Pound for Pound

by F. X. Toole

  Aside from Chicky’s $400, he also got a nonrefundable round-trip plane ticket, room in a squat motel for three days, and meal tickets for the motel buffet. The morning before the fight, he got his medical exams and blood test. At the noon weigh-in, he came in at 145¾ pounds. His black opponent weighed 147, even, and would fill up on carbs and fluids and weigh 158 by fight time. Chicky would only hit 148¼. Along with the local boy’s experience and KO record, the 9¾-pound weight difference gave him a clear enough advantage that only the Mexican busboys bet on Chicky.

  The Vegas promoter and Velasco were in cahoots. The promoter backed the local boy, who was eleven and zero, with eight KOs. Seven of the eleven wins were rigged fights, though the black kid didn’t know it. He didn’t know that his manager would one day sell his contract, either, or that he had to keep winning big—otherwise, he would become the “opponent.”

  Commission guys are good for the most part, and they will seldom sanction fights in which one fighter has considerably more experience than the other, if for no other reason than to cover their asses should the boy with less experience get killed in the ring. But records can be doctored by crooked managers and hungry fighters, who inflate or deflate their records depending on the circumstances. Promoters will go along with it, even instigate it, especially if they have trouble putting a card together.

  Velasco and the promoter told the Vegas Commission that Chicky was eight and one, with six KOs, and that all his fights had been in Alabama, Georgia, and Ensenada, Baja California. Back at the gym in Bell, Velasco had told Chicky that his opponent was only three and two, and had no knockouts.

  Chicky said, “Yeah, but that’s five fights to my none.”

  Velasco said, “Don’t worry about it. He don’t have your amateur experience.”

  The fight was held at the Black Canary, a third-rate casino on the west side of Vegas, blacktown. Chicky wore his maroon-and-white shorts from the Regionals. The crowd was predominately black, some white, and a scattering of Latinos who bought lottery tickets and played the nickel slots. Velasco, acting as chief second, worked the corner with a local cut man.

  At the introduction, the ring announcer called the fighters’ names, weights, and gave their ring records. When Chicky heard his opponent’s record of eleven and zero, with eight KOs, he did a one-eighty to face Velasco.

  “What’s with this dude’s record? And they got me with fights I don’t have.”

  Velasco was silky, spoke in a confiding whisper. “The fuckin promoter changed the card on us at the last minute, m’hijo, and I had to make you look good to the Commission, that’s all.”

  Chicky said, “I don’t lie.”

  “This ain’t lyin, this is business.”

  “Hail, this’s like cuttin me off at the knees.”

  Velasco had plenty of practice in handling this particular situation. “I only went along with it so you could turn pro. That’s what you said you wanted, right? What about all your amateur fights, and you’re a southpaw? You can take this nigga easy.” Velasco was again guilty of the sin of omission, failing to mention the other guy’s amateur record of sixty-four wins out of seventy-two amateur fights, thirty-one of those wins by knockout.

  Chicky said, “This don’t smell right.”

  “A skunk’s ass don’t smell right to a wolf, but it smells right to a skunk,” Velasco said. “Look, quit if you have to, but you can forget about getting any more fights, okay? When the promoters hear about you goin dog, that’s gonna be it.”

  “Me goin dawg? Me?”

  The referee waved the two fighters to the center of the ring for the last instructions and to touch gloves. Chicky’s opponent rocked from foot to foot, his blood-red gloves and pearlescent shorts and his greased body glinting under the lights. He could hit, the Vegas boy, but so could Chicky.

  The bell rang and Chicky went out and did his best. His fight was first on the card. The arena was half empty. Loud fans were straggling in, paying more attention to the ring girls than the fight.

  Chicky lost. Not by much, but he lost. He gave as good as he got in the first two rounds, but his bigger and more experienced opponent used his size and savvy to finally wear him down. His years of dreaming of a big win in his first pro fight and of having an undefeated pro career were smashed in four three-minute rounds. Fifteen minutes overall.

  He shared his dressing room with three other prelim boys. They already knew about his defeat, and looked away when he came through the door, his bruised face as long as a leg. None of the other fighters spoke to him. They feared the taint of a loser’s stink, and pulled even tighter into themselves than before.

  Chicky got his paycheck while he was pulling on his first boot. He stood up and signed for it before noticing the amount. Instead of $400, the total was $20. The deductions, listed on the check stub, were explained in a monotone by the promoter’s money flunky.

  “Purse was $400. Less $240 for your physical, and blood tests that include HIV and hepatitis type C. Less another $115 for your optical. There is an additional $25 deduction for your Nevada boxing license. So, $400, less the combined $355 medical and the $25 for your license—that’s $380 in deductions and leaves you a net of $20.”

  Chicky stood there, one boot on, one in his hand. “Say again?”

  Back at the motel, Velasco reminded Chicky that he still owed the trainer 10 percent of the purse “off the top.”

  Velasco added, “That’s $40 for him. And don’t forget that I get a third of the other $360, and that’ll be $119.88, but you can forget the 88 cents.”

  “How can I still owe you when ever’thin’s been taken?”

  “Because I’m your manager,” said Velasco, “and because I’m the one what got you the fight, remember? At least you don’t have to pay income tax right now, but the promoter will send your 1099 in the mail.”

  “I still got to pay income tax, too?”

  “On the whole $400. And your FICA. It’s the law. And you owe me another $50 that I paid from my pocket to the cut man, so that’s $209 you owe all told. But the fans liked your heart, so the promoter’s gonna give you another shot soon. If we fight before the end of the year, you won’t have to pay medical again or get a new license.”

  “So I have to fight a ape with eleven straight wins, and still end up on the short end of the stick? We don’t treat hogs like that in Texas.”

  Velasco spoke honestly for the first time. “Hey, it’s the same fees for everybody their first fight.”

  Chicky said, “Tell me again that you didn’t know I’d be fightin a ape.”

  Velasco said, “No, no, only at the last minute, homes, when they switched on us. You didn’t have to fight, I told you that in the ring.”

  “Yeah, but only at the last minute, and you shouldda told me I’d be up to my ass in debt.”

  “How’m I supposed to know how much you don’t know unless you say somethin?” Velasco said. “Don’t get pissed at me, I’m the one in your corner you can depend on, ése. Get pissed at the Commission, not at me, that ain’t fair.”

  “This’s donkey’s dick.”

  Velasco said, “Listen, kid, I thought you was gonna take him out. You caught him with some good shots.”

  Chicky looked at himself in a mirror, touched the lumps and discoloration. “He caught me with more.”

  Velasco said, “Don’t be hard on yourself, chiquito. The all-time great, Henry Armstrong, he held three titles in different weights back when titles were titles. Feather, light, and welter. Henry, he lost his first fight, too.”

  Chicky didn’t know that Velasco had given the same little speech for years.

  Aside from the $119 he made off of Chicky, Velasco also made $400 cash under the table. The payment came from the manager of Chicky’s opponent, a common practice that was used to get reluctant managers and fighters to take fights they would otherwise not sign for. That the fighter might not see any of the money was the fighter’s problem. Velasco would sometimes supply three fighters
on the same card. He loved boxing, Señor Velasco did, and he knew that he must be doing something right by it. After all, he was a property owner, wasn’t he?

  Chicky paid Velasco the $209 dragging from the Vegas fight when they got back to Bell. He had to dig into his dwindling kicker, and Velasco saw how unhappy he was about that. To divert Chicky, Velasco made a call and quickly got him a job in a slaughterhouse working the gut wagon. It was something Velasco could have done all along, but now the timing was right.

  The stink and the shrieks were bad for the first few days, but like everyone else, Chicky got numb to them, had to. Twenty hours a week, animal juices leaking in a silent wail. Five dollars an hour under the table. He had to buy a floppy rubber hat, a body apron, and boots to keep the liquids and solids of death off of him. Chicky had always worked hard, and though this was far from the best job he’d ever had, at the end of each week he would be able to pocket a clear $100.

  By the time they’d returned to the dressing room immediately after the Black Canary fight, Velasco already knew that Chicky was not the usual farm or slum boy he was used to dealing with, and realized that his time to milk Chicky was short.

  Okay, punk, so I only get you for one more pop. Son cosas de la vida.

  Velasco telephoned a promoter he’d done business with up north, and agreed to one fight with the local favorite, a Mexican national with sixteen wins, no losses or draws, and nine KOs. Because there was no way for the California Commission to verify the Mexican’s record, the promoter only had to cop to the boy’s U.S. record, which was five wins, zero losses, and three knockouts. Velasco would make only three hundred chueco, crooked. A small-town fight, but you took what you could get. It was business.

  Velasco sat down with Chicky in a beer joint. Chicky had water.

  “I got somethin good for you,” said Velasco. He explained a six-fight deal that was bogus from the git.

  Velasco said, “I got this promoter who makes fights up north. Salinas, San Jose, Watsonville, Merced, Fresno, Stockton, places like that. Not big for now, but steady. He heard about how tough you was in Vegas and he called with a offer. You interested?”

  “Yeah, I am.”

  “Here’s the deal. You bitched that I didn’t tell you about Nevada licenses and medical exams and shit. Okay, I was wrong for not asking, okay? I’m telling you everything now, so don’t bitch later on, or because you don’t like the deal. You don’t like it, forget it, that’s what I’m sayin. But medicals and licenses, that’s standard, okay?, and they’re always up at the end of the year for everybody. It’s the Commission, not me, check it out.”

  “Okay, but what’s the six-fight deal?”

  Velasco said, “This California guy’s Mexican, like you’n me, so we can trust him. My Vegas guy’s got nothin until January, and that means another Nevada license and shit next year. But my raza guy up north, he can get you goin now, but the only way I can move you is if you’re licensed.”

  “I am licensed.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Velasco, “but you’re licensed in Nevada, not in Califa, ése. So if you want to wait it out for Nevada, that’s okay by me, but that’s a long time, and sooner or later that means you pay for another Nevada license. You follow this?”

  “I s’pose,” Chicky said. “So how much’ll a license and all go for here in California?”

  “‘Bout the same as before, but you’ll get all your money back, and more, on the next five shots, get me? And the medical and license come off your income tax same as the stuff in Vegas, see? That’s standard, too, so don’t think I’m screwin you, okay?”

  “How much does the raza pay?”

  “Four hundred the first two four-round fights, but then it’s five hundred for the next two. Once you’re ready to move up to six and eight rounds, it’s a hundred a round. That’s six and eight hundred big ones. More if you’re a KO puncher.” Velasco let it hang.

  Chicky sipped his water. “When’s all this supposed to happen?”

  “Couple a weeks. Plenty of time for you to rest, and get sharp.”

  “Do it.”

  “You want the six-fight deal?”

  “The whole nine yards.”

  The fight was held in Watsonville, just a few miles up and west from Salinas. The arena was a converted produce warehouse with folding chairs. It was set off from the strawberry fields and two miles in from the sea. It drew mostly Mexicans, the field-hand fans coming in from as far south as Soledad, home of California’s Soledad State Prison, and also from the sea town of Monterey.

  On the way to the fight, Chicky saw the strawberry fields, and homesickness loped through him. He swallowed hard, then told Velasco to stop the car.

  “How come?”

  “‘Cause.”

  Chicky picked strawberries from four different rows, careful not to damage the plants. He inspected and tasted each berry, allowing the red flavor to linger in his mouth. He got back in the car feeling better.

  “Not too bad,” he said, “but we grow ‘em bigger in Texas.”

  Chicky lost his second fight for the same reasons he lost his first, but this time he was wobbled in three of the four rounds. He left the ring bleeding from the mouth. The fans booed him. After all, this pinche tejano was not one of their own, not from Mexico, not a true Mexican from the other side.

  In the dressing room, Chicky stared at Velasco. “You sure this monkey only had five fights?”

  “You heard the ring announcer.”

  Chicky’s license with the California State Athletic Commission was $65, $40 more than Nevada, but the medical fees, including blood, eye, and the complex neuro were less, at $175, for a total cost to Chicky of $240. His trainer got $40, the local cut man got $50, and Velasco still got his $119. The total cost to Chicky was $489 out of a purse of $400. Velasco made $419, no taxes.

  Chicky began to live more and more on pan dulce and café con leche. He also began to lose weight. Ounces at first, but then three pounds, a significant amount for a walk-around welterweight. Other welters usually walked around closer to 160, if not more.

  A week after he’d returned from Watsonville, Chicky’s rent was due, and he had to dig deeply into his kicker again. At least he had a clean, dry place to live. With his six-fight deal, he figured that things would work out. He did the numbers on his next five fights. Twenty-eight hundred, less his corner men and manager, would still buy him time, especially if he kept working the gut wagon. Once he fought again, he could start eating good, maybe even move to a nice place. Despite his losses, he knew he was a better fighter now, but two losses in his first two fights was something he could never have imagined. He began to wonder if he was as good as he thought he was. He’d have to fight harder, that’s all. Maybe he’d get an easier fight the next time out, especially now that he had a promoter backing him with a six-fight deal.

  But Velasco had a surprise for him two days after Chicky paid his rent. “Look, carnal, I’m sorry, but the Watsonville promoter, he called me. He has to go back to Mexico because his wife died, so he won’t be using you after all. I think it’s best anyway, homes. You lost bad this last time, so I’m not goin to manage you no more. You’re a nice kid, but I don’t want you gettin hurt, see? You can still work out here at the gym, but I got to charge you dues, you know how it is.”

  Two days after that, Chicky was laid off at the slaughterhouse, was told that there was a slowdown. He sold his rubber boots and other gear on his way out to a new kid from the gym, coming in.

  Chicky felt like climbing into Fresita and heading home, but knew he should have beaten the second guy, and maybe even the first. If he’d only known how to move. He had the right questions, but wasn’t getting the right answers. Getting hit was sure as hell not the way to the money he’d need to bring the farm back into shape for his grandpa, not the way for his own future wife and kids to live decently once he retired. Maybe it was time to pack everything in, including college. The idea of going back to school made no sense to him now, the
four-year wall of college suddenly too high for his mind to climb. Maybe he was just a dumb-ass, small-time beaner after all, and he’d better quick get himself back to hoeing rows like he was supposed to.

  He’d lie to spare his granddaddy the shame. He’d say that, since Dan Cooley was dead, he had given up boxing to chase girls, that he’d worked in a hardware store in East Al-lay. Since his face hadn’t gotten cut up, Chicky figured the old man would buy it, or would say he did, even if he didn’t. If only Dan Cooley had been alive.

  Ay-yai-yai.

  Chapter 29

  Part of Chicky flat wanted to head home pissing sideways, his tail between his legs; but another part, the stupid part, still hoped to fight one more fight—to maybe win at least one, before having to face his granddaddy and the folks in Poteet. If he lost, he could always lie. But if he did lose, the grave for his dreams would surely be dug, and time nigh to shovel in the dirt.

  But he had another three weeks left on his rent that he couldn’t just dump, so he went looking for a job. His eats money running low, he began to worry about affording that Stetson his granddaddy told him to buy. He’d starve before he’d go through his hat money. At least he’d have something shiny to take home.

  Because he was an eager, clean-cut kid who spoke good English, he found a busboy job his second day out. He’d be working the night shift in the coffee shop at the Bicycle Club casino in nearby Bell Gardens. He was paid minimum wage, but got good tips nightly from the waitresses because he cleared and set tables and bussed dirty dishes as if he was getting twenty dollars an hour. He ate one hot meal during his shift, and while the manager purposely looked the other way, the thick-ankled old gals he worked for tipped the cooks into slipping him another hot meal to go when he punched out at eight a.m. In a few days, he gained his weight back, but he still felt weak. He wasn’t sleeping properly because of his shame. He needed to get back to the gym, but where should he go? Certainly not the Indio. And at what time of day, now that he was working nights? Being dumped as a loser by Velasco still hurt. He couldn’t stop thinking about Vegas, or Watsonville, nor could he stop thinking about his lost passbook in San Anto. He needed sleep like a sumbitch.