by Jack Tunney
After breakfast, I went back to my office, changed out of my smoky clothes and put on something clean. All I had left were jeans, a t-shirt, and a windbreaker. I’d have to take both my suits to the cleaners at my first opportunity.
I sat at my desk and checked the phone book for Eddie Lonigan’s number. Turns out he had numbers—plural—three of them. I assumed one would be home, the other two were probably business, but the address was the same for all three—on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan.
Lonigan’s reputation was as a hard guy who had mob connections, but his boxing business always seemed to be on the up-and-up, or as up-and-up as you could be in boxing these days.
I needed to make another trip into Manhattan to talk to Lonigan in person. If he wasn’t after Candy Marquez’s contract, maybe he knew somebody who was.
***
The subway ride to Manhattan and short walk to Lonigan’s office on Fifth and Fifty-Fifth Street took an hour. The trip to the fifth floor on a creaky elevator seemed to take almost as long. When the door opened, I was looking at a fiery redhead in a low cut blue blouse. Her wide smile was covered with thick red lipstick.
“Can I help you?”
“I’d like to see Mr. Lonigan.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, I don’t, but tell him it’s about Cappy O’Brien.”
“And your name is?”
“Frank Corleone.”
“Please wait.”
She stood up, walked down a hall out of sight. I didn’t hear any doors open or close, but did hear a muted conversation taking place. Before long, she reappeared and said, “Follow me, please.”
I was sure the few moments I spent following behind her would be the best of the day. Her skirt hugged generous hips and her long legs made a light swishing sound as her nylons legs brushed each other.
“Mr. Lonigan?” she said, as we entered a large door-less office. “This is Mr. Corleone.”
“Thanks, Katy.”
We both watched her leave and then Lonigan smiled at me.
“Believe it or not, she’s also good at her job,” he said. He stuck his hand out. “Eddie Lonigan.”
I shook his hand. Lonigan was a tall drink of water, maybe six-four, and kind of knobby looking, but he had a firm grip. Red hair and freckles belied his rep as a hard guy. His suit and haircut, though, supported the fact he was successful.
“You told Katy this was about Cappy O’Brien? You’re not a cop.” It was a statement, not a question.
“No,” I said, “I’m a private investigator. Cappy was my friend. I was with him at his gym the night before the fire.”
“Ah,” Lonigan said. “So, you’re your own client on this?”
“That’s right. I’mtryin’ to find out who killed him.”
“I thought he died in the fire,” Lonigan said. “But I’m, sure I don’t know all the facts. Have a seat and tell me how I can help.”
“Don’t say anything, Eddie,” a man said, entering the office.
“Frank, this is my lawyer, Tony Amato. Tony, Frank here is just tryin’ to find out who killed his friend.”
Amato was a big man in an expensive suit, with a diamond flashing on his right pinky, and a ring with some kind of black stone on his left pinky.
“Why’s he questioning you, then?” Amato asked.
“That’s what we’re about to find out,” Lonigan said. “Have a seat, Tony, and relax.”
Amato sat down, looking annoyed. He crossed his legs and settled his pudgy hands in his lap.
“Cappy had one fighter under contract when he died,” I said. “Candy Marquez.”
“I know him,” Lonigan said.
“Were you tryin’ to get his contract from Cappy?”
“Don’t answer that!” Amato said.
“Shut up, Tony,” Lonigan said. “I see where you’re goin’ with this, Corleone.” I wasn’t “Frank” anymore. “I wanted Marquez’s contract, Cappy wouldn’t sell, so I burned down his gym and killed him.”
“I’m not accusin’ you of anythin’, Mr. Lonigan,” I said. “I’m just askin’ a question.”
“No, I was not interested in Marquez’s contract. I have a dozen fighters under contract. I’m not interested in a wannabe light-heavyweight.
“Do you know of anybody else who might have been interested in Marquez?”
“No.” Lonigan said, “But you should talk to Marquez himself.”
“I have,” I said. “He claims not to know anythin’ about Cappy’s death.”
“Well, he may be tellin’ the truth.” Lonigan said. “But you should talk to him about his contract.”
“Why?”
“Eddie—” Amato said.
Lonigan held his hand up to silence the lawyer.
“Candy Marquez got in touch with me about a week ago,” Lonigan said. “He wanted me to buy his contract from Cappy.”
“And what did you say?”
“I respected Cappy,” Lonigan said. “That old Mick knew the business. I told Marquez he was fine where he was, but he insisted Cappy couldn’t get him the big fights. I suggested maybe he wasn’t ready for the big fights.”
“What did he say?”
“He flew off the handle, said that was what Cappy was sayin’.”
“And?”
“And he wanted to know if he left Cappy on his own, or if something happened to Cappy, would I sign him?”
“And what did you say?”
“I told him if that was the case,” Lonigan said, “I’d have to watch him fight before I made up my mind.”
“So, in his mind, with Cappy out of the picture, he believed there was a chance you’d sign him.”
Lonigan wiped his mouth with one hand and said, “Yeah, I guess so.”
ROUND TWELVE
When I left Lonigan’s office, I walked down Third Avenue to P. J. Clarke’s. Clarke’s was a New York staple since 1884, and had the best burgers in town. I looked around as I sat at the bar. Frank Sinatra and Nat King Cole were frequent patrons. Back in the day Louis Armstrong used to play in the back room.
It was only a couple of hours since my breakfast, but I went ahead and had an early lunch along with a beer. My meeting with Lonigan kept replaying in my head. So did the night before the fire. When I left Cappy in his office, was Candy still in the building? Could Candy have been guilty, and yet seemed so innocent on the docks?
At the very least, Candy lied by omission, by not telling me he’d talked to Lonigan about his contract. But, that was only true if Lonigan wasn’t lying. However, on the face of it, who had more of a reason to lie, Candy or Lonigan?
By the time my burger was gone I’d decided to have another talk with Candy.
***
When I got to the Brooklyn docks, I couldn’t see Candy out in the open. I went over to a couple of guys who were apparently on a cigarette break.
“Candy ain’t come in today,” one of them, a big beefy guy smoking Lucky Strikes, said when I asked.
“Did he say why?”
The guy shrugged. “Sick, I guess. All we know is, he ain’t here.”
The other guy nodded and puffed on his Pall Mall.
“Okay, thanks.”
***
I went back to Cappy’s gym. The cops were gone, so I assumed everyone — police and fire departments — had finished their investigations. I went inside.
I made my way to the locker room, opened my locker and took out the papers I’d hidden there, the ones I’d gotten from Cappy’s file cabinet. I flipped through them quickly, hoping I’d find what I wanted without having to go through each piece. I lucked out. I found a copy of Candy’s contract. His home address was on it. I put the papers back in my locker and left. I’d come back for them later and take them home. For the moment, I had a couple of stops to make.
***
Candy lived in a tenement in Bed-Stuy — Bedford-Stuyvesant — between two burnt out, boarded up buildings on Van Buren, near Tompkins. Most white pe
ople would walk through the streets of Bed-Stuy with a feeling of apprehension. It wasn’t a neighborhood most whites frequented. However, if you walk through any neighborhood with confidence, it doesn’t much matter what kind of area it is. If you walk like a victim, you’ll become a victim.
I took the train then walked a few blocks to Candy’s building. Passing several groups of black kids along the way, I got dirty looks, but nobody approached me. When I reached Candy’s building, the cracked stoop was empty, so luckily, I didn’t have to run any sort of gauntlet to get inside. Coming out might be a different story.
I walked up the stained staircase to the second floor. In one apartment someone was yelling at a child, who was wailing, and in another—or maybe the same—someone was cooking something spicy. A broken tricycle sat in front of one door, leaning to one side because a back wheel was missing. As I got to Candy’s door I didn’t hear anything inside. The “C” next to the metal 2 on his door was drawn on with a black marker.
I knocked on the door, got no answer. When I knocked again, harder, the door with the tricycle in front of it opened. A young mother in a worn house dress stuck her head out. She was holding the garment closed with one hand, but it was so thin she might as well have been naked. I doubted she was more than twenty. She had light cream colored skin.
“You lookin’ for Candy?” she asked.
“That’s right.”
“He ain’t been ‘round today,” she said.
“When did you see him last?”
She shrugged, moved a little farther into the hall so I could see a toddler wrapped around her right leg. I couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl. The child had darker skin than the mother, kinky hair kept short.
“He ain’t come home last night,” she said. “Whataya wan’ him fo’?”
“I’m his sparrin’ partner,” I said. “He missed a workout.”
“Oh, yeah?” she said. “You kinda look like a fighter.” That seemed to make her relax, a bit. “You got any money?”
“Why?” I asked. “You got somethin’ to sell me?”
She shrugged again, said, “What do you think?”
“I was thinkin’ more about some information.”
“Whataya wanna know?”
“Whatever you know about Candy.”
She folded her skinny arms across her thin chest. I didn’t see any tracks, but she could have been the type who shot up on her legs, or between her toes. Or maybe—good for her—she wasn’t doing drugs, just turning tricks.
“Ten bucks?” she asked.
“If you know somethin’ useful,” I said.
She bit her full lower lip while she thought. Add about twenty or thirty pounds then subtract the beaten down by life look and she would have been pretty. She wasn’t showing any bruises, either, and neither was the child. I didn’t know if she had a man, but if she did, he wasn’t beating her—or hadn’t beaten her that week.
“He got a girlfriend.”
“Now that’s helpful,” I said. “You know her name?”
“Roselita,” she said. “He calls her Rosie. That worth ten bucks?”
“Twenty, if it comes with an address.”
He eyes went wide and her nostrils flared.
“Two blocks down,” she said. “Corner of Throop.”
“Building number?”
“Corner of Throop Street,” she said, again. “I don’t know the number. It’s got a red door.”
“What apartment?”
“I dunno that, neither,” she said. “I was just walkin’ my baby one day and I saw him go in with her.”
“What’s she look like?”
“She’s a dark girl, top heavy,” she said. “That’s all I know, mister. What about that twenty?”
I took a double sawbuck from my wallet and handed it to her. She accepted the bill and gave me a look, licking her lips.
“I could still more for you,” she said.“I’m sure you could,” I said, “but you’ve already got what I can spare.”
“I don’t mind,” she said. “You look like you’re in good shape, and you’re clean.”
I think being clean might have been my biggest selling point. I looked down at the toddler staring up and me, and all I felt was sad.
“No thanks,” I said. “Get your kid some milk.”
“That’s what I’m gonna do,” she assured me. “Thanks, mister.”
I left the building, wondering if I’d been taken for a ride for my twenty bucks.
ROUND THIRTEEN
I found the building, just where she said, on the corner of Van Buren and Throop, complete with the red door. There were half a dozen black teens sitting on the front steps and they eyed me suspiciously as I approached. Two had very dark skin, while one was a light cream color. They were all about sixteen and on their home turf, which made them feel tough.
“Where you goin’, man?” one of them asked.
“I’m lookin’ for a friend of mine,” I said. “I was told he might be here.”
“Now what would a friend of yours be doin’ here, man?” the other asked.
“His girlfriend lives here.”
The light colored youth hadn’t said a word, he was just eyeing me.
“Who says?”
“Look,” I said, “my buddy’s name is Candy Marquez, and his girl’s name is Roselita—Rosie.” I looked at the light skinned kid. “That your sister?”
“Candy,” one of the dark skinned kids repeated. “Hey, you a fighter?”
“I was.”
“Yeah? Whatchoo fight?”
“Middleweight, light heavy.”
“Yeah?” the kid said. “I fight some. Got me a good jab.”
“A good jab’s important,” I said. “But you need a lot more.”
“Yeah, well I gots it, man,” the kid said. He stood up, began to shadow box. “Ya wanna see?” He started throwing jabs at me, just missing my chin. He was quick.
Although he was tall, the kid went maybe a hundred and thirty pounds.
“Siddown, kid,” I said. “You’re outmatched. I’ve got at least thirty, forty pounds on you.”
“Oh yeah?” the kid said. “I gots speed, man, ya wanna—“
“Siddown, Willie,” the light skinned kid said. Those were his first words. “What you want with my sister, man?”
Willie sat down.
“I’m lookin’ for my friend, Candy. Is he here?”
“Naw, he ain’t here.”
“When was he here last?”
“I dunno.”
“Well, can I talk to your sister?”
He studied me for a minute, then said, “Maybe. Was you any good in the ring?”
“I was okay.”
“Well Willie here really is pretty good. I tell you what. You go three rounds with Willie and I’ll take you to my sister.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what,” I said. “Why don’t I just pay you?”
“I don’t want your money,” the kid said. “I wanna see you fight.”
Behind him Willie was jumping around on his toes, throwing jabs. He had some marks on his face that showed he’d had some time in the ring.
“Where?” I asked.
“We got us a ring in the basement,” the kid said. “Come on.”
***
They did have a pretty decent low rent gym in the basement of the building. Heavy bags hung from the ceiling, a couple of speed bags against the wall, and what looked like a regulation side ring. I walked up to it and tugged in the ring ropes. They were loose, but manageable.
“We got some gloves,” the light-skinned kid said.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“T.J.”
“T.J., to see your sister I only have to go three rounds with Willie, right? Do I have to beat ‘im?”
T.J. grinned, showing a gold tooth on the bottom. “Naw, man, we don’t expect you to beat him, we just wanna see your moves.”
“Okay.”
He brought over a w
orn pair of gloves and put them on me. With my tender hands I would have liked wraps, but I’d have to make do. Maybe if I didn’t hit him too many times I’d get through three rounds.
Willie had stripped down to shorts and a t-shirt and donned a similarly worn pair of gloves. Both sets of gloves looked like boxing surplus. They’d probably seen a lot of ring time.
“I’ll be your corner man,” T.J. said. “Louie, you be Willie’s corner man. I’ll also keep time.”
“Fine,” I said, to the assignments. All I needed to do was box nine minutes. Shouldn’t be too hard, right?
Wrong.
It took me ten seconds to realize Willie was a fighter — a good fighter. He hit me with three quick jabs, and then a right cross that rattled me. He was tall and slender, probably went about 130 pounds, but he was string, and he could hit. Also, his friends were cheering enthusiastically, urging him to knock me out.
I spent most of the first round trying to stay away from him, but his jab kept finding me. He threw a few haymakers with bad intentions, trying to knock me out, but I avoided them. By the time I got back to my corner, my face was stinging. I’d managed to jab him a few times, but my hands had not taken much damage.
“Come on, man,” T.J. said, “you gonna fight, or what?”
Willie was laughing and high fiving his buddies in his corner. I was trying to catch my breath, realizing how out of ring shape I was. Three rounds with this kid had me more winded than sparring with Candy Marquez had.
“Sure,” I said, trying not to pant, “sure, I’ll fight.”
I’d already decided I wouldn’t be able to do another six minutes with this kid. He was too quick. There was only one thing for me to do.
T.J. yelled, “Time in!”
As I moved to the middle of the ring Willie was bouncing on his toes, laughing. I didn’t know if this was his regular ring demeanor, or if this was just for my benefit, but he wasn’t utilizing much in the way of defense.
He jabbed me a couple of times, and came in with one of his haymakers. This time instead of just avoiding it, I jerked my head back, and as the force of his punch brought him forward he presented his chin to me. I hit him with a whistling right and he went down like a sack of wet cement.