by F. X. Toole
“You okay?”
“No, but I’ll make her.”
They shook hands.
Sykes had seen the KO, saw how the boy dropped like a bank sack full of nickels, and saw how the crowd came roaring to its feet. Mr. George watched as Sykes blinked, watched as Sykes’s eyes jittered toward the green exit signs.
Good, thought Mr. George, boy has earned him his ass whippin. Mr. George also watched as Chicky and the Cavazo brothers and Eloy were whooping. Seth and Toby watched them, too, had seen the devastating KO, and had seen Sykes’s scurrying eyes.
“Sheee-it,” said Seth.
Toby said, “What now?”
“Well …” Seth tried, but he couldn’t go any further.
The referee raised Chicky’s hand. Chicky and Sykes were proclaimed winners of the Semi. They would meet the next day at noon.
“Sheee-it,” said Seth, repeating himself. His first instinct, lawyer style, was to cover his ass. For the first time since he’d passed the bar, he didn’t know how.
Toby felt the same. “This is bogus, man.”
Both had known that six of Sykes’s losses had come at the hands of southpaws, but being new to the game, and not understanding its geometry, they’d decided the losses had been quirks. They had believed that proper training by Mr. George would solve the problem with lefties, but Sykes hadn’t improved, so they decided that it must be Mr. George’s fault. Now that they’d seen what Sykes had to do to beat Farrell, they realized that their plans for getting to the big time were about to go down the tubes unless something could be done with this badass southpaw Garza kid. They wondered how much the Messkin would charge to take a dive.
On the way to the dressing room, Trini massaged Chicky’s neck and shoulders. He said, “You hit like the Wolf, kid, right, Lobo? Yeah, he hits like his abuelito, right?”
Eloy had calmed down from the vodka and the spreading codeine, and smiled. “Hits harder’n me, más recio, mucho más recio.” A lot harder.
Dressing rooms are the best places in the world when you win. But they knew that they still had to win the Final.
Paco looked at Chicky. “It’s comin up nine. Eat good first, but I want you in the sack before ten-thirty, okay? No dirty movies.”
Chicky nodded. The pressure was on, and he knew from past tournaments that he’d be dreaming all night. He’d see himself punching in slow motion while his opponent would be firing on him full blast and at will. He’d wake up a dozen times before the alarm went off.
“Weigh-in’s eight o’clock,” Paco reminded them. “I’ll be there early.”
“I’m sleepin in,” Trini said.
“I’ll be early, too,” Chicky promised.
Trini asked, “Both you stayin in the hotel?”
Eloy looked at Trini. He had schemed on his own. “Chicky is. I’m drivin on home, make sure everything’s still where I left it.”
It made sense to Trini. Traffic would be zip that time of night, and the same coming in the next morning. Being rid of Eloy’s motor mouth would be a relief.
“You got my cell phone number if home don’t answer?”
“Yeah, yeah, and you got all my numbers,” Trini assured him. “What time’ll you be up?”
“Early,” Eloy said, confident that Chicky had no idea of the real meaning of this conversation. “Sunup.”
“Why don’t you call me at nine and we’ll all have pancakes?”
“I could call earlier.”
“Yeah, do that, I might as well go to the fuckin weigh-in with y’all.”
“Don’t hang me up, hear me?”
Trini sucked on the wooden end of a blue-tipped kitchen match. “Would I do that?”
At Crockett’s, Chicky drank water, more grapefruit juice, more water, and then ate Mexican-style scrambled eggs with beans and corn tortillas. He had more bread pudding, and two glasses of milk. Getting their business square at the arena had taken an hour. Chicky was hungry and dug into his food. Eloy looked on, sipped coffee he’d loaded up with four sugars. He noticed that Chicky had dropped in weight. Eating and the fluids had taken another forty minutes, but food and drink meant the lost weight would come back on.
They went to Chicky’s room, and Chicky took a quick shower. His hair was clipped almost to his scalp, so drying off was quick.
“Why you goin all the way home, Grandpa?”
Eloy already had his lie. “It’s the ranch. We been away.”
Chicky said, “But you’ll be here tomorrow in plenty of time?”
“I’ll come back and get you up at seven. We’ll feed you early, and then again after the weigh-in.”
Eloy could see the boy was tired, but was sure he’d be fine in the morning, even if he would toss and turn getting to sleep. He was proud of the boy. He saw much of himself in Chicky.
“You’re gonna be better’n me, verás, you’ll see.”
Chicky smiled, “You betchum, Red Ryder.” Without thinking, he repeated what Eloy had said to him a thousand times, going back as far as Chicky could remember. Chicky squinted. “You able to make it home okay?”
“Hail, yeah, ol’ Fresita knows the way by heart.”
The Wolf made it to the street, his body damp. He hardly shit these days, and almost never pissed, and he could no longer tell if the alarm bells ringing in his body came from his pickled guts or from his desperate need.
Chapter 15
Following the Semifinal, Toby and Seth pulled up in front of Sykes’s aunt’s house. They told Psycho to be ready at seven-thirty the next morning.
Sykes said, “My knee be hurtin’n, my foot, too, where the honky muhfuh step on me.”
Mr. George knew Sykes was lying. Seated next to him in the rear seat, he yawned and said, “Put ice on ‘em, you be fine.”
Sykes got out of the BMW and started for the door, but then returned. He pursed his lips and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together like a tailor feeling fine wool.
Sykes said, “Need some more you-know.”
Toby, the driver, said, “We gave you two hundred before the tournament.”
“My awntie a big eater. She don’t get it this way, she get it robbin you house.”
Seth forked over another hundred. “Stretch it.”
Sykes turned away, and spoke as if he were talking to a prison guard. “Stretch some a this,” and walked toward the house.
Seth said, “I don’t get it. No matter how much we do for him, nothing makes him happy.”
Mr. George said, “Sykes not be happy if he’as white.”
Mr. George pulled down the armrest and settled into the buttery leather of the backseat. One more fight, and one more hundred-dollar bill to go. He’d already bought four pairs of sixteen-ounce sparring gloves, some new punch mitts, and three new speed bags. Helping his little guys was the only upside.
Toby drove in the direction of Mr. George’s gym, located in a warehouse district off of East Houston, near Cherry. Once his wife had passed, Mr. George lived alone in two windowless back rooms. He was surprised when they got to his gym but drove on by.
Mr. George said, “You passed where I live.”
Seth muttered, “We need to talk.”
“Talk back at my place.”
Seth said, “We’d rather keep moving, if you understand what I mean.”
I understood all along, saltine.
“Look,” said Toby, watching Mr. George in the rearview mirror, “you saw this Garza tear the head off that husky boy.”
“Uh-huh!”
Seth said, “Sykes didn’t like what he saw.”
“Sykes ain’t gittin paid to like.”
“Just what is his problem?” Seth asked.
“The boy a fly—he love shit same as sugar.”
“But can he go all the way?” Toby asked nervously.
Mr. George was having fun. “All the way where?”
Seth said, “Win tomorrow and beyond.”
“That depend on him.”
Toby pressed. “Can
he beat Garza?”
“Sykes, he a badass. It can be good when a fighter a badass. But a badass same as everybody else, all he got to do to beat the other boy is whip him.”
Neither lawyer wanted to deal with that germ of truth, and that made it all the more fun for Mr. George.
Eloy stayed in San Anto instead of driving back to the farm. He’d planned it that way since early afternoon, when Trini was unable to get him his goods. Eloy’s problem was where to stay—clearly not with Chicky, and maybe puking or having to take off in the middle of the night if Trini called. He took North Broadway to the cheap motels past Mulberry and out near Brackenridge Park. It had been years since he’d been in that part of town at night, and he was wary. Streetwalkers with bulging fake tits and their crotches near to hanging out patrolled the sidewalks and preened at corners. Transvestites wore feather boas. Eloy drove past as the hookers waved and whistled at him. He decided that maybe a Southside motel was best after all, but then he saw cruising cars and pickups pull over suspiciously in front of motels and under dying oak trees. When they immediately pulled away, Eloy realized that they’d made a quick score from the shadows that moved in and out quick as cats. Eloy thought fast, made a plan. He’d check into a nearby motel, head for the shadows under the trees, and then go back to his motel to shoot up. He had sterile, disposable needles with him, so that was no problem. He’d score just enough to get him through the night. But then he realized that he had to face the tournament the next day. He decided he’d better go for two days. But what if that shithead Trini let him down? Eloy decided that he’d best try to score for five days. Fuck it, if all he could get was some Mexican shit, he could always steal a spoon from a coffee shop and cook it. He came to a decision and made a U-turn.
The Maverick Motel dated from 1947, just after the boom of World War II. It had three floors, plus stairs and parking on both sides of the building. The faded old stucco needed eight coats of paint, and clusters of dry weeds hugged its flaking walls. The Thai owners had let the whores take over, but were stingy with clean sheets and supplied one frayed towel per trick. For thirty dollars, a john could rent a room for an hour. He was usually out and gone in half that. Eloy paid $43.37 for the night. Nocturnal creatures in human form had slithered away from his headlights, then watched from shadows and through narrow openings in blinds as he went to his room on the ground floor. A cricket sang his hardy love song behind the patched wall next to the toilet. Eloy gagged back a spurt of vomit and felt bile burn the back of his throat.
“Lordy.”
Eloy wanted to score—but his body wanted something else. You can abuse major organs like the liver and kidneys only so much before the body revolts. Pile on top of that the stress load that comes when the body is screaming for a fix. Eloy suddenly felt as if the floor had disappeared from beneath his feet. His legs refused to move. He slowly collapsed and lay on the floor. His eyes closed, his breathing became slow and shallow.
Toby drove the BMW out onto the 410 loop—no more stoplights meant no carjacking niggers to worry about. Mr. George had his hand on the ice pick in his pocket. He calmly watched the cars go by as the BMW circled close to the International Airport, and near both the Lackland and Brooks Air Force bases. Planes were flying everywhere in the dark night.
Toby said, “There’s a reason we need to talk.”
“Uh-huh,” Mr. George muttered.
Toby explained that he and Seth weren’t concerned for themselves, or because any money that could be lost on Sykes would in any way cost them. No, they were concerned for the investors whom they had promised a fair return on their money—old friends, even relatives, folks who cared about the plight of African Americans, decent folks who revered the Reverend Jesse Jackson and put their faith in the idea that Sykes was someone fundamentally good who needed and deserved a second chance.
Toby pleaded, “They need your help.”
Mr. George said, “Sykes be the one to save them po’ rich folks, not me.”
“But you’re the trainer.”
“Dass right, but dass all.”
Seth broke in. “True, but winning is the real issue, wouldn’t you agree? And sometimes the downtrodden need a little help to win, a little head start, you know, like a bootstrap deal. So think. Isn’t there maybe something you know about, with all your years in boxing, that you could do, let’s say, to somehow influence the outcome of tomorrow’s fight in your fighter’s favor?”
“He you fighter. You wanna fix the fight, up to you to do it.”
Mr. George had smelled weasel sweat from the time they’d gotten on the loop, and he smiled to himself.
Toby was getting pissed. How dumb could one old jigaboo be? He tried again. “It would be very much to your advantage if you could ensure a win for Sykes tomorrow.”
“Ain’t no big thing, win. Jus’ tell you boy to go out there and knock that muhfuh Messkin out.”
Seth, hating to say it outright, said, “Just how common is it, you know, for someone to fix a fight?”
Mr. George sat back. “‘Bout as common as a nigga wit a snake.”
Toby tried to be patient, but he was starting to sweat and felt slightly sick to his stomach. “Boxing is like every other business, Mr. George. There are ways, and there are ways. What we’re talking about here is maybe somehow putting something on Sykes’s gloves, or in Garza’s water bottle, you know, or maybe something in his food?”
“Fool, that not how it done.”
“Okay, fine. How is it done?” Seth asked impatiently.
Mr. George said, “Like this hyuh.”
He reached up and lightly twisted Toby’s ear. Toby nearly ran off the road at sixty-eight miles per hour.
“Whoa!” said Toby, finding the brake pedal. “Whoa!”
Mr. George twisted ever so lightly. “Y’all goin take me home now, or what?”
Toby made a beeline for Mr. George’s place.
Seth said, “Of course it’s understood that you’ll get paid your final hundred dollars after the fight tomorrow.”
They drove off and Mr. George stood on the curb, thinking, God surely didn’t make lawyers to be what they’d become.
He went to bed in his stuffy room. He couldn’t sleep. Maybe he should go to Lamar Steuke about all of this, but he had no proof. He could go to crazy-ass Trini Cavazo, but what might that dope-head nut do, shoot Sykes? Shoot the lawyers? Maybe blow him away, too? He could tell Chicky what he knew and urge him to go for an early knockout, but coming from him, Sykes’s own trainer, it could spook the kid right out of his jock. Should he place a call to Eloy? But shit, this ain’t gonna come to nuthin. How would those two dumb peckawoods fix a fight on their own?
Trini lit a cigarette as he watched an infomercial about roasting two turkeys and making corn bread at the same time. It was past eleven. Like always, he couldn’t sleep.
Toby and Seth hadn’t yet cleared the Eastside when Seth fingered his cell phone. It rang once.
Trini said, “Wass up?”
“Seth.”
Trini said, “My brother Seth, ése.”
Seth said, “Here’s Toby.”
Toby came on. “Yeah, Trin, hey, level with me, okay? How high are Sykes’s chances to beat Garza tomorrow?”
“‘Bout as high as a Chinee dwarf.”
Toby said, “That bad?”
“Chicky’ll kick the shit outta him.”
“I want Sykes to win,” Toby told him.
Trini asked, “How bad?”
“Bad enough for you to meet us at the Hilton Palacio on the river.”
Trini didn’t like that idea. “Parkin costs too much, and I’ll stick out over there. How’s tomorrow?”
Toby said, “You saw how Sykes had trouble with that lefty. We got to talk before it’s too late.”
“Late is right now, for chrissake.”
“It’ll be worth it,” Toby promised him.
Trini squashed his Marlboro Menthol in a coffee lid. “Crockett Barbecue’s got good
coffee, and over there us spicks can mix with y’all and not draw a look.”
“Thirty minutes.”
Toby and Seth were already at Crockett’s when Trini got there. He walked past them to the counter to order coffee. Toby and Seth sat mid-room in the near empty barbecue joint, drank Evian water, and tried not to be noticed.
Lame brains, Trini thought.
Bright overhead lights shone through the big plate-glass window and turned the sidewalk yellow. Trini ordered coffee at the counter. Loading it with sugar, he took his time to check the room for any fight people. He knew they’d all be crapped out like a burned tortilla by this time, but his years on the sly had taught him that there was no such thing as too careful. He’d have preferred meeting these two gabachos in the daytime at the old red courthouse, or out in the mesquite, but they were anxious and he sensed that he could make a meal of these little white mice. The room was clean, so he ambled over and sat down.
Trini said, “Say it quick.”
“Can you make it so Sykes wins tomorrow, yes or no?” Toby asked.
Trini let them have it hard. “Claro que sí, clearly, but it’ll cost you five big ones.”
Toby was surprised it was so cheap. He wanted clarification, but played it dumb. “Five hundred seems a little high …”
Trini said, “Toby, baby, remember the Nina Simone song? Maybe it’s before your time? Something like, ‘Oh, Lord, I don’t want to be good, just don’t let me be misunderstood,’ some shit like that?”
“You said five, right?” Seth asked, already knowing the answer.
“Yeah,” Trini said, “five beeeeg ones.”
Toby said, “Why so much, dang? Who we dealing with here, the Federales?”
“I got to split with my people, don’t I?” Trini smiled, his eyes droopy. “But when Chicky goes down tomorrow, you boys best be clear that I’m the man who’ll be training Cyrus shit-bird Sykes from now on, ain’t that right?”
The lawyers hesitated.
Trini said, “Is that a yes?”
“It’s a yes,” Seth said, “you’re Sykes’s trainer, assuming Sykes wins tomorrow.”