The Knockout (Fight Card)

by Jack Tunney

  His friend’s cheering turned in a stunned silence. I used my teeth to take my right glove off, turned to T. J. and said, “If he’s gonna be successful he’s gonna have to do something’ about that defense of his.”

  ROUND FOURTEEN

  T.J. led me up basement steps to the first floor. I followed him up the urine stained stairway to the third floor, my face still stinging a bit. My hand throbbed, to, but not too badly. I’d been lucky to take Willie out with one punch. I followed him to a door with 3D written on it in black. He opened it and went inside. I hesitated, figuring he was going to make sure his sister was decent. When I didn’t hear him call out to her, I followed him in.

  The apartment was a surprise. It was clean, smelled strongly of polish and cleanser. Somebody took care of it, made sure the odors from the hall and the stairway didn’t get in.

  The kid was standing in the kitchen. He said, “Wait here. I’ll get her.”

  I waited, but didn’t sit because I hadn’t been invited to do so. He left the kitchen and went into another room I assumed to be the bedroom. Just for a moment, I wondered if he’d be coming back with a gun, but when he reappeared all he had with him was a pretty, light-skinned, black girl.

  “This is my sister, Rosie,” he said. “Rosie, this here’s a fella lookin’ for Candy.”

  She was slender, but well built. She had no bra beneath her t-shirt. She made me think of Cricket in her silk robe.

  “Why you lookin’ for Candy?”

  “I’ve got some questions to ask him.”

  “About what?”

  “About Cappy’s murder.”

  She frowned.

  “Cappy was murdered?” the boy asked. “I thought he died in the fire.”

  “That’s what the killer was hoping everybody would think,” I said. “But he was murdered.”

  “You think Candy did it?” she asked. “Are you a cop?”

  “Private investigator,” I said. “I was a friend of Cappy’s. I just want to ask Candy some questions about that day.”

  “He don’t know nothin’,” she said.

  “Why don’t we let him tell me that, Rosie?”

  She bit her lip.

  “Come on, Rosie,” I said. “Where is he?”

  “I can’t tell you,” she said, “because I don’t know.”

  I looked past her at the kid, who shrugged.

  “All right,” I said. “If you hear from him, tell him to call me. He knows who I am.”

  “Okay.”

  “Wait for me in the hall,” the kid said. “I’ll walk you out so nobody gives you a problem.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I had enough problems.

  I went out to the hall and waited ten minutes. From inside I heard raised voices as brother and sister argued, and then the door opened and the kid appeared.

  “I can’t get her to tell me where Candy is,” he said, “but here.”

  I took what he handed me—a paper bag, stuffed with something. It was all crumpled closed.

  “What is it?”

  “Open it after you leave here,” he said. “It’s some stuff Candy left here last time. He wanted Rosie to get rid of it.”

  “What’s your name, kid?”

  “T.J.”

  “T.J., is this gonna help me? ” I asked, raising the bag slightly.

  “It ain’t gonna hurt, man,” he said.

  ***

  He walked me out of the building without incident, and I made my way to the subway. Once I was in a car and seated, I opened the bag. The odor hit my right away — gasoline.

  I reached in and brought out enough of the contents to see what it was. I was holding somebody’s clothes, which smelled as if they had been doused with gas. I recognized the plaid pattern of the shirt Candy had been wearing the night before the fire.

  I pushed it back in, pulled out the leg of a pair of jeans. So, Candy had gone to Rosie’s apartment and changed out of clothes that smelled of gasoline.

  ***

  When I got back to my place, I dropped the paper bag on my desk. This was certainly evidence Candy had something to do with setting the fire, but it didn’t necessarily mean he killed Cappy. However, if I could find the kid I’d sure as hell get it out of him.

  I sat behind my desk and stared at the bag. I was holding evidence, but I couldn’t just hand it to the cops. They’d want to know where I got it, and how I could prove the clothes belonged to Candy. Anybody could wear a plaid shirt. I walked to the bag, opened it, and checked the tag. Candy was a big boy. The shirt was an extra-large.

  The question was, how did I get this to the cops without them knowing it came from me? I was going to have to arrange for them to find the bag of clothes someplace that would make it clear they belonged to Candy.

  ***

  If you plant evidence that actually belongs to a suspect, are you really ‘planting’ evidence? That was the question. Well, that was one question. The other question was, where should I plant it? The cops had already been through the gym, so putting them in his locker wouldn’t work. I’d gone by his apartment with no luck, but if I went back, I wouldn’t be looking for him, I’d just be looking for a likely spot to plant the clothes.

  There was a knock on my door, an occurrence so unusual it actually startled me. I quickly grabbed the bag from the top of my desk and put it on the floor next to my chair.

  “Come in,” I called.

  The door opened and Victor Strayhan walked in.

  “Hey, Corleone,” he said, with a happy smile. “How ya doin’?”

  “Strayhan,” I said. “What brings you here?”

  He was still swearing his Dodger jacket and cap.

  “Mind if I sit?” he asked.

  “No, go ahead.”

  He flopped down into the visitor’s chair, looked around the room.

  “You live here, too?”

  “Live ain’t the right word,” I said. “I sleep here.”

  “Ah, well,” he said, with a shrug. “Times are tough.”

  “What can I do for you?” I asked, trying to get him to the point.

  “Just thought I’d fill you in on my report,” he said. “I submitted it already. It was arson, set by an amateur who just doused the second floor with gasoline.” He sniffed the air. “Jeez, I imagine I can smell it even now.”

  I almost reached down to touch the paper bag on the floor.

  “I appreciate that.”

  “The cops got anythin’ on the murder?” he asked.

  “Not that they told me.”

  “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “You got anythin’?”

  Again, I almost reached for the bag. Maybe he could help me plant it. No, if I was going to do something illegal, I wasn’t going to ask anybody to help me—least of all an investigator for the Courts.

  “No,” I said. “I’m tryin’ to find Candy, but he didn’t go to work and he wasn’t home.”

  “Maybe he’s got a girlfriend.”

  “I’m, checking.”

  “I’m gonna get somethin’ to eat,” he said, standing up. “You interested?”

  I was hungry, but I wasn’t looking for any new friends.

  “No, that’s okay. Thanks for the info, though.”

  “Sure thing.” He walked to the door, put his hand on the doorknob, then turned, looked at me and sniffed the air. “Funny, I just can’t get that gasoline smell out of my nose.”

  He left, pulling the door closed behind him. I finally grabbed the bag, because my hand was itching to do it. I figured I had one choice. Plant it in Candy’s work locker at the docks, make an anonymous call to the cops, and let nature take its course. I wasn’t actually framing him, I was just bringing some new evidence to light.

  ROUND FIFTEEN

  Since the smell of gasoline on the clothes was pretty strong, I decided to get something to eat outside. I stopped near the subway station to get a couple of hotdogs from a street vendor—ketchup, no mustard,
with sauerkraut and red onions. Maybe I should have eaten with Strayhan, but I couldn’t while I had the gasoline soaked clothes with me.

  After tossing the debris in a trash can, I headed for the docks again. It was late, nobody would be working at this time, but maybe I’d be able to get to Candy’s locker and plant the bag. Then I could call the cops and put the whole thing in their lap.

  ***

  As I’d expected, the docks were quiet. I knew there were watchmen someplace. I’d have to be careful to avoid them while trying to find where the dockworker’s lockers were. My old man worked the docks for a while, so I had a pretty good idea where I’d find them. My old man died on the docks when I was real young, and I got sent to Chicago to St. Vincent’s, where Father Tim Brophy taught me how to be strong.

  I was still trying to live up to his teachings.

  I found the building I wanted without running into a watchman. I tried the door, found it unlocked. Inside it was quiet, but I could hear a radio playing low from somewhere. I decided to follow the sound and see what I could find.

  The tinny sound of Doris Day singing Secret Love, led me down a hall. As I neared the end of the hall the music got louder. Most businesses made allowances for rooms where employees could relax, and where they could store their belonging while they were working. As I entered the room, I saw the lockers against the wall, the radio on the table, and Candy sitting in front of it. I had the paper bag in my hand and he looked up when he heard the rustle.

  “What are you don’ here, Candy?” I asked.

  “Hidin’,” Candy said.

  “From who?”

  “You, the cops,” Candy said. “Whoever.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I know somebody gonna’ blame me for killin’ Cappy,” he said.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I was the last one to see him,” Candy said. “That make me the bes’ suspect, right?”

  “This makes you a suspect, Candy,” I said, tossing the bag on the floor between us.

  “Whazzat?”

  “”That’s the bag of gasoline smellin’ clothes you left with Rosie,” I said.

  “You seen Rosie?”

  “I did.”

  “She din’ tell you nuthin’, I bet.”

  “She didn’t,” I said. ”But her brother gave me your clothes.”

  “She was supposed to burn those,” he complained.

  “Well, I’ve got ‘em, now” I said. “The way they smell, seems to me you were definitely in the building that night, Candy. You burn it down?”

  “I didn’t mean to,” Candy said, not bothering to deny it. “It was an accident.”

  “How do you burn down a whole building by accident, Candy?”

  “Cappy would not let me go,” Candy said. “I had someone else who wanted to manage me, said they would take me to a title shot. But he would not leesen to me.”

  “So, you set fire to the building.”

  “I only meant to start a small fire upstairs, to scare Cappy,” Candy said, “but . . . it got out of control. I had to run.”

  “What about Cappy?” I asked. “Did you kill him?”

  “No!” Candy snapped. ”I owed him too much. He took me in when I was nobody, taught me to fight.”

  “And this was how you repaid him.”

  “I tol’ you, it was an accident,” Candy said. “It was supposed to be a small fire.”

  “With gasoline, Candy?”

  He didn’t answer. That was when I noticed he was looking at the bag of clothes on the floor. It was dumb of me to dump them there. That was my evidence.

  Candy looked at me.

  “Candy, you have to come with me.”

  “Where?”

  “To talk to the police.”

  He shook his head. “They will arrest me.”

  “Well, yeah,” I said. “You burned down a building.”

  “They will charge me with murder.”

  “Possibly,” I said, “but if you cooperate, I’ll see you get a good defense. You can make your case. Meanwhile, I’ll keep tryin’ to find out who killed Cappy. That is, if you’re tellin’ me the truth.”

  “I am.”

  “Then you’ll come?”

  “No.” He stood up. “I need to hide again until I can figure son’thin’ out. And I need that bag.” He pointed.

  “I can’t let you have it, Candy.”

  “You cannot stop me, amigo,” he said. “Unless got a gun.”

  I didn’t. I had a carry permit, but the gun was home, in my desk.

  “I’ll stop you, Candy.”

  “How?” Candy asked.

  “I’ll fight you.”

  He laughed, although it was without much humor.

  “I am too big and too young for you to fight, Frankie. I knock you down the last time we spar.”

  “You got lucky.”

  “Besides, this is not prize fightin’,” Candy said. “You ever fight bare knuckle, no rules?”

  “I’ll adjust,” I said. “I can’t let you walk out of here with that bag, Candy. In fact, I can’t let you walk out of here, period.”

  Candy pointed at me and said, “I gonna’ walk right over you, Frankie.”

  “Come ahead, then.”

  I wasn’t sure I could take him with bare knuckles, but I had to try.

  ROUND SIXTEEN

  Candy moved in toward the bag, and I followed. As he started to bend over to pick it up, I kicked it so it went sliding across the room. He stood up straight and glared at me.

  “Don’t make me do this, Frankie,” he said.

  “I was just gonna say the same thing to you, Candy.”

  He shrugged then, as if there was no other way, and hit me with a left. It rocked me, and I felt my right eyebrow split. The kid could hit.

  He tried to follow with a left, but I ducked it and hit him in the ribs, then danced away from him.

  “No dancin’, Frankie,” Candy said. “Not in bare knuckle.”

  If he thought I was gonna stand toe-to-toe with him, he was crazy.

  He advanced on me and swung a right that would’ve killed me if it had landed. I ducked under it and hit him twice in the ribs. Father Tim always said work the body and the head will fall. I didn’t have the time to do it properly, though, or the right venue. And there was no referee to keep Candy from bringing a knee up into my mid-section.

  The air went out of me, but I was able to spin away from the next punch, which would have caught me behind the ear. Punching down, as he was, it would probably have taken my head off.

  I straightened up and waited for Candy to come back in. Father Tim called my jab a piston, so I decided I’d better try to use it. As Candy moved in on me, ham-hocks high, I jabbed him three times in the face before he could blink. It stopped him for a moment, but then he came on again.

  I jabbed him three more times, then remembered what Cappy told me about crowding him. The kid didn’t like it. But there were no ring ropes or corners to back him up against. I was going to have to improvise.

  I had two choices. Increase the number of jabs to try to back him up, or throw less jabs and draw him in. Either way, I had to try and get him into a corner of the room, or at least get his back to a wall.

  He kept throwing haymakers with evil intent. I was able to duck most of them, but every so often one would clip me. He tried a knee once in a while, but I was ready for that, too.

  Crowding a man frustrates him, and I began to realize I didn’t have to crowd Candy to reach that goal. Every time he swung and missed, I could see the frustration growing. Same went for each time I jabbed him in the face. Before long his nose was bleeding, and there was swelling beneath each eye,

  “Stop running, Frankie,” he said, breathlessly. “Stand still and fight.”

  “You’re too strong for me to trade with, kid,” I said. “You’re gonna have to catch me.”

  But he couldn’t. As strong as he was, I was faster. As time went by, I starte
d to think he was going to start crying. His breathing was becoming more and more labored. Mine was, too, but I was hiding it. He was starting to sound like a locomotive.

  I alternated between my jab and bodywork, and finally—both of us drenched in sweat—he began to wilt. He got sloppy, dropped his guard, and I hit him with an uppercut. He rocked back on his heel, and I hit him with a right that dropped him to one knee. I could’ve hit him again, but I stepped back.

  “The hell with you,” he huffed at me, but he didn’t move. He either didn’t want to rise from the knee, or couldn’t. It was just as well. My hands hurt so bad I couldn’t have gone on.

  “Candy,” I said, “just come with me to the police, and I’ll see you get a good lawyer. If you didn’t kill Cappy, I’ll prove it.”

  “Si, yes,” he said. “Esta bien. I will go with you. I did not kill Cappy.”

  “But you’ve got to tell me one the thing,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Who’s the man who said he could take you to the title?”

  ***

  As I expected, the cops not only wanted to charge Candy with arson, but murder. There wasn’t much I could do except keep my word and get him a good lawyer. I was lucky they let me go. Detective Miller wanted to lock me up for tampering with evidence—to wit, the paper bag of clothes—but Conroy, the older one, kept a level head and let me go, deciding to look, instead, at the big picture.

  “But keep your nose out of this from now on,” he warned me.

  “I will,” I lied. What else could I do? I’d promise Candy I’d prove him innocent if, in fact, he was. I had to at least try to keep my word.

  ***

  When I got to Tony Lonigan’s office, the same girl was manning the desk. She was wearing a scoop necked dress today, allowing me to watch a string of freckles disappear into her dusky cleavage.

  “No appointment?” she asked.

  “You got it.”

  “I’ll ask.”

  I didn’t wait as long as last time when she reappeared and said, again, “Follow me.”

  She showed me into Lonigan’s office and we once again watched her walk out before facing each other.