by Joe Corso
Gonzo began to let go with rights and lefts of his own-- the same thing he would have done if he were in a bar fight. Unexpectedly, Hoffmann walked right into one of his sledgehammer punches, which caught him clean on the jaw and it staggered him. Gonzo, fighting on pure guts and instinct, sensed something shifting his way. He followed a staggering Hoffmann around the ring to the delight of the cheering crowd, who were getting their money’s worth in one of the best heavyweight fights of the year. Hoffmann was trying to get his legs back under him again, but Gonzo had shaken off the effects of the punch that knocked him down. His head was clear and he had his feet under him again. He came at Hoffmann, looking to land a good right before the round ended, and Gonzo got his shot in, knocking Hoffmann down just as the round ended. When Gonzo got back to his corner, Clancy screamed at him.
“What the hell were you thinking out there? You walked right into a right hand. That was a bush league move. You forgot everything I taught you. Listen, when you go out there, I want you to go for the body. Weaken him for the later rounds. This round, keep working his body, but if you see an opening, then go for the head.” The bell sounded for the beginning of the second round.
Gonzo stalked Hoffmann for the first thirty seconds of the round. Then Hoffmann’s head cleared and he started coming at Gonzo again with determination. Gonzo, following Clancy’s advice, caught Hoffmann in the mid-section with a perfect right hand. Murphy bent to the side from the effect of the punch. Gonzo noticed the effect the body shot had on Hoffmann. He came back with a left hook to the side of his solar plexus and Hoffmann winced. He threw another hook to the body and Hoffmann doubled over. Gonzo followed with a combination of heavy punches to the gut, hitting Hoffmann in the mid-section rhythmically like a drummer banging on his drums. Hoffmann dropped his guard to cover his mid-section, and Gonzo timed a perfect right hand to his jaw. Hoffmann went down on one knee, taking an eight count. He got up just before the round ended.
“Good. You did good, Gonzo,” Clancy said over the roar of the crowd. “Now you’re cooking. Do it again. Go for his mid-section. Hit him with left-and-right combinations to his mid-section. When he drops his guard, change your attack and start head hunting. Go for his head. Put this bum away, and let’s go home.”
Gonzo walked out for the third round, feeling much better. His head had cleared and he had his legs under him. He looked to end the fight in this round, but unlike the first round, he came out cautiously, looking for an opening that would end the fight, instead of charging at his opponent like he would in a bar fight. Hoffmann backtracked as Gonzo stalked him. Gonzo feinted as if he were about to throw a right hand to the head, but instead he aimed it at his mid-section and when the punch landed, it sucked all the air out of Hoffmann. Hoffmann sagged to one knee and referee Goldstein sent Gonzo to a neutral corner while he spread his fingers in front of Hoffmann’s face and counted them out one by one. Hoffmann was game and he got up at the count of nine but he couldn’t go on much longer. Gonzo turned to Goldstein and finally said, “What are you waiting for? Stop the fight! I don’t want to hurt this guy.” But Goldstein ordered them to continue fighting. Gonzo tied up Hoffmann and while they were in a clinch, he whispered in his ear, “Take the count. I don’t want to hurt you.” Hoffmann shook his head and even though he was out on his feet, he threw a feeble left-right combination almost in slow motion and, as the right hand passed Gonzo’s face, Gonzo unleashed a right hand that put Hoffmann down for the count. The problem was Hoffmann didn’t get up – he was seriously hurt.
Doctors were called into the ring, but nothing helped . . . Hoffmann didn’t respond to medical aid. A stretcher was brought into the ring. They placed Hoffman on it and he was rushed to a waiting ambulance. Gonzo was beside himself with worry, thinking that he might have killed Hoffmann. He didn’t want him to die. He warned the referee to stop the fight. Why didn’t he just do it instead of letting him go on fighting? Gonzo rushed to his dressing room, showered, and got dressed quickly. Swifty stopped him.
“What are you doing?”
“I’ve gotta get to the hospital. I want to be there with Hoffmann. If the damned ref would have stopped the fight when I wanted him to, none of this would have happened.”
“Don’t go blaming the ref, Gonzo. This is the fight game and something like this could happen anytime. Wait a minute and I’ll come with you.” Swifty looked at Henri.
“Me too,” Henri said. He had been listening quietly to the conversation and whatever his buddies were going to do, he wanted to be part of it. Just then, the door opened and Red rushed into the room.
“You boys going to the hospital?”
“Yeah. We’re heading there now.”
Red nodded in approval and said, “I have the limo waiting outside. Piss Clam is driving. He’ll take you there and I’m coming with you boys.”
“I just hope Hoffmann is all right,” Gonzo muttered. Red looked at Gonzo.
“Don’t go blaming this on yourself, Gonzo. What happened to Hoffmann could happen to any fighter, even to one of you boys. So go and see him, but don’t blame yourself.”
CHAPTER 4
They parked the limo in the emergency room parking area and rushed to the emergency room, but a security guard stopped them.
“No one’s allowed past this door.” The men were anxious to find out how Hoffmann was doing. Red asked, “Who can tell us the condition of the fighter that was brought in a few minutes ago?”
“You guys fighters?” he asked.
Red pointed to Henri. “He’s the Welterweight Champion of the World. This guy is Swifty Card, the next Middleweight Champion of the World, and this is Gonzo, who’ll be the Heavyweight Champion soon. He just fought Hoffmann-- the guy that was just wheeled in here. Come on, do the right thing for us. Find out how Hoffmann is doing.” The security guard looked at Swifty, and then recognition set in.
“Aren’t you the actor?”
Swifty winced at those words. “I’m a boxer and I’m gonna be the next Middleweight Champion of the World – but yeah! I’m also in movies . . . understand?”
The guard smiled. “No offense. Wait here while I go check on your friend.” He turned and left. He returned a few minutes later. “Stay here. A doctor will be out to speak to you in a few minutes.”
Ten minutes later, a doctor walked through the emergency room doors, still dressed in his white operating gown. He came over to them. “I understand that you boys want to know how the fighter that was brought in here a little while ago is doing.”
Red spoke for the boys. “Gonzo here fought Hoffmann earlier and he’s riddled with guilt over it. How’s he doing, doc?”
The doctor shook his head. “He’s suffered a brain aneurism, but his prognosis is good. I think he’ll pull through, but he’ll never fight again.” Gonzo asked the doctor if he could see Hoffmann. “Come with me. He’s conscious now and you can see him but only for a little while.” The boys followed the doctor into the emergency ward and he led them to a cubicle with a curtain closed around a bed. He pulled it open.
The boys were happy to see that Hoffmann was awake. His manager and cut man were seated beside the bed. His manager got up and shook their hands. “Nice of you guys to come here. He looked at Gonzo. “Look, kid. Don’t blame yourself for this. We saw you ask Goldstein to stop it. You did the right thing. Here, take my seat. We’re going out for a smoke. He turned around and told Hoffmann, “There are some men here to see you.”
On the way back to the club, Gonzo told Red, “The next fight I have, I want my purse to go to Hoffmann.
Henri and Swifty echoed his sentiment. “Count us in too, Red. We want our purse to go to Hoffmann too.”
CHAPTER 5
“There he is,” Sammy said excitedly. “There’s O’Malley.” O’Malley sauntered out the front door of the precinct and bounded down the steps as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Little did he know, the world as he knew it was about to end. O’Malley waved to a fellow officer and stopped to s
ay a few words to another of his friends, smiling as he headed to the parking lot on the other side of the building, which was an exclusive parking lot for police personnel. Red’s men watched every move O’Malley made. They saw him get into his car and they waited for him to drive out of the lot. When he passed them, Shooter started the car and followed him, keeping him in sight from a safe distance. Their car was far enough behind O’Malley so as not to be seen, and yet close enough not to arouse his suspicion. They followed him as he weaved his way through the late afternoon traffic. He drove through Flushing and then into Bayside until he reached his destination, where he turned into an upscale little housing community very close to the Bayside Country Club in Queens, near the Little Neck Bay. O’Malley lived in a magnificent split-level home that was worth far more than his meager police salary could afford. “Okay, we’ve seen enough. Let’s get back to the Gentleman’s Club.”
The following morning at seven a.m., Shooter, Joey Bones, and Piss Clam were parked on his side of the street and two cars behind O’Malley’s, their eyes never leaving the front door to his house. They were patient men. They would wait all day if they had to, but they were confident that any minute the door would open and he would be leaving his house. Five minutes passed, then ten minutes, until finally, fifteen minutes later, the front door opened and O’Malley walked out. The boys watched him lock his front door – then, he checked it to make sure it was locked. They watched him walk down the path leading from his home to his car, which was parked in front of his house. O’Malley didn’t see two men leave their car and walk silently towards him as he put the key in the car door. He tensed as a gun was pressed against his spine. A hand reached under his jacket and took his gun from his shoulder holster.
“Turn around and walk with us to our car. Don’t do anything suspicious and don’t make a fuckin sound,” Joey Bones said threateningly. It was still early and the neighbors hadn’t left for work yet, so there was no one around to see what was taking place. Once he was in Shooter’s car, Piss Clam patted O’Malley down. He found what he was looking for: his car keys. He started O’Malley’s drab, three-year-old, standard shift, black four-door Impala and followed Shooter in the Chevy.
As Shooter pulled away, O’Malley tried bluffing the boys with an act of bravado, which they saw right through. “Are you guys out of your mind, kidnapping a New York City police officer?” he said. “Drop me off right now and I’ll forget this happened.” He then blustered, “I promise I’ll forget your faces.” When neither of the two men replied, he knew they weren’t intimidated by his rhetoric. “What do you want with me?” No one answered him. “What are you going to do with me?” Still no one answered his questions and that frightened him. He knew something was very wrong and he started to think of what it could be. Then he thought of Moe. Killing him was a mistake; he hadn’t meant to kill him. Could this be what this is all about? Moe? Suddenly, he started to shake.
They drove through Queens and into Ridgewood, and then they crossed into Brooklyn. Shooter drove through a maze of streets and wound his way through a section of Brooklyn that had seen better days. Red’s warehouse was in Brooklyn, but it was situated very close to Queens. Shooter pulled into an empty parking slot, in front of a run down warehouse. After he shut the car off and took the key out of the ignition, he ordered O’Malley out of the car. Joey Bones kept the gun hidden under the coat that was slung over his arm. He kept the gun trained on O’Malley as they walked to the warehouse. Just as the men were about to enter the building, Piss Clam pulled alongside their car and parked O’Malley’s car next to it. The men walked through the door at the side of the large loading platform and headed to the office located to the left of the entrance. The door was open and, as the men walked into the warehouse, they could see Red seated at the big desk in the first room on their left. He didn’t rise as they entered the office. Instead, he directed his gaze at O’Malley. “Sit there,” he said, pointing to the chair opposite him. Defeated, O’Malley was about to say something but Red glared at him. “Shut the fuck up. If you say one word - I’m gonna shoot you right in the fuckin head right where your sittin. Now I want to know why you killed Moe Jacobson?”
O’Malley started to say he had nothing to do with Moe’s death, but Red stopped him cold with a wave of his hand. “Do I look like a moron to you? Do I look fuckin stupid to you?” O’Malley was so scared he started to shake. “Keep your mouth shut and read this.” He took the note from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to O’Malley. “Go on read it, then tell me you had nothing to do with his death.”
O’Malley picked up Moe’s note and he began to read. He read the first few words and he froze. He looked up at Red and he started to say something, but the words never left his lips. Realizing he was caught in a lie and he had no options left, he said quietly, “I didn’t mean to kill him. It was an accident. I tapped him on the head and he fell and hit his head on the base of the radiator. I tried to revive him, but he didn’t respond. I felt for a pulse, but there was none - he was dead.” He looked up at Red with tears in his eyes. “It was an accident. I would never have killed the old man.”
Red shook his head. “And yet he’s dead.”
“But it was an accident,” O’Malley insisted.
Red shook his head sadly. “Accident or no accident, he’s still dead. And it was all because of greed. You greedy bastard, you weren’t satisfied with a hundred bucks a week. You were shaking the old man down for more money. You knew that he was one of my men and yet you still shook him down for a c-note a week and you were looking to double that by squeezing more out of the old man. If Moe would have come to me and told me what you were doing to him, he’d still be alive and you would be very dead.” Red slid a sheet of paper across the desk. “Sign this.”
“What is this? What am I signing?”
“You’re signing a confession telling the world that you killed Moe.”
“Are you crazy? Do you really expect me to sign a confession?”
“Well, it’s either that or me killing you right here and now.” Red opened the desk drawer, took out a Colt automatic, and placed it with a thud on the desk in front of him. O’Malley knew he meant business; he would certainly kill him if he didn’t sign the paper.
“You’re telling me that if I sign this confession you won’t kill me?”
“That’s right. I won’t kill you. You have my word on that.”
O’Malley grabbed the pen, signed the confession, and slid it back to him. “It’s signed. Can I go now?”
“Sure! I can’t stand looking at your ugly face any longer. Shooter, would you escort this miserable excuse for a cop to the door, please?”
O’Malley couldn’t wait to leave. These were dangerous men and he wanted no part of them. All he wanted was to leave as quickly as he could. As the men walked out of the room and onto the warehouse floor, in his haste to leave, O’Malley never noticed the plastic sheet spread over the floor outside the office area. Joey Bones and Piss Clam had spread it out earlier in anticipation of what they knew would happen. As soon as O’Malley walked onto the plastic drop cloth, Shooter shot him once in the back of the head, killing him instantly.
Red observed the entire scene from the doorway of the office and when it was done, he said quietly to himself, “I kept my word to you, you Irish cocksucker. I promised you I wouldn’t kill you and I didn’t; Shooter did.” Red called Piss Clam over to him. “Pull his car into the warehouse, wrap him in the plastic, and put this piece of shit in the trunk. Tie the plastic down good so we don’t get blood splattered everywhere, then take him to the junkyard. Leave him in the trunk and put the car in the compactor.” He pointed to Bones. “Joey, follow in Shooter’s car and when you’re finished with this business, all of you head back to the Gentleman’s Club. I’ll meet you there.”
CHAPTER 6
Red and the boys took the American Airlines red eye and arrived at LAX tired and in need of a shower. Moose was waiting for them in the luggage area wh
ile Swifty remained in the car. If Swifty stepped out of the car together with Moose, the moment he showed his face he’d be mobbed with fans seeking his autograph. It was easier for him to wait in the car for the boys to leave the airport with their luggage. The last thing he needed was an autograph stampede. Even while waiting in the car, he feared being recognized. Man, he thought, this fame shit is for the birds. He spotted them as they stepped out of the busy airport’s exit doors. Swifty got out of the car and opened the trunk. He embraced Red and Trenchie, then did the same to Shooter and Joey Bones. Then he rushed back to the safety of the car where he’d be safe from curious fans. When they were settled in their seats, Moose drove them to Swifty’s new home on Mulholland Drive in Hollywood Hills. This was the very same house that Moose negotiated for Swifty when Red bought the old Galaxie Studio properties and the movie studio lots.
Shorty Davis was waiting at Swifty’s house when the car pulled up. He came to pay his respects to the Don, Big Red Fortunato. Everyone who ever worked for Big Red would always be part of his mob no matter where they were working or what they were doing. And, even though they weren’t on his payroll any longer, they were still part of his family as far as he was concerned, which in a way they were. It was one large fraternity and once you joined, you joined for life. Red, being the man he was, never prevented his men from bettering themselves . . . as long as they cleared it with him first. There was a flip side to this arrangement. If they found themselves in trouble, they could always turn to Big Red for help--and they knew help would be there for them.
Red was almost one hundred percent legitimate now. He no longer hi-jacked trucks nor bought stolen merchandise, and he stopped fixing horse races. He closed the loan sharking racket that was so lucrative to him and instead sent his customers to the banks that he owned where they were pre-approved and could borrow the money they needed legitimately. But along with the loans was the threat of what they could expect if the loan wasn’t paid. It hung over them like a dark cloud. He stayed away from the drug business and never dabbled in prostitution. Even though he closed the doors to two very lucrative businesses, he still ran numbers, and he kept a string of bookmaking parlors throughout Queens because he had a soft spot for the old bookmakers. Besides, he considered those businesses harmless diversions that actually helped the people who couldn’t get to a track or OTB. And if the movie business panned out, he was thinking of investing in a major Las Vegas casino. But all of this had to wait until he cleared his name.