by J. J. Murray
That smile was for me.
The eavesdropper clears his voice loudly. “Were you just talking to Dante Lattanza?”
He seems harmless enough, both his gloved hands where I can see them, one hand clutching a camera like the turista he most likely is.
“Yeah,” I say, and I start walking.
“No kiddin’,” he says, falling in step beside me. “Dante ‘Blood and Guts’ Lattanza.” He points to the screen where Red is taping Dante’s right hand.
“Yeah. He’s a…he’s a good friend of mine.”
The man smiles. “Well, what do you know? I guess it’s all or nothing tonight, huh?”
“Yeah.” I start to move more quickly down Broadway.
The man walks a few paces behind me. “No disrespect, but I bet with my head. My money’s on Washington.”
I stop and face him. “You wasted your money.”
He shrugs. “Hey, I hope Lattanza kicks his ass seven ways to Sunday, but…” He shrugs again.
I look up at the snow drifting down. “I hope he wins, too.”
The man fades into the crowd, and I fade into a little pity party as I walk. I haven’t had one of these in quite a while, and I really should be feeling good about my life. I mean, I realized I was working at the wrong place, and I quit before it was too late. I know I’ll have a job at the Times on Tuesday. I also found Dante’s daddy, and though it’s up to Vincent to reveal himself to Dante, at least I had the coglione to start the process. I am in the best shape of my life. I am more of a corpo provocante than I’ve ever been before. Men are looking hard at me even now as I walk confidently wearing a pericoloso jacket.
But I’m walking alone. Merda. I’m walking alone.
If Dante wins, I lose. I know he’s going to win. He’ll go back to Evelyn, and I’ll restart my life at the Times. Fresh starts all around.
And then I’ll really be alone.
I turn down Seventh Avenue, hoping the scenery will change my mood. This is such a magical place with all its magical lights and magical snow. Tonight New York is miraculous. New York is be-you-tiful.
Back to the pity party.
Okay. If by some miracle, let’s say Dante loses. Geez. It hurts my heart just to think that. But let’s just say, all right? He doesn’t go back to Evelyn, he’s heartbroken again over this woman, and he’ll go into hiding from the press, especially the woman who alerted the press to his “fighting for love” claims in the first place….
I lose again.
One little problem.
I love him.
I even told him to his face, and there were times his eyes told me that he loved me. He said he believed that sex could only come after love, and we had lots of sex. Yes, he’s hot and the sex was hotter, but I actually want to be friends with Dante for the rest of my life. Yeah, he makes my heart flutter and all my naughty bits tingle, but I liked myself when I was with him. I was busy with him. I didn’t just get busy with him. He let me be a woman.
I’ve always wanted a man like that.
And I not only love him.
I like him.
That in itself is an earth-shattering and priorities-rearranging statement.
I like him.
I know how Lelani feels. I like Dante Lattanza. I like who he is. I like what he represents. I love all that granite, mind you, but behind his granite is a truly likable man.
I’ve been wearing the cross under my blouse for so long I sometimes forget it’s there. I pull it out and kiss it, saying a little prayer:
“God, make it end in a draw. Maybe then I’ll have a chance.”
Chapter 31
At the Garden, I wait in line like so many others who only show up for the main event. I am, after all, a New Yorker. The line moves a millimeter at a time, so I call Red again to pass the time.
I am such a pest.
“Christiana, it’s getting close to go time,” Red says.
“I know,” I say. “I’m stuck in line, and I’m bored. What’d you feed him today?”
“What’s that got to do with anything now?”
“Just humor me, Red, okay?” I say. “My granddaddy said that on the day of a fight a boxer needs to eat steak, but never well done.”
I hear him sigh. “He ate a salad with Italian dressing, a nine-ounce T-bone steak, which I grilled medium, buttered toast, and a fresh fruit cup. Wanna know what he drank, too?” Red sounds stressed.
“I know you’re taking good care of him, Red, I just worry, you know? What’s he doing now?”
“He’s praying in the mop closet.”
A closet is as good a place to pray as anywhere else, I guess. I flash back to his closet of a room. I was praying there, too. Praying he wouldn’t stop.
“Is the door closed?” I ask.
“Yep.”
“So he can’t hear you, right?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I love him, Red.” I fight off a tear. “I really love him.”
“I know you do,” Red says softly. “Does he know?”
“I told him once months ago, but I’m not sure he remembers. Don’t let him get hurt, okay?”
“I won’t.”
“Ciao.”
The second I close my phone, I hear an old woman’s voice in my ear. “I couldn’t help overhearing,” she says.
I turn and see an ancient black woman in a flashy silver dress. “Yes?”
“You know something I should know, honey?” she asks.
I hope to God that this isn’t Tank Washington’s mama. “Dante Lattanza is going to win tonight.”
She wrinkles up her wrinkles. “You’ve been drinking, huh?”
I shake my head and smile. “Tank Washington is going down hard tonight.” I notice others listening. “Twelfth round,” I say louder. “Knockout.”
Mrs. Wrinkled Wrinkles cocks her head. “And just how do you know this?”
I put my hand on my heart. “My heart tells me.”
Mrs. WW rolls her eyes and several others in the crowd laugh. “Child, I ain’t bettin’ on your heart.”
“Bet on Dante Lattanza’s heart then,” I say brightly. “His heart is huge.”
Once I’m inside the Garden, I follow the crowd down to the ring while an undercard bout between two boxers I don’t recognize goes on to occasional noise. There are so many celebrities in the crowd. I see Sugar Ray Leonard schmoozing with Sylvester Stallone, the mayor chatting with Robert De Niro, the Raging Bull himself. Is that Martin Scorsese? It has to be. No one has an eyebrow like that. That can’t be Chris Tucker shooting the shit with Mr. T. When will Mr. T change his chains? Oh sure, Donald Trump is here, conferring with the Golden Boy Oscar De La Hoya and Rosie O’Donnell.
Oh yeah. Don King is here. Whoop-de-do.
I push down my own hair, just in case.
I notice Evelyn seated near the red corner wearing a flashy golden dress, her hair and makeup absolutely perfetto. I’m glad I’m subdued. As much as I want Dante all to myself, I do not want anyone to recognize me tonight.
Except for Dante, of course.
As I check my ticket, I feel a hand grabbing my arm.
I turn and see Lelani wearing a slinky, exquisitely clingy black satin dress and high heels only skinny-footed people can wear.
I hug her hard. “It is so good to see you again!”
She pulls me to an empty seat a few rows behind Evelyn. “You’re sitting with me. Red always gets an extra ticket in case Dante’s father shows up.”
She has no idea how soon that might be.
Lelani looks at my ticket. “Girl, you would have been sitting on Washington’s side.”
This is very cool. “Lelani, I’m so nervous. I mean, I’ve watched a bunch of fights, but I never…” I sigh. “I never loved the guy fighting before, you know?”
“I knew you were in love with him,” Lelani says.
“When?”
She wrinkles up her little nose. “Oh, I suppose it was the second you stole his f
ish.”
“I didn’t steal his fish. I asked for it.”
“That’s when I knew,” she says. “You two were playing eye-tag the whole time, too.”
She noticed. Was I that obvious?
“Hey,” she says, “don’t be nervous yet. It’s going to be a while. Dante will come out to some Italian song, the crowd will go crazy, and once the fight starts, you won’t have any time to be nervous.”
“I don’t know. My stomach is tumbling.”
She takes my hand. “Let me walk you through this. On the way in, Dante will smile at and hug every person he can, whether they want him to hug them or not. He’ll pose for pictures. He’ll hold babies. He’ll kiss grandmas with more facial hair than he has.”
“As if he’s running for office?”
She nods. “Yeah. Like that.”
Dante for president? I’d vote for him. Dante for mayor…Sure. Maybe Dante can fix the MTA.
“Ten minutes will pass before he gets into the ring.” She smiles, her eyes looking shady. “It may last longer than the fight.”
“Don’t say that.”
She squeezes my hand. “I meant it in a good way.”
“Oh.” Dante knocking out Tank early? That would be a miracle.
The crowd roars. We look up in time to see one of the unknown fighters biting the canvas and the ref counting him out.
Oh, geez. Now my stomach is in my left ear and my eyes are blurry. I hope my vision clears by the time they clear the ring.
“Lelani, I haven’t been to a fight in a long time,” I say. “Does Dante have anything special planned for his entrance? Other than the hugging, kissing, and posing?”
“Dante is so boring, Christiana,” Lelani says. “Once in the ring, he’ll do his four-corners routine, go to the center, bow four times, smile at the world…”
I tune her out because I am feeling something incredible inside me, something even more magical than walking through the snowy rainbows out on Broadway. Something mythical.
Yes.
Something mythical is going to happen tonight. Something more mythical than that day on the outcropping when I held hands in the sunset with Dante. It’s almost primal. Boxing is primal. All of this—the ring, the crowd, the lights—is primal, deep, heroic. Dante is like an ancient hero about to slay the monster. He’s Beowulf about to slaughter Grendel. He’s Gawain about to fight the Green Knight. All the signs dancing behind and around me proclaim it: DANTE WILL WIN IT ALL!!! DANTE FIGHTS FOR LOVE! LATTANZA FOR PRESIDENT. Italian flags wave nonstop, Dante’s fans really putting their hearts, their very souls into their shouts, those signs, those waving flags. They love him. They’re not fair-weather fans. They truly love him.
And so do I.
My hands can’t stop shaking I love him so much.
Few people love Tank Washington. They respect him, yes, but only for what he can do. Thousands here tonight love and respect Dante for who he is.
Dante is a hero.
Dante is my hero.
“Christiana,” Lelani says, “you’re crying.”
I wipe tears I hadn’t noticed from my cheeks. “Just losing myself in the moment.”
Another roar. A song begins. Goose bumps. It’s Smokey Robinson’s “Being with You.”
More tears.
The entire Garden stands and begins singing.
Whoo. Now my legs won’t stop shaking.
“Since when did Dante like Smokey Robinson?” Lelani asks.
Did he play this for me? Man, I need some tissues. “I, um, I told him I liked Smokey on our way to town that day. I never thought he’d play one of his songs.” What does this mean?
While Lelani sings the chorus, I stand on tiptoe to see Dante, but there’s no way I can see over all these people.
“He usually plays some extremely loud opera music on his entrance,” Lelani says, swaying. “This is nice. What’s he trying to do, get Washington’s fans to cheer for him instead?”
I am cheering so loudly inside right now!
Smokey’s voice fades, and a full band kicks in with Dean Martin crooning, “Ain’t That a Kick in the Head.”
Oh, this is too much! Everyone is smiling! Everyone is singing! My head is spinning! This song is so be-you-ti-ful! There he is.
Oh, my heart.
He is one huge smile. He’s a moonbeam. He’s a…he’s a slice of eaten watermelon. He squints and dances with DJ at his side in front of Red and the cut man, who’s bald and wears a paper halo for a hat. The cut man and Red wear black Everlast jackets, and Dante—
Daa-em.
My naughty bits flutter.
Dante looks so hot in green, red, and white trunks with a matching satin warm-up, its hood flopping side to side as he bounces.
“This is really different!” Lelani shouts as the song ends.
“How so?”
“He usually does some Sinatra.”
A man behind us with booze on his breath sticks his head between us. “Yeah, ‘My Way’ would have been more appropriate. ‘And now, Lattanza’s end is near, and soon his face will be bloody for certain…’”
Lelani stares him down. “Kiss off, ya bum.”
The man jerks back. “You two ain’t Washington fans?”
I wave my hands in his face. “Mi scusi? Hai un febbre? Non importa, non importa. Idiota.”
The jerk sits.
“You’ve been busy,” Lelani says.
I bite my lower lip. “Dante rubbed off on me.”
“I’ll say.”
I look up at the ring as Dante rolls over the top rope, the crowd roaring even louder. “Andiamo!” I shout.
“Um, Christiana,” Lelani whispers. “You just asked that drunk if he had a fever.”
“I did?”
She nods.
“Oh. I thought I was asking if he was high.”
She waves a hand in front of her nose. “But he is.”
I watch Dante do his four corners, his arms raised. I watch him stand in the center of the ring and bow in four directions. I watch him commanding that ring, commanding the attention of the Garden, commanding the attention of the entire world, BROOKLYN stitched proudly into his belt.
I also see him wink in my direction.
Damn. My hands and legs had just calmed down, Dante. Give a girl a chance!
He winks at me again.
A few heads in front of me turn and look at me.
“That was new, too,” Lelani says.
“What was?” I say coyly, fighting to keep my hands from flying off my body.
“The wink. Must be the lights.”
I smile. “You are jaded, Lelani.”
“Yep,” she says. “I sure am.”
“Andiamo!” I yell, and the heads in front of me turn away.
They’re just jealous that a real man didn’t wink at them.
Twice.
Chapter 32
Tank makes Dante wait for five minutes, but Dante doesn’t seem to mind. He looks so good. He’s had a nice haircut and a shave. His body says, “Warrior.”
My body says, “Warrior princess needs warrior prince.”
I should have had a soda. I must be sugar deficient.
A driving bass beat fills the Garden. Here we go. I hope Tank doesn’t—
He’s rapping.
I can’t even watch.
The beat is hot, but the words he’s spouting are completely unintelligible. I hear whispers of “Hell Razah” floating around me. Hell Razah, who used to be Heaven Razah (real name Chron Smith), is from Red Hook, and he’s rapping along with Tank. Traitor.
“Dante’s entrance had more class,” Lelani says.
I agree. Everyone warms up in his own way, I guess, and Tank is sweating profusely by the time he enters the ring, points at Dante, and slides his right glove under his neck.
Dante only smiles.
Tattoos cover Tank’s arms, back, and—ew—the back of his bald head. That blond goatee does nothing for him. He wears a black T-shirt,
black and white shorts past his knees, white gloves, and black shoes. His entourage holds up his belt, flashing bling and generally being annoying.
And after Tank loses, those fools will have to go get real jobs. Ha! Welcome to Burger Barn. Can I take your order, yo?
The lights dim. A spot hits Michael Buffer in his signature tuxedo. My stomach settles down, but my heart thumps loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Let’s get ready to rumble!” Buffer roars.
Andiamo.
Let’s do this.
“First in the red corner, weighing in at a rough-and-ready one hundred and fifty-eight and one-half pounds, wearing the tricolors of Italy…”
The crowd roars. I am deaf.
“With a spectacular record of fifty wins against only two losses, all fifty wins by way of knockout, fighting out of Aylen Lake, Ontario, Canada, originally from Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn, New York…”
Another roar. I am dizzy.
“The challenger and former WBA middleweight champion of the world, Dante ‘Blood and Guts’ Lattanza!”
I cannot hear.
I cannot see.
I am crying.
I feel the love for this man, and I feel love for Red, for DJ, for Lelani, for those around me, even the boozy jerk behind me.
Something mythical just has to happen tonight.
When Buffer introduces Tank, the Garden is much quieter. Boo-birds in the cheap seats shout all sorts of interesting curse phrases. I’ll have to translate them into Italian later.
Meanwhile, Dante and DJ are in his corner, just…talking. They’re just shooting the breeze moments before Tank starts pounding Dante’s gentle face. Red removes the warm-up. That’s what I’m talking about. Dante’s rippled abs have sprouted more ripples. Red removes the cross, and Dante kisses it.
I pull mine out and kiss it, too.
“Superstitious?” Lelani asks.
“A little,” I say. I kiss the cross again for good measure.
They receive their instructions from the referee in the center of the ring, I hear “Touch ’em up!” from the referee, and Dante bounces back toward me.
Another wink.
Mythical.
Yeah.
This is going to be mythical.