by M. Ravenel
I arched an eyebrow. “How would she do that?”
“Lu pretty much has the men wrapped around her finger. Lu acts naïve to it, but Cheryl knows what’s up. I’m sure she’d use her friend’s superpowers to her own advantage.”
“Pretty crummy way to treat a so-called friend.”
Theresa shrugged. “That’s just how Cheryl is sometimes, especially when it comes to relationships.”
“So, you think Luanda might be messing around with another man?”
“I don’t think so. I mean, as flirty as she can be, she seems pretty faithful to her husband, Greg. All she’s been talking about lately is how excited she was for their upcoming anniversary. She’s been working extra hours to help pay for a cruise to Bermuda.”
“So I’ve heard.” I glanced over my fresh page of notes and rubbed my chin. “Has anyone come here recently that’s gotten a little extra sweet on Luanda?”
She tapped her finger against her lips and looked thoughtful for a moment. “Well, not Lu, but… There was this one guy who came in last month. Pretty fine piece of work. A jock. I think his name was Darin. Anyway, he was polite to Lu and was extra sweet on Cheryl. Pretty soon, Cheryl and Lu were going off with Darin most weeknights.”
“Where did they go?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Some gym. I don’t know exactly where.”
“You have a name?”
“I don’t remember.”
I rolled my eyes. “Swell. So what were they all doing there?”
“Cheryl said they were watching him train and lift weights. But I think it was more like ogling his muscles—at least Cheryl probably was, anyway. It seemed like every time I saw her, the first thing she had to talk about was how many more pounds he’d lifted.”
“Cheryl and Lu never invited you along?”
“They did, but I didn’t want to go. I’m not into that kind of thing. Besides…” She held up her left hand, revealing her wedding band. “I got me a good man already.”
“Sounds like I’ll need to pay Cheryl a visit. What’s her last name, by the way?”
“Ross.”
“You got her address?”
Theresa nodded and rapped it out, though with some hesitation. Cheryl lived in Soundview, in an apartment complex that overlooked the Bronx River, not far from my place. After I took the information down in my notebook, I said, “If you want Luanda found, then do not call Cheryl and warn her I’m coming to see her.”
She chewed her bottom lip. “I won’t, Detective. I promise.”
“All right.” I scooted out of the booth. “That’s all the questions I have for now.”
“Will you let me know if you find out something?” She looked at me with hopeful eyes.
“I’ll be in touch. Give me your info.”
She wasn’t as hesitant to give out her telephone number and address, which was in Morris Heights. I scribbled down the info then asked, “By the way, do you know what this address belongs to?” I showed her the address I’d copied from Luanda’s drawer.
Theresa’s face scrunched as she scrutinized it, then she shook her head. “Doesn’t look familiar. But I don’t go to Queens all too often.”
I tucked my notebook away and put my gloves back on. “Thanks. You’ve been helpful.” I wrapped my trench coat around my body, tilted my hat downward, and stepped back out into the bitter cold of night. My next stop would be the address from Lu’s locker. With less than twenty minutes to spare before ten thirty, I hailed a taxi and decided to test my luck in the unknown reaches of Queens.
Chapter 3
I usually visited Queens for cases or, during those rare occasions I had time to kill, to see old friends. Unfortunately, this wasn’t going to be one of those nights when I could drop in for a reunion. As for the case, however, Lady Luck was on my side. I ended up with a Checker cabby who knew his way around the boroughs like the back of his hand.
Sid Bonado was his name. At forty-nine years old, he was a Brooklyn-bred, Italian-American war veteran and former welterweight Golden Gloves boxer. During our twenty-minute trip, Sid told me stories of his boxing glory days, as well as recent, grim stories of faces he’d bashed and bones he’d broken when robbers tried to jack him, usually, at gunpoint. I knew he wasn’t jive talking. He’d grown up during a time when honest, hard work and keeping customers happy meant something. His stories were the real deal, all right, and he didn’t feel sorry for all the fools who’d tried to rough him up. I didn’t feel sorry for them either. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt safe in this city. He’d earned enough of my respect that I threw him my name. I was willing to bet he would make a perfect doorman for our frequently robbed building too. I should introduce him to Sam sometime.
“Here we are, li’l lady,” Sid announced in his gruff, bulldog tone.
We were parked along the garbage-strewn curb of a narrow one-way street in front of a rundown auto shop. The amber glow of a nearby streetlight illuminated the Closed sign that hung in the shop’s security-barred window, and the graffiti-covered metal garage door was rolled down. I scrunched my nose. Why would Luanda come here?
I wasn’t too sure about her husband’s finances, but I couldn’t imagine her being able to afford her own car on a waitress’s part-time paycheck. Then again, she apparently did get lots of tips. A cynical thought crossed my mind. Maybe Lu snagged herself a sugar daddy.
That was ridiculous. Maybe. This address could’ve meant anything or nothing at all. Or maybe the five was actually a three. I sighed. I’d hit a dead end already. Guess it’s time to see Cheryl.
“You okay?” Sid’s gaze lingered on me from the rearview mirror.
“Yeah…” There seemed to be nothing else in this dark, seedy-looking area, other than a large, weather-worn brick building across the street. The building’s bright neon sign displayed the words “Sunnyside Garden.” The lighted marquee below it read:
BINGO - MON FRI
AMT FGHT NGHT - WED
Small groups of people bundled up in coats and hats were hanging out in front of the building. Dim light seeped from the building’s tall bay windows, as an event was currently taking place inside.
“You know, all the times I’ve been to Queens, I’ve never been in this area,” I said absently, watching two suited men enter the building.
Sid guffawed. “Ya jokin’, doll! This is where it all goes down, right ’ere.” He stuck his thumb toward the building. “My ol’ stomping grounds. Fought there in the amateur bouts back in ’51—”
Anticipating another boxing war story about to happen, I held up my finger. “Um, is that meter sill running?”
He glanced at the meter then back at me. “Not no more, it ain’t.” He slapped his hand over the meter flag, and the machine ceased its steady ticking at $4.25. “Y’know somethin’, Ms. Carter? You’re all right. Like a breath of fresh air in this clogged-up town.”
“Thanks, I think…”
“So, where was I?”
“Your old stomping grounds, back in ’51.”
He cracked a smile. “Oh yeah. I remember this one night. Thursday. Undercard match right before the main event. Had to fight this big, mean son of a bitch named Palooka Pat. He was light on his feet but had a glass jaw. So in round three, I let ’im have it. Bam!” He smacked his fist in his hand. “He ain’t never seen more stars before in his life, I’ll tell ya what.”
I smirked. “I would’ve loved to see that.”
“Eh… well, you won’t see that no more from me. Busted up my knee pretty bad one day, and that was the end of my career. Hung up the gloves nineteen years ago. These days, I just slug the punks who think I’m some washed-up old man.”
“Trust me, Sid. I think you’re the meanest, toughest cat I’ve met in a long time.”
He grinned. “Thanks, doll. You dig boxing?”
“Eh, it’s all right. Watching it long enough makes me wanna crack some skulls.”
“Haha. I know whatcha mean. All that fierce, h
igh energy gets your adrenaline pumpin’.”
“I caught part of the big Foreman-Ali fight last year. But that was only because it was on the television at my friend’s bar—and practically every bar in the city. Pretty entertaining. I like the way Ali moves.”
Sid laughed. “He ain’t called the Greatest for nothin’. Anyway, you should go watch a couple fights in there. They’ve been doing amateur boxing night every Wednesday for a couple months now. Small-time gig compared to the ones on Saturdays, though. These are the nights when all the up-’n-comin’ talent try to make a name.” His pockmarked face suddenly brightened. “Oh, hey, I forgot. Tonight, there’re supposed to be a couple o’ good headliners.”
“Ali’s fighting?” I joked.
“Nah.” He picked up the folded sports section of a newspaper from the front passenger’s seat. “Here it is. I was readin’ about it this morning. First fight is former featherweight champ Darin Rivers from Philly versus Brooklyn’s own current champ, Shawn Wesson. Second fight is former light heavyweight champ Zion Malone from Patterson versus the current champ, Pete Sanders, a kid from Boston.”
“Eh, sounds interesting, but…” I perked up. Darin. Wesson. Wait a minute… “Say, mind if I see that paper?”
“Sure thing, doll.” He slid the paper between the gaps of the bulletproof partition.
I examined the quarter-page article. Is this the same Darin that Theresa mentioned? I ran my finger down to the end of the article, where the time and venue were mentioned: “Undercard matches begin at 6p. First main event starts at 10:30p.”
I looked back at the arena. A large lighted clock hanging above the entrance read 10:35 p.m. My women’s intuition—practically the only female thing I never turned off—was telling me that I might be on a trail again. “Y’know, on second thought,” I said, returning the paper to him, “I think I will watch a few fights tonight.”
“That’s swell. Betcha won’t be disappointed none either.” He chuckled.
Grinning, I pulled out a ten-dollar bill and slipped it through the partition. “Should be exciting. Keep the change.”
He whistled, his eyes lighting up brighter than Christmas, then he awkwardly adjusted his brown wool flat-cap. “Damn! Ya sure are a-okay in my book, lady.”
“Trust me, you’ve more than earned that tip.”
He opened the glove compartment, grabbed a brown business card, then handed it to me. “You ever need to go someplace else, I’m your man to take ya there.”
I stuck the card in my coat pocket and opened the door. “Right on. I’ll give you a ring soon enough. Don’t worry. Later, Sid.”
I got out of the car and crossed the street, glancing over my shoulder just in time to watch the yellow cab speed off. I brushed past a bundled-up couple standing on the sidewalk at a bus stop, enjoying a cigarette, then hurried through the entrance door, where a poster was plastered on one of its windows, advertising tonight’s event. In the dimly lit vestibule, I stopped at the box office window to slide my five-dollar entrance fee through the iron bars to the attendant then continued down the corridor. Its walls were decorated with tattered remnants of old posters and flyers that were long since ripped away from their adhesives. At the end of the hallway, past the entrance to the bar and lounge, an attendant stood outside a set of double doors. The sounds of a roaring crowd intensified as I approached. When one of the doors swung open, the crowd’s sounds blared louder, and a man in a suit and bright-red tie exited. His curious blue eyes scanned me briefly as we passed each other, and when I turned my head slightly to view him out of the corner of my eye, I could still feel his gaze. Finally, his head turned back around, and he continued toward the vestibule. Do I know him?
After the attendant tore off one end of my ticket, I entered a dark, smoke-filled arena surrounded by a score of wood-topped bleachers, as well as a row of wooden chairs in the ringside seating area. Humid, musty, air of cigarettes, cigars, and sweat smacked my senses, as if I’d stepped into some tiny hole-in-the-wall gym. The place looked about as big as a high-school gymnasium, but even the lively, predominantly male crowd that occupied most of the bleachers and chairs made the place seem larger than it was.
The two headliners were already bobbing and feinting in the blue-canvassed boxing ring, feeling each other out, spotlighted by the hazy light from the arena’s ceiling fixtures. Red-white-and-blue bunting draped along the walls of the arena created a festive touch amid the otherwise-tense atmosphere. Men in expensive suits filled the ringside seats. I found an empty spot at the end of one of the bleachers, not far behind a row of wooden chairs, where I could exit quickly without wading through a sea of spectators.
A few of the high rollers perched on the edges of their seats, but most of them sat back and stayed cool as they enjoyed their expensive smokes. Meanwhile, the regular folks in the bleachers were on their feet, shouting and pumping their fists like they were out for blood as they cheered on the two contenders.
I wondered if Luanda and Cheryl were here tonight. It was difficult to make out faces in the crowd, especially the ones sitting higher up in the bleachers.
As if feeding off the crowd’s roar, the two sweat-drenched young men in the ring dropped their caution and went at it. A lone balding referee wearing a white button-down shirt, brown plaid pants, and a matching bow tie sidled around the two fighters, watching them intensely. One of the fighters, a man wearing green trunks with white trim, jabbed at his slightly taller opponent, who was in blue trunks with red trim. Blue Trunks bobbed and weaved deftly, then he countered with a left hook. I had no idea which one was Darin. Both looked like healthy, strong men who spent the majority of their days in the gym. The match was obviously still in the early rounds, because both of their attractive, clean-shaven mugs were pretty much untouched.
The bleachers and floor vibrated as nearby spectators stomped furiously in a rhythm that thundered off the walls. The energy in this place made my heart pound. The feeling was much more intense than what I felt while watching a boxing match on television.
“He’s open! He’s open! C’mon, Wes! Get ’im! Get ’im!” shouted a middle-aged man beside me. He was dressed twenty years too young and sported a brown shag haircut that matched his ugly brown striped bell-bottoms. He focused on the fight. With fire in his eyes, fists raised closed to his face, he made small jabs and uppercuts in the air as if puppeteering the fighters’ bodies. I was tempted to ask the dude which contender was which, but he looked like he would chew my head off if my interference made him miss a second of the fight. So I remained in my seat, looking on, trying to take my best guess.
“To the side! To the side! Right here! Rib shot!” the man shouted.
I leaned forward and focused hard. Blue Trunks held his hands a little high, creating a small opening just below his elbow. As quickly as I spotted it, however, he lowered his arms.
The man beside me hissed out a string of curses. “Damn it, Wes! That was your shot, man!” He stomped the floor and shook his fist.
Right. So Blue Trunks must be Darin.
The bell suddenly rang, signaling the end of the round. The referee pulled the fighters apart and sent them off to their respective sides, where cornermen swarmed them. The man beside me plopped down in his seat, grumbling more curses as he glared ahead. The suited men who sat ringside began chatting with one another, pointing toward the ring while they casually tipped ash from their cigars and cigarettes.
One of the men in Darin’s corner, a burly cat with a white towel draped over his shoulders, stood in front of Darin, balled his fists, and shook them as he spoke to him. Meanwhile, another man drenched Darin’s face and mouth with water from a bottle, and a cut man applied some sort of salve on Darin’s cheek. Darin gave Towel Guy a small hand gesture. The big man deflated then made his way out of the ring.
A blond ring girl wearing a barely there halter top, a pair of short-shorts that showed off her mile-long legs, and black four-inch heels sashayed once around the ring, holding up a large
Round 4 sign, then exited down a small set of steps.
The fighters returned from their corners and faced off again. I didn’t take my eyes off Darin. Something about the way he moved seemed strange. He danced around the ring, sometimes lowering his hands for a split second, only to raise them again before his opponent could attack. Darin was playing with him, like a lion played with its food. Boos poured from the unimpressed crowd.
“Don’t take that from him!” the man beside me yelled.
Clearly, most of these cats had their money on Shawn Wesson. I continued watching the unfavored fighter carefully. His dark eyes seemed focused somewhere outside the ring most of the time, except when he needed to block an incoming blow from his opponent. Perhaps he didn’t consider the guy a threat. Occasionally, his gaze flitted toward the ringside seating area. The moment I saw the whites of his eyes as he glanced into the executive crowd, I sensed a spark of fear. Did he see someone he knows? Luanda, maybe? I wondered.
I rose slowly from my chair, craning my neck to peer at the group. There were only a few women among them, and none of them came close to Pam Grier quality. And all of them sat awfully close to their men, like perfect arm candy.
Shawn let loose a fast, straight punch toward Darin’s face and connected. Darin’s head barely snapped back. The boos suddenly lessened, and cheers ensued.
“Yeah! Yeah! That’s the way!” my excited bleacher-mate yelled, pumping his fist.
Shawn punched him again and again, landing every hit at Darin’s face and body. Darin hardly flinched, and he didn’t even try to counter, even though Shawn looked like he was giving him everything he had. Is Darin giving those to him?
“C’mon, Wesson! Ten more seconds! Ya got ’im! Ya got ’im!”