Jensen—the homeboys called him Zipper, right?”

  “Yeah. How did you know?”

  “He’s in the papers, Randy. He died last night from the gunshots. Now the cops really want to talk to you.”

  Randy sat down on the floor and put his head in his hands. “What am I gonna do?” he moaned. “I told you I didn’t have nothing to do with the shooting part.”

  “I believe you. But the police might not. That’s why I bought this today.” He reached into the paper sack and took out a long yellow legal pad.

  “You’re going to write down exactly what happened. Then you’re going to sign it. After that, I’ll send it to the police.”

  Randy got to his feet. “Are you crazy? Soon as they get that, they’ll be here!”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” Harlow said. “I’ll mail it to one of the kids I used to train. He lives in Detroit. He’ll send it from there. With no return address, all the cops will have is a Detroit postmark.”

  “That’s great of you, Uncle Harlow! Now, when can I get out of this room?”

  “Hold on! First, the cops won’t stop looking until after they get this paper from Detroit, and probably not even then,” Harlow looked up at the ceiling. “In fact, they could show up here anytime. The best place for you right now is here in the basement. Now, let’s get started on getting your story on paper.”

  A half hour later, Randy crumpled up another yellow page and threw it across the room. “It’s no good!” he complained. “I can’t write this out myself.”

  “Didn’t they teach you anything in school? Or didn’t you pay attention?”

  “Didn’t see no need for school,” Randy grumbled.

  “Okay. I’ll write it down and you copy it, word for word. It’s got to be in your handwriting. It will give you something to do tomorrow.” Harlow pointed to the paper sack. UI got you a razor and shaving cream and a toothbrush. There’s some new underwear in there, too. I got extra-large. Is that right?”

  “I don’t know. Mamma buys all that.”

  Harlow roared with laughter. “Some tough guy you are. What are you? Eighteen… nineteen years old and your mamma still buys your clothes!”

  Randy jumped to his feet. “You got no call bagging on me.”

  Harlow backed off in mock fear. “Oh, please don’t hit me, Mr. Tough Guy,” he moaned. “Otherwise, I’ll have to tell your mamma!”

  With a roar of rage, Randy rushed at Harlow. The older man ducked under a roundhouse right hand and stepped lightly to one side. Then he hit Randy in the gut with a blow that caused the younger man to let out his breath in a giant whoosh! Randy fell to his hands and knees, gasping for air.

  Harlow stood over him. “Not only do you have slow hands, you got a soft belly, boy. Must be all those Froot Loops you eat. I hope I didn’t spoil your dinner with that punch. I got you something real healthy tonight.”

  “Like that breakfast?” asked Randy from the floor.

  “Much better. You be nice to me, I’ll let you have some extra wheat germ on it. And if you eat it all up, I’ll show you how to work that speed bag.”

  • • •

  The next morning when Harlow awoke, he heard the speed bag going like a machine gun. “The boy learns fast,” he thought. “If he keeps it up, it ain’t going to be so easy keeping him down there—Oops! almost forgot!”

  Harlow took a book from the shelf alongside his bed. Then he went downstairs and opened the door. Randy was at the speed bag, his hands moving just as Harlow had shown him the night before. He looked up as Harlow entered. The older man tossed the book to him.

  “What’s this?” Randy asked.

  “When you get all punched out, you could look it over,” Harlow said. “It helped me when I was in the joint.”

  Randy looked at the thin book. Painfully, he formed his lips around the words on the cover. “Yes…I…Can… R-Read.”

  • • •

  It was four days later when Harlow came running down the stairs. Randy was working out in silent fury. He barely looked up when Harlow burst into the room.

  “Quick, Randy—into the shower stall!” Harlow commanded.

  “What for? I ain’t finished working out.”

  “There’s a police car just pulled up in front. Do what I say. I’m going to open up this room. Show them the closet, too. With the John door open, I don’t think they’ll check the shower stall. Pull the curtain closed, though.” From the floor above, the doorbell began to ring. “No more time,” Harlow whispered. “Be cool, kid.”

  Harlow quickly locked the door and ran up the stairs. Randy heard voices and the heavy tread of feet above him. He remained inside the shower stall. A few moments later, he heard footsteps coming down the stairs.

  “What’s in there, Mr. Fuller?” Randy heard a strange voice saying.

  “My private workout room. I’ll show it to you.”

  “You don’t have to, sir. We have no warrant—”

  “No, I insist.” The lightbulb went on in the basement room. “No one can say I didn’t cooperate with the Police Department.”

  Randy pressed himself tightly against the wall of the shower sta
ll, hoping it would make him appear smaller. Was Uncle Harlow going crazy? Why was he bringing the cops downstairs?

  “What’s behind that door?” Randy heard the policeman say.

  “A closet,” Harlow answered. “I’ll show you.”

  “No need,” the cop said. “I’ve seen enough. Thank you for your help, Mr. Fuller. And if you do see Randy…”

  “I’ll be sure to call you.”

  The light went out again, and Randy heard the door being locked. He stood inside the stall for the longest time, shaking all over. After what seemed like years, the footsteps overhead stopped and he heard the front door close heavily. Shortly after that, he heard Harlow coming downstairs.

  “Okay, Randy,” Harlow said softly. “You can come out.” Still unsteady, Randy came out into the main room. “That was awful close, Uncle Harlow,” he said. “Why’d you bring him down here? I heard him say he didn’t have no warrant.”

  “Use your head. If I told him he couldn’t look, he’d have gone to a judge and got the papers. This way, I showed him I have nothing to hide.”

  “I guess they didn’t get that letter from Detroit yet,” Randy said.

  “Even if they did, they probably wouldn’t give up. This is a murder case. That stays on the books forever.”

  “Then what am I going to do? I can’t stay down here for the rest of my life.”

  “You won’t have to. Once things blow over a bit, we’ll get you a good lawyer. In the meantime, you got no choice but this.” Harlow looked around at the small room.

  “But I can see why you feel boxed in down here. Now that the cops won’t be back, maybe we can start you on some roadwork. You can run off some of that anger of yours.”

  “But where? Won’t someone see us?”

  “Baisley Park is four blocks from here. We’ll run early in the morning while it’s still dark.”

  “I heard about Baisley Park. That’s a dangerous place after dark.”

  Harlow laughed loudly. “You mean you’re scared? The reason people stay away from the park is they don’t want to run into someone like you! You’re the one who’s on the run from the police.

  “Besides, we’ll take Emile with us. He needs to run, too. I figure two guys our size and a dog like Emile, no one’s going to mess with us.”