Front Page Palooka: A Nick Moretti Mystery

by Venutolo Anthony

  Pogo was still reeling from the blood dripping down his forehead into his eyes when my uppercut knocked his mouthpiece clear out and his knee went to the canvas.

  “Nick! Stop!” Dillian shouted.

  Grenade stood up, which I knew was the bell.

  Wiping my brow clear of a small blood streak, there was just one more thing to say to Pogo. “I fought sissies in the Army tougher than you, kid. Mind your business next time.” He ignored me and tried not to hear everyone laughing at him from behind their speedbags.

  I turned to the rest of the gym and screamed, “Bring on Albino Alligator!” I heard a few chuckles from the corners. At least I’d won some over. As I hopped from the ring, I shucked the gloves, rolled down my sleeves, and buttoned my shirt.

  Approaching both Dillian and Grenade I continued, “Now . . . About that bus trip . . .”

  ROUND SIX

  The three of us sat in Grenade’s office upstairs around a circular wooden poker table older than God’s dog. It moaned every time one of us moved. I decided to get up and stroll the room to stretch my legs.

  To combat the unnatural January heatwave, the ceiling fan spun with the velocity of a twin-engine propeller. I walked over to the open window and took in the warm breeze. Well, that, and the questionable stench from Paco’s Taco’s next door, which had permeated the room. You didn’t see too many taco joints in Jersey, and I was distracted since my stomach was sucker punching me better than young Pogo downstairs.

  About an hour later, we mapped out what I called Rattlesnake’s Damage Control Tour ’54. All sorts of cities were fair game. From staples of spectacle and culture like New Orleans and Atlantic City to clandestine fight holes in Kentucky and Georgia. It was all up for grabs on the creaky table. All we had to do pick a decent handful and snatch a map.

  We weighed the boxing visibility of each city as well as the amount of potential contenders we’d find. If one of us had a contact in the city, all the better. We also had to make sure there’d be news outlets available within at least 100 miles. I told Grenade that along the way I’d be taking detailed notes on the bus and get to know the champ well enough so I could start writing the movie.

  “Where is Rattlesnake now?” I asked.

  “Where do you think?” Dillian answered. “Holed up. Studio’s orders.”

  Grenade jumped on her answer. “Pretty much everyone’s orders, actually. Mine, the blasted cops . . . Pinnacle,” Grenade said trailing off. “The boy is scared.”

  “He should be,” I added.

  This closed-door meet was starting to feel like a tête-à-tête in a heist picture Pinnacle would shoot on one of their many soundstages. “Just where in the hell is he holed up?”

  “Where else? The Roosevelt in Hollywood. Pinnacle keeps a room open there for whoever needs it.”

  I looked to Grenade. “No disrespect, but the Roosevelt is just gonna let a Negro boxer stay in one of its premium suites?”

  “He’s the most recognized man in the world, Nick,” Miss Public Relations answered. “Don’t you believe in progress?”

  “Ask Jack Johnson. He’ll tell you all about progress for black boxers in America. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  I pointed to each of the four walls in the office. “I see Rattlesnake in about 50 picture frames in this office and I’ve yet to shake this kid’s hand,” I said. “I was told he’d be here.”

  “I instructed Dillian to bring you here,” Grenade said. “I don’t much care what the studio says. If I don’t like you, you ain’t on-board.”

  I smiled a mock smile, feeling more and more like this was starting to be a waste of my time. “So, Pops . . . Do ya like me?”

  “Well, you certainly worked Pogo good. Boy needed it,” Grenade answered. “Yeah, I’d say you’re in.”

  “There’s an excuse to tip a bottle if I ever heard one,” I joked. “Dillian, whaddya say we celebrate. From the looks of this joint, there must be some white lightning in here.”

  Grenade seemed offended. “Let’s get one thing straight, kiddo, I ain’t running some boxer flophouse where any drunken pug can walk in off the street and get lit. We take our training seriously ’round here.”

  Uh-oh. I’d touched a sore spot. I back-pedaled. “Sorry, Grenade, I just figured—”

  “Figured nothing,” the old man snapped back. “Now, Dillian, get this writer outta my office and take him to Hollywood to meet the man LIFE magazine called a national institution of bonafide punching power.”

  Hat in hand, I made way for the door and respectfully waited for Dillian. As I walked out, Grenade called to me.

  “Get back here, writer!” he barked. “You forgot something.”

  As Dillian waited, I approached Grenade who opened the bottom drawer of his steel tank desk.

  “Take this for the road,” he said, smiling and handing me a cheap flask.

  Grenade pointed, almost in stitches. “I had you . . .”

  I laughed. He certainly did. “Thanks, Grenade,” I said. “We’ll put this to good use.”

  I took a sip of the hooch as Dillian and I stepped back into the sunbaked exterior of The Equinox. We made for the Olds and, heading toward Hollywood, I couldn’t help but think life would be different after meeting the most famous man in the waking world.

  * * *

  The lobby of the Roosevelt smelled like an overwhelming mix of pine and lemon. I followed as Dillian darted by the concierge counter and, as she winked toward security, we made way for the stately bank of brass elevators.

  Once inside, she instructed the operator to take us to the penthouse. Breaking the odd, always uncomfortable elevator silence, I asked, “What was that about?”

  “What?” She seemed puzzled.

  “I haven’t seen a run like that since Frank Gifford faked out the entire Eagles’ defense last November. How were we able to just breeze by hotel security?”

  Dillian smiled. “They know me here, Nick.”

  “Ah, right . . . The studio,” I reminded myself. “Say no more.”

  “Well, that, and . . .”

  I motioned for her to spit it out.

  “I live here,” she admitted.

  “Lemme get this straight. You live here and Rattlesnake has the penthouse . . . Why am I stuck at the Beverly Hills Hotel?”

  The beauty scoffed. “This is a dump compared to your digs. Are you batty?”

  The place didn’t seem so bad. “Beats many of the cold water flats I’ve rented,” I told her.

  The elevator stopped at the top level and we exited. Walking down the hallway, she continued on. “Trust me, when the studio wants to pay for a cabana suite at the Beverly Hills Hotel, ya take it.”

  “Anyway,” Dillian said, whispering as she knocked on Rattlesnake’s door, “This place is completely haunted.”

  “Really?” I said, halfway intrigued.

  She nodded. “Don’t go to the ballroom at night.”

  “I’ll make a mental note.”

  Blues blasted from inside while we cooled our heels. Eventually, Dillian kicked the door like a frustrated beat cop.

  “Open up!” she growled. My kinda broad.

  Footsteps approached and the door swung open.

  A tall, lanky young black man answered. He looked panicked and said, “I sure am sorry, Miss Dillian. We didn’t hear you.”

  “You should know better, Popcorn,” she scolded. “That’s why we pay you.”

  I sighed internally. Was I the last guy around here with a normal name?

  Dillian said nothing as she stalked into the room. “Come on in, Nick,” she instructed.

  Turtledove must’ve been off her rocker about this joint being a dump because the penthouse was the real deal. From my quick once-over, I counted three visible bedrooms, a sitting area, and space for dining. To pass the time, there was a pool table, a bar, radios everywhere, and a lush outdoor deck overlooking the Hollywood hills. Standing in its grandeur, one could feel the illicit scandals and romance
s these storied walls must have seen.

  Walking through, I waved my hands in front of me. Smoke filled the air and, as Dillian opened the window, the grouping of young men in the room sat up straight. Momma was indeed home.

  The room smelled something awful. Then it hit me, the recognizable stench could only be one thing. Call it what you want — reefer, broccoli, hash, weed or simply just grass — it filled the room. I just hoped it wasn’t going to seep into my suit.

  If we’re telling tales out of school, I’ll admit only under oath that I tried Aunt Mary back when I was serving. The high was decent, but the odor reminded me of something between feet, cheese, and cloves. And after smelling this pungent batch, it was safe to assume I’d be sticking with my whiskey from here on out.

  I counted six guys in the front room — Popcorn and five who were playing poker. There weren’t any women in the suite, but there were a number converged on the outdoor deck.

  And then I saw him.

  Jericho McNeal, the man, the myth, aka “The Rattlesnake”, was seated in the far corner, near a fireplace chatting with another young gent and sipping a goblet of wine.

  I stood back and just watched Lady Chanel do her thing as she approached him.

  “Dillian . . .” he said, not as much a greeting, but an observation.

  “Who brought in the funny cigarettes?” she asked.

  “Why? Do you want one?”

  “Is this your idea of keeping a low profile? Would you rather do it in a jail cell after hotel security comes knocking?”

  The boxer smirked. “They say the jail cells in Hollywood rank the best in the world.”

  “Hey, Jericho,” I said, walking toward him.

  The room looked at me, nervous, not exactly sure who I was.

  “You may get away with wasting her time, but now I’m on the clock, kid, and contrary to what she may think, mine is more valuable than hers.”

  I turned to Dillian. “No offense, dear, it’s just simple math.” I could tell she was fuming by the way her arms were folded, but she wasn’t going to dare stop me from reeling in this entitled punk. In fact, something told me she was subconsciously enjoying it.

  “And who are you?” he asked, smugly.

  “I’m the guy the movie studio is paying to make you look like the American Dream. I’d say I have my hands full.”

  I pointed my thumb towards the front room. “Tell the Cotton Club you’ve assembled here to beat it, we have work to do.”

  * * *

  The penthouse quickly emptied. Dillian, Rattlesnake and I sat around the fireplace while Popcorn cleaned up. I got the sense he was kind of a boy-Friday, an all-purpose kid who kept the counters clean. From what I could observe, he kept his mouth shut and pretty much stayed out of the way. That made him okay in my book.

  Rattlesnake snapped his fingers toward the kid to fill his wine goblet. I placed my palm over it. “Not yet,” I said. “And while we’re at it, can you cut this Caesar routine? What’s next? Popcorn feeds you grapes?”

  My joke went over the champ’s head. “This is me,” he answered, almost indignant. “I do what I do.”

  “That’ll look great written on your tombstone,” I said.

  “Etched in 24-karat gold,” he countered.

  “Jericho, I gotta be honest. The movie I’m writing now ends with you either getting shot by the L.A.P.D. or rotting in Alcatraz.”

  “And how is that?”

  “Who knows how much cash Pinnacle threw at the cops — who, may I say, are notoriously racist in the city — to whitewash whatever you wanna call the debacle you caused.”

  “The attack,” Dillian piped in.

  I clapped. “Here she comes to the rescue.”

  From the corner of my eye, I noticed Popcorn following our conversation. Did he know more about that night and want to talk?

  “Look around you,” I told the champ. “You don’t strike me as the kind of guy who counts his blessings. What other colored kid your age gets to live high on the hog like this?”

  “Sammy Davis, Jr.?” he snapped back.

  “I doubt it, Jericho,” I said. “Last I heard, he was entering The Sands in Vegas through the service door in the back.”

  I’ll admit the kid was starting to frustrate me. “Dillian, wanna help me out?”

  “We’re planning a bus tour for you,” she told him. “High profile across the country.”

  I nodded and added, “By the time we’re done with you, America is only gonna remember you were the youngest champion ever crowned. A phenom.”

  “Bus tour? That’s it?” he asked.

  “Not exactly. You’re eventually going to give a regular Joe a shot at your title.” I started selling it. “You’re a giver, Jericho. The Rattlesnake appreciates his belt — so much so he’s willing to lose it by giving a low-rung nobody a chance at the glory. We travel the country, you give these guys three rounds and the one you like the best gets a full bout — 15 rounds in a big city. The press is going to eat that alive.”

  Rattlesnake laughed and held up his clenched fists. “How is some bottom-ranked chump gonna beat these?”

  “They won’t,” I said. “But the fight game will be energized by the very notion.”

  I walked over to the window and stared past the bustle below and into the Hollywood hills. I couldn’t help but think living up there, in one of those grand mansions, was the real American Dream, and not the crap I was shoveling to this kid.

  This movie was my stepping stone to something better, and if I didn’t deliver, I’d probably be back on the night desk dispatching cub reporters to murder scenes. Even worse, would I return to cover the miserable sport I thought I’d left behind and couldn’t seem to escape?

  I turned to the group. “Dillian, set up the press conference.”

  I pointed to Jericho. “Pack your bags, kid. We’re going on a bus trip.”

  * * *

  It was the end of a long day and I told the driver to take me back to the studio. Instead of returning to my cabana at the Beverly Hills Hotel, I opted to stay on the lot in the bungalow. It was cozy and I loved to write cozy when the muse decided to seduce me. And, being there was a handy stash of bourbon inside, I figured I’d put a few words to paper while I fed my minor inclination. Too bad Dillian wasn’t around. I could’ve used the company.

  I turned on the desk lamp and the room glowed a soothing yellow. After a sip, I mapped out the towns I felt would be perfect for Rattlesnake’s tour. Out came the large legal pad and I figured we had to hit six major cities, at very least, in between several small locales in Jerkweed, U.S.A. I wrote down, numbering them:

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  Atlantic City, New Jersey

  Louisville, Kentucky

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  Jackson, Mississippi

  I stared at the list. It was a good start, a nice mix of urban and rural cities. But then it happened.

  I had a Eureka moment.

  It had to do with my cousin Pete “The Python” in Chicago and St. Vincent’s Asylum for Boys. It was brilliant, but I was going to keep this one close to the vest until the time was right.

  ROUND SEVEN

  There was tremendous interest in the Rattlesnake’s press conference. While any sort of press gathering with the heavyweight champion of the world would garner a healthy crowd, the fact Rattlesnake allegedly killed a guy in cold blood a week or so before elevated the event to standing room only status.

  Still, Dillian had delivered in spades. All of the newsreels were there — Universal, Hearst Metrotone, Fox Movietone, and even Paramount. She had also managed to get the TV boys to show up. Outfits for Douglas Edwards of the CBS Evening News, as well as John Cameron Swayze’s Camel News Caravan, were also on hand. It was cameras as far as the eyes could see.

  Stepping up to the microphone, Lady Chanel never looked better. Ruby red lipstick to match a stunning dress, I could tell that the press was havin
g a problem focusing. It was a pretty keen move on her part, since most of their attention should have been on what little investigation went into the whole Rattlesnake fiasco.

  Up until recently, no one knew much about the dead man in the alley except his name, Hector Fernandez. I’d originally joked that he looked like my Puerto Rican poolboy, and I wasn’t too far off, but this is where the plot thickened slightly. By day, Hector was a landscaper for Pinnacle, part of a team in charge of making the grounds pristine. That wasn’t a huge shock, since pretty much everyone in this silly sunshine state — myself included — worked for a studio in some capacity. Still, my gut felt it was a tad close to home. I felt I was missing a puzzle piece.

  Dillian told the reporters our camp would embark on an unprecedented boxing tour, criss-crossing the nation to give one hopeful in each city a shot at Rattlesnake’s title. The press perked up. This was catnip for fight fans.

  Dillian fueled the fire, telling them not only would the champ fight, but each bout would be sanctioned — not an exhibition. There was a collective intake of breath over this news.

  “A loss in Peoria, Illinois, would be an ‘L’ in Rattlesnake’s column,” Dillian said. “Simple as that.”

  Then a voice barked. “And what makes this so special? I mean, a bum is a bum is a bum . . .”

  This was Jerry Sternberg. I knew him from back home. He was a kid who had worked at a rival Newark paper, but we’d usually nod to each other at the local fights. Good writer. I can only imagine what kind of career he was going to have. Even though Jerry wasn’t yet a veteran, he obviously had instinct. He knew this spectacle was all about damage control.

  I decided to step up to the mic. I was half shocked Dillian didn’t object.

  “Hi, Jerry . . .” I said. I could tell the kid was wondering why I was flapping my gums. “What makes this tour so special is that by the end, the world may very well have a new champion.”

  Jerry’s eyebrows went up. “How’s that?”