by B. L. Morgan
I took my quart of McCormick's to the counter.
“Say Vato! You look like hell tonight,” a scratchy Chicano accented voice said to me from across the counter.
I looked into the blood shot eyes of Julio “Padre,” Paez, a longtime acquaintance of mine, from back in the days when I was still a licensed prize fighter.
“I feel like hell,” I told him.
“Yeah,” he went on. “You look like a fur ball my cat spit up.”
Tonight, everybody just had to try to make me feel better. I looked at Julio’s battered face. He had old scar tissue over both eyes and both his ears were misshapen from absorbing hooks.
I smiled at Julio. He was an O.K. guy who never meant anyone any harm.
“You don’t look like you’ve won any beauty contests lately,” I told him.
He laughed and said, “My wife tells me she likes the rough look. The uglier I get, the more she loves me.”
* * *
Julio “Padre,” Paez had once been a professional boxer. The last I heard he wasn’t taking prizefights anymore. His wife didn’t like him coming home so beat up, he was scaring their kids. He had been making some extra money being a sparring partner. Sometimes you get just as beat up from sparring as you do from actual fights. But since you wear head gear, your face doesn't look as bad.
Julio got the nickname “Padre,” when he was eighteen years old in his fourth professional prizefight. At the time Julio had three wins, zero losses and the local press was taking notice of him.
He was a fiery Mexican warrior who wasn’t afraid of taking two punches to land one. Julio wasn’t a big puncher, but he was fast enough with his hands that if he landed a good shot and the opponent backed up he would attack instantly. Julio would keep punching in quick bursts until the referee would stop the fight before the opponent had a chance to counter attack.
In his fourth fight, Julio went up against Sam Letterman. Sam was a trial horse with a solid chin and one hell of a straight right cross. He also cut real easy and had a record of five wins and five losses. All his losses were due to cuts.
Julio waded into Sam like Sam was beef stew and he hadn’t eaten for a week. Julio landed a good left hook in the first round and when Sam backed up he attacked wildly. There was no way Julio was going to listen to his corner’s instructions and just wait for a cut to develop. He wanted Sam out of there, and he wanted him out now.
Julio came in firing haymakers with both hands. Sam covered up and slipped and dodged the incoming punches. He fired one punch back. It was a compact, short, overhand right to the point of Julio’s chin.
Julio froze, like he’d forgotten something in the dressing room and was trying to remember what it was. It seemed like he also locked eyes with some guy in the fifteenth row. Julio crashed face forward, stiff as a board, into the canvas.
The referee counted Julio out and he was carried, still unconscious, to the dressing room.
In the dressing room Julio regained consciousness as suddenly as he went out. He sat up and shouted, “Jesus Christ the Lord is my savior, I have been touched by an angel and seen the face of God!”
Julio told everyone there that he had been taken by three angels on a journey where he’d met Jesus and God himself. God told him that man was not a viscous animal by nature and that he needed to spread the word that we should all be kind to each other and that God does exist and loves us.
Of course, no one listened to Julio.
He preached on street corners and in parks. He handed out bibles everywhere he went, and never took any money for giving the good word. Julio said being the messenger was reward enough.
He continued his boxing career and received the nickname "Padre" for trying to give the good word to the other boxers around him. Julio told everyone, when he found God, he found peace of mind.
Unfortunately, he also lost his killer instinct.
Now, whenever Julio hurt an opponent, he backed off and let the guy recover. Frequently Julio took some bad beatings from guys he’d let off the hook. Boxing is a brutal business. If you’re not willing to be brutal, you have no business being in it.
Julio “Padre,” Paez became just an opponent, just a name for rising fighters to have as a “W” on their records.
A few years later, Julio married one of the neighborhood Mexican girls and in two years she gave birth to two babies. Maybe there is a happy ending for Julio after all.
* * *
We talked for a few minutes about people we knew from around the neighborhood. It always surprised me how many people I’d grown up with that I was outliving. That was just one more thing I was not going to think about.
I asked Julio if he was taking any more sparring partner jobs.
“Yeah I am,” he answered me. “For a while, I couldn’t hardly get no work at all in the gyms. Lately it seems I’ve been in demand. Some of the trainers have even been calling me up.”
“Really?” I told Julio, “I didn’t think there was ever a shortage of guys that didn’t mind getting smacked up-side the head.”
“Me neither,” he answered. “But hey, as long as they’re paying me, I don’t ask too many questions. Gotta feed those babies and god bless their souls, most of the trainers have been telling their guys to go easy on me. That makes the work a little easier on you.”
CHAPTER 3
Women in Need
Back at my apartment I peeled off my wet clothes and threw them in a corner on top of the other dirty clothes there. I reminded myself that I’d better pick up the pile and throw them into a closet before Wednesday. Otherwise Rosa was going to jump on me for leaving a pile of dirty clothes out.
It doesn’t make sense to me that I pay a woman to come and clean my place who gives me hell if I leave a mess for her to clean up. But I’m not sure why I do anything anymore.
I switched on the TV and sat down on the couch in my jockey shorts cradling my friend McCormick.
I took a long gulp from my friend. The whiskey burned as it went down. I focused my eyes as well as I could on the TV screen.
A movie I’d seen a few times before was just starting. I didn’t really want to see this bullshit again but what the fuck else was I going to do. It was named The Fall of The House of Usher. Vincent Price was the only actor I recognized in the movie. I didn’t really want to watch it, but I didn’t want to use the energy to get off the couch to change the channel either. So, I guess I was going to suffer through this piece of shit one more time.
I took a couple more deep hits from McCormick. The burning in my throat went away and I didn’t really care what was on the TV anyway.
The story was that this young sweet thing, who wore dresses too tight to breath in, was Vincent’s sister. She and her fiancé came for a visit to the family castle to announce they were getting married. She acts like she’s sick and half stoned all the time. Vincent tells her fiancé she can never leave the castle again.
Think again Vince! If that was my girl, I’d have put my boot so far up your ass you’d be puking leather.
I was deeply into this movie. I wanted to kick Vincent Price’s ass. I wanted to kick the fiancé's ass for being such a fucking idiot and not getting his girl the hell out of there. I wanted to fuck Vincent Price’s sister because, well hell, just because I wanted to. I hadn’t been fucked for a good long time and even if at this part of the movie she did look like one of the zombies from Night of The Living Dead. I would have given her the high hard one anyway.
She looked like she needed it almost as bad as I did.
The phone rang beside me. It jarred me out of the TV screen and I almost spilled my bottle of whiskey on myself.
I leaned over and picked up the receiver from the end table. “Yeah, what-a-ya-want?” I said into the phone. I think I slurred the words into the mouth piece, but I couldn’t be sure since I was riding a pretty good buzz by that time.
The voice that came back at me was definitely feminine. The voice had a smooth, silky quality. It was
very controlled. The words this voice spoke were carefully chosen and spoken clearly as though they were from a script.
“May I speak to Mr. John Dark please?”
“That’s who you’ve got.”
“Good,” she said. “I received your phone number from your associate, Mr. Johnny Davis.”
I instantly had a mental picture of a nice looking lady executive in a tight fitting woman’s business suit, the kind of woman who sits behind a desk and makes decisions, the kind of woman who wears glasses and looks intelligent. You know she knows things that other women don’t know. I was thinking I know a guy who could make use of some of that knowledge you have, and maybe teach you a few new tricks at the same time.
“Good old Johnny,” I said to the lady at the other end of the line. I was trying as hard as I could to not sound as drunk as I was rapidly becoming aware that I was. “Who am I talking to?” I asked.
“Let me apologize for not introducing myself,” she said. "My name is Sherry St. Clair. I would like to hire you.”
The words sprang into my mind, I hope this is for stud service, and a cash register was ringing in my head too. I was badly in need of making some cash.
“What type of work?” I asked.
"I am in need of a body guard,” Sherry said. “Since your altercation at Dottie’s Body Shop, you are rather famous with the dancers.”
What happed at Dottie’s was that a young pro middleweight caused some trouble and I wiped the floor up with him. That happened some months back. I was surprised anyone remembered anything about it.
She went on, “I need someone who can handle himself in an ugly situation and you certainly fit that bill. I mainly need someone to be with me from home to work, then from work to home. The building I live in has good security, so I’m not worried about my safety at home.”
“All right,” I said. “We need to talk about money.”
“Would five hundred a week be sufficient?” She asked.
You’re damn right it would be, I thought. Just being a few bucks away from needing to sell your blood to the Blood Bank for twenty dollars a pint will make you take this kind of a paycheck real fast.
What I said was, “In advance?”
“Of course,” she answered.
“Do you need me tonight?”
“Not necessary,” she answered. “One of the guards at Pattie’s Kitten House, the club I work at, is going to escort us home. I share an apartment in The Blaine Building with two other girls. Could you meet with me at five P.M. tomorrow, at our apartment? We can finalize all the arrangements before I start my shift at six.”
“I’ll be there,” I told her.
She gave me her address and phone number and hung up.
Well, at least my money problems appeared to be over for a short while. I knew the club Sherry said she worked in. Pattie’s Kitten House was an upscale Gentleman’s club. I'd never been in it. The cover charge was twenty dollars and the drinks had to be outrageously high. That place was far outside of me being able to afford a night of fun there.
I also knew where the Blaine Building was. It was right in the middle of the high rent skyscrapers of downtown St. Louis. I didn’t know what the rent was for an apartment there, but I bet it wasn’t cheap. This lady had to have a lot of money to be living there. She could have paid me anything I would have asked for.
I should have asked for more.
* * *
By the time I got back to the movie, Usher’s Mansion was collapsing in on itself. I couldn’t remember if Vincent Price had gotten his ass kicked or not. Well, he deserved it.
The walls of The House of Usher were falling down. It was about time too. This movie made you feel like you were going to die of old age before it was over.
The thought hit me that I really might want to clean myself up a bit before I went to Sherry St. Clair’s apartment tomorrow. For five hundred dollars a week, she could hire two bodyguards and if I showed up looking like a skid row bum my new good fortune might be over as quick as she could say, “I’ve reconsidered our arrangement.”
I looked at the whiskey bottle I had cradled in my arms like a lover.
McCormick’s, this stuff really was shit. It tasted like shit. It was making me feel like shit.
It must be shit.
I went to the window and opened it. A wet wind blew in at me. It was cold and wet on my skin, kind of like the devil was laughing in my face and I was being showered by the spit flying from his lips.
Maybe that’s the message I thought. I’ve been trying to live like a good man and it just doesn’t fit me.
It’s like I’m a dog trying to take a crap in a litter box. That kind of shit is OK when you’re a cat, but when you’re a dog, you just look kind of ignorant standing in that fucking box. Dogs just squat and shit wherever the feeling hits them.
Well, I’m not a good man. I’m that mother fucker that your mother warned you about. Guys like me are the reasons parents can’t sleep when their daughters come home late from dates. That’s me.
The eyes looking at you from the pitch black alley.
I threw my bottle of whiskey across the alley and shattered it on the facing wall. Some drunk, two floors below, called me a mother fucker.
That's what I am.
I’m going back to enjoying it.
CHAPTER 4
Cats and Making Cash
Julia’s head lay on my chest. As she breathed she was making little moaning, purring noises and her nails worked at my chest making one of my nipples go erect.
“Yeah, I like that,” I told her and she snuggled closer. She started kissing my neck and took little gentle bites with her teeth. The sensation sent goose bumps up and down my neck. The kind of goose bumps I liked.
“Yeah,” I murmured and pulled her head even closer to my neck. She pulled back. “Come on baby,” I whispered. “It’s all right.”
Now her hands on my chest felt like needles that were sticking into my flesh.
“Christ, take it easy,” I said.
Her mouth pulled away from my neck and I heard a low growl.
I opened my eyes. A furry grey and white striped feline face was inches from my face.
“What the fuck?” I yelled and flung a large calico cat off of my chest and over the back of my couch.
The cat took a line of skin off my chest before I could get him out of my arms.
The cat landed on his feet. They always do. He assumed a low slung stance on the floor that meant he was ready to fight.
This was one hell of a way to wake up. A few seconds before, I thought I was about to be raped by my favorite tigress. Instead, I find all I’ve got on top of me is a confused alley tom cat who was probably about to try to fuck me in the ear.
I got up and came around the couch. The window was open. That must have been how he’d gotten in.
I waved my arms at the cat and yelled, “Get the fuck out of here!”
The cat backed up a step and a low rumbling growl came out of his throat. He hissed like a big angry lizard. All of his muscles were tensed to spring.
I made like I was going to charge the cat. Then, I thought better of that. I felt the line of blood on my chest from the one claw he’d gotten to me before I’d flung him. I looked at my bare ankles and legs imagining what they would look like after a serious bout with this miniature knife fighter.
I pointed at the large calico cat and said, “I'll be back, you little mother fucker, and you better be gone.”
Maybe he’ll head back out the open window I thought, and went to the bathroom.
I took a hot, steaming shower. It did me a lot of good. Loosened me up, real nice.
After shaving, combing my hair and dressing in the bedroom, I came back into the living room.
The cat was gone.
The little mother fucker was smarter than I had thought. He knew better than to mess with me twice in one day.
I closed the window and left.
* * *
&
nbsp; Coming out of the stairway’s door into the morning sunlight, the light scratched into my eyes like a cat’s claws. The rain was a fading memory, like the dreams from last night. I was blinded for a moment in the brightness of the new day.
“John Dark,” a man’s voice with a slight British accent said to me. “How do you do?”
I was still as blind as a bat under a sunlamp, so I put my right hand up to shade the sun from my eyes. A little old guy who had on a faded plaid pork pie hat and looked a lot like a cab driver was standing in front of me with his right hand thrust out in front of him.
“I'm Sherman Oaks,” he said.
I looked at his hand in the air between us and didn’t take it. “So, what does that mean to me?” I said, even if the name did ring a bell. This was the guy whose card Johnny had given me last night.
“All right,” he said in a peculiar British - PT Barnum style of speaking. “We’ll get right to the point with no pleasantries. I handle Roy Wilson, the young gentleman who you had an altercation with some months back. I want to hire you for one sparring session to help rebuild some of his confidence.”
“First of all, Sherman,” I said. “Roy ain’t no gentleman. He’s an asshole. He got what he deserved that night. If putting him on his ass, when he was going to beat up on some people who couldn’t stop him, has hurt this punk’s feelings or ruined his confidence, then too fucking bad! I don’t put on the gloves any more. I’m retired.”
“Mr. Dark, all I’m asking is for you to do one round with him.” The more I listened to this guy’s voice, the more he reminded me of Roddy McDowell, only older, with a more weather beaten face. “Just do one round,” he continued. “Tell him that he’s a great athlete and that you got lucky that night. Think of what that will do for this young man’s career to have the doubts removed that have been there since the night the two of you met.”
“I don’t give a fuck about his career,” I told Sherman Oaks.
He fished into his pocket and came out with a large roll of twenties. “I will pay you well,” he said.