Bobby Joyner was supposedly hand selected for this task. Fats told Will he hand-picked Joyner because he was a punching bag that bled easy. Joyner did bleed easy, but he didn’t go down. He was a veteran who employed a bag full of dirty tricks that confused and angered Will.
In the first round Joyner poked Will in the eye with his thumb. He did it again in the second and third rounds. He stepped on Will’s foot with his heel twice and tried to break his arm in a clutch situation. Joyner threw low blows when Will backed himself into a corner. When Will retaliated, Joyner over-reacted until the ref deducted a point from Will.
After eight rounds of hell, Will knocked the wily veteran out with an uppercut. The crowd went wild. Will waited for Denny Harrelson to interview him after the fight but no one in the ring was interested. He looked around and saw Harrelson outside the ring asking Hector Santiago about his next fight. Santiago was wearing a fancy suit and shiny jewelry, smiling, and talking into the camera through sunglasses. The show’s promoter told Will to hurry up and get out of the ring so they could prepare for the next bout.
Will was jealous. He left the ring, and he went to the cameras. Without a headset he grabbed Harrelson’s microphone and shouted, “Why are you interviewing him? He didn’t fight tonight, I did. Fuck what he thought about the fight and fuck who he wants to fight next. The people want to hear from me. The fans out there want to know when I’m fighting again.”
When Santiago’s translator finished telling him what Will was saying he laughed. He smirked dismissively and asked, “Who is this guy?”
“I’m the guy you ducked.”
“I never duck nobody.”
“Yeah, sure. You signed a contract to fight me and then backed out at the last minute,” Will responded.
Santiago laughed. “I never sign a contract to fight a no-name,” he communicated through the translator.
“What? A no-name? You signed a contract to fight me in Atlantic City and you lied about breaking your thumb.”
Santiago and his entire camp laughed. They looked at each other as if they were dealing with a mad man. Santiago joked to the translator and everyone laughed again. Finally, the man interpreted, “Look, my friend, I don’t know you, and I never sign no contract to fight you. I don’t even know you name, man. Someone trick you.”
Harrelson grabbed the mic back from Will and announced the program would take a quick break and return shortly. He asked Santiago if he would stick around for a few more questions. Hector said, “Si.”
When the cameras cut off, Harrelson snapped. “Are you serious?” To the group, he said, “I’m trying to conduct an interview with the champ and this guy just appears and just starts talking like he’s Hulk Hogan?”
He was screaming to no one in particular but not dignifying Will by looking at him. Security came and escorted Will away.
The executive who had warned Will about being exciting was livid. He was waving his hands and frowning. He screamed at Will, “Get the fuck outta there.” His face made it clear that Will had committed a grave sin by interrupting Denny Harrelson’s interview with the champ. It was apparent to Will that Santiago was much more important to the suits than he was.
That night Will was embarrassed by the episode. He felt like he humiliated himself on national television. Not only did he disgrace himself, but he got scoffed at by a guy who could not speak English. He thought all of the good that he had done in the ring would be overshadowed by his ignorance outside it. He doubted the suits would give him another televised fight after he misbehaved so badly. But the phone rang.
The New York Post wanted to know more about his beef with Santiago. So, he made up a beef. He built a fantastic story about Santiago being afraid to get in the ring with him. He claimed the Mexican had signed a few contracts and backed out at the last minute a couple of times. The next day he told the same story to Ringside Magazine and a couple of boxing websites. The next week, Spanish--speaking papers were calling for interviews. He told the Spanish media that Santiago was a coward and a sissy. Soon he was repeating the lies on radio and cable television shows.
When the time came to negotiate the purse for his next fight, Will had made himself a big name in the sport of boxing by bad-mouthing the champ. Will got top billing even though he wasn’t ranked as high as his opponent. The fight would be televised, and the bout would be the main event of the card. Will was becoming a marquee star.
Riding through Philly for the first time, Will was silent staring out of the window. He could feel the city’s vibe. Philly was for dreamers--for artists, college students, boxers--anyone willing to work hard to get out. The city was covered with beautiful murals that tried to hide ugly dilapidated buildings. Some storefronts were so shabby he couldn’t tell if the proprietors were still in business or long gone. The projects in Philly looked just like Lincoln Heights.
At the venue he saw a melting pot of thugs: Irish tough guys, Italian mobsters, Black crews, and Hispanic gangs. The beautiful women were out in skimpy clothes and the highest heels. It seemed like everyone was drunk or high on something. Will felt right at home in the City of Brotherly Love.
That is, up until Hector Santiago approached him in the hallway outside of his dressing room. In a deep Spanish accent, he shouted, “Wats dat bullshit I read in Ringside Magazine about me ducking you?” Santiago had a huge bodyguard behind him. “Muddafucka, lemme tell you somethin’. I never back outta no fight, ever, my ho career. I don’ know you! I never heard of you, muddafucka! I never signed no contract to fight you! You hear me, nigga?”
Will swung. Santiago weaved to Will’s right and hit Will with the hardest two punches he had never seen before. Will was dazed when the security guards appeared from everywhere and separated the two boxers. Santiago continued screaming while trying to wrestle free, “You see, you not on my level, boy. l fuck you up, punk!”
Security carried Santiago and his beefy bodyguard away. Others held Will, Dave, and Fats back before ushering them into Will’s dressing room. Inside the dressing room everyone was pacing and yelling at each other. Will was mad as the devil that he had been snuffed. Theodore Pearson was mad that Will had risked the televised fight by rumbling with Santiago in the hallway.
“You could have been hurt--broken finger, hand, jaw--anything could have cancelled this fight!” Theodore yelled.
“Nigga, you never had a contract for me to fight that man?” Will demanded.
“Six, you can’t believe that lying motherfucker,” Fats interrupted with his palms out.
“I do,” Will shouted at him.
“That nigga’s scared to fight you, man,” Fats reasoned.
“I can’t tell,” Will said as he checked the mirror for cuts or bruises on his face. “Get the fuck out. Both of you.”
Dave smiled as he started unpacking Will’s equipment.
Will knocked out Harold Settles in the first round. This time, Denny Harrelson wasted no time climbing into the ring to interview Will after the bout. Harrelson had a silly grin on his face and tried to buddy up to Will. Before he could say a word, Will told everyone watching at home, “Hector Santiago is afraid to fight me. He has signed a contract to fight me four times. Four times he's used some lame--ass excuse to back outta fighting me. I’m tired of chasing his punk ass. I saw him in the hallway earlier and I whipped his ass,” he lied. “Tell that silly wet--”
“Are you saying that you and Hector Santiago were in a fist-fight earlier today?” Harrelson asked.
“That’s right. He came to my dressing room trying ta ‘pologize for backin’ outta fights wit’ me and I said, ‘nah”’ and I stole ‘im. Dropped ‘im right there in the hallway. I see why he don’t want to put that belt up against me in the ring.”
Three weeks later, the commissioner of the World Boxing Organization was calling. He explained to Will that Hector Santiago had a fight in three days, but the opponent had backed out. He offered Will a chance to step in as the replacement and fight for the middleweight world ch
ampionship.
Because of the short notice, Will declined. As he hung up he closed his eyes and cursed his luck. He just wasn’t in fighting shape. He had been training, but he knew he wasn’t in condition to fight a world--class boxer who had already gotten the best of him in a brief exchange. Will knew he would have to train long and hard to beat Santiago. He would have to reluctantly let this opportunity pass.
A few moments later Fats called.
“Are you outta your mind?” he shouted.
“What? I’m not ready to fight Santiago in three days, man.”
“Six Hands, if the commish gives you a title shot you take it. I wouldn’t care if it was three days or three minutes before the fight. You don’t turn down a title shot. Do you understand me?”
“Yes.”
“You’re gonna call this man back right now and apologize before he changes his mind, you got me?”
“Yeah, yeah. What’s the number?”
Will felt more comfortable his second time in Vegas. He and Dave continued their tradition of staying in the same room but now they had a suite.
The television in the bedroom had a channel that promoted the Mandalay Bay Hotel and Casino 24-hours a day, a 30-minute infomercial about the hotel’s casino, spa, restaurants, services, and events, that looped over and over all day. At the end of the spot, the fight was advertised. There was a close-up of Hector Santiago punching dents into a heavy bag. Will walked closer to the screen, sat on the edge of the bed, and stared with a quizzical frown. The camera cut to an interview where, through an interpreter, Santiago promised to knock Will out in the first five rounds of the fight. Will smiled.
Through the interpreter, Hector said the reason Will has so many knockouts is that he’s beat a bunch of bums and he hadn’t really earned the opportunity to fight for a championship. He stared at the camera and said, “The only reason I fight him eez becuz hees a beetch.”
Will got up smiling and walked to the bathroom as the camera cut to Santiago punching a speed bag so fast that everything except the scowl on his face was a blur.
“Ay, Dave, you should see how big this bathroom is,” Will yelled.
* * * * * *
Before the press conference that night everyone met for dinner. They held up glasses of Dom Perignon as Theodore said, “To the Champ,” and they touched glasses and drank.
“We told you we’d get you here. It took a while, but we’re here, baby,” Fats smiled at Will.
“Yeah.”
“We told you we’d get you this fight and we did,” Fats sipped his drink again.
“I got this fight,” Will said. He put his drink down without sipping.
“Say what?” Theodore asked.
“Y’all didn’t get this fight. I did.”
“How do you figure that?” Theodore asked.
“We’re here because of my knockouts, not because of you or Fats.”
“What? We worked and negotiated our asses off for you,” Pearson said.
“Plenty of people have a lot of knockouts,” Theodore said. “If your knockouts were the draw then the fight would be sold out and we’d be on pay-per-view. When you were announced as the replacement to fight Santiago some people who had bought tickets in advance tried to get refunds. The arena is half empty and we expect to take a loss on this one.”
“Whatever. I don’t believe a word you say,” Will said.
Dave smiled.
* * * * * * * *
Will arrived at the press conference 45 minutes late. Rodney Mobin was at the mic telling the press how great Santiago was. When he saw Six Hands he yelled, “Here he is, the man of the hour. The guy you’ve all been waiting for, my man, the challenger, Mr. William ‘Six Hands’ Johnson.”
Will took the stage wearing a black three-button Ralph Lauren Purple Label suit. A Ferragamo necktie complemented the suit. His haircut was perfect, and his teeth were shiny white. He looked like a young mayor about to address the city council.
“I’m gonna beat the bitch out of this nigger,” he said. Reporters started scribbling. Mobin screamed out a laugh as he went to his seat. Will pointed at Santiago. “I saw this pussy on television talking about I didn’t fight nobody to get here…” He looked at Santiago. “Mutherfucka, you ain’t nobody either!” The room erupted with laughter. Hector’s interpreter whispered in his ear.
“Listen amigo. You can sit over there and pretend like you don’t understand English all you want,” Will said. “But you better understand this: I’m about ta whip yo ass. Boy, I feel like whipping yo ass right now. You understand what I’m saying to you, vato?”
Will walked over to Santiago’s chair. Hector stood up and looked Will in the eyes. Will didn’t look like a politician anymore.
“Boy, when I’m finished whipping your ass I’m gonna give you a contract to cut my grass, you hear me?”
“Mierda,” Santiago said. The interpreter was whispering in his ears with a deadpan expression.
“I’m gonna pay you fifty bucks a week to look after my yard, boy,” said Will. “Don’t worry; I’ll pay in cash because I know you probably here illegally. And I’ll pay in big bills since you probably can’t count.”
Santiago shoved Will and Will threw another left jab. Hector slipped again by moving to Will’s right and landed another two-piece to Will’s head. The two were quickly separated. Hector was furious. Will laughed and taunted him as blood trickled from his nose. “See, I told y’all he understood English.”
Rodney Mobin roared with laughter. As Will was escorted out of the room he could hear Mobin yelling. “Two days from now, the fight of the year. This hatred is for real.”
The next day the fight sold out.
* * * * * * * ** *
The title fight went just as the first two skirmishes had. Will threw his jab, Santiago slipped it and then fed Will some leather. Repeatedly. In the fourth round Will threw a lazy left jab and Santiago started to slip it to Will’s right. Santiago waited to see Will’s jab reach its extension before he unloaded his counter punches. He was puzzled when the jab never reached out. Santiago never saw the right hook that smashed into his temple. Or the combination of punches that followed.
When he came to, he could see Will up on Dave’s shoulders, hands raised in the air, gloves off, and the championship belt around his waist. A doctor was holding Santiago’s eyelids open and shining a light in his eyes.
“¿Dedos cuántos tengo yo arriba??” the doctor said and held up a peace sign.
“Dos.”
Will and Dave celebrated all night. They drank champagne all night and woke up to a bidding war. Showtime and HBO were calling non-stop trying to secure broadcast rights to the new champion’s next couple of fights. Will had blossomed from a struggling no-name to the hottest commodity in professional boxing--overnight.
Will was getting calls from magazines, newspapers, radio stations, television shows – and other promoters. The big names in the industry were calling and telling Will that Fats and Ted were out of their league. He listened as these moguls promised much better deals than anything Fats and Ted could ever pull together. Dave felt like a proud papa as he watched and listened as the offers filled up the voicemail.
Promoters started knocking on the door with briefcases full of cash and contracts. Dave and Will decided to move to another room under an assumed name. Better yet, they decided to catch the very next plane out of Vegas and set up shop wherever it landed.
They did just that and Will was a free man. For two weeks. He was in Costa Rica when Dave called. “Hey man, Rodney Mobin--is trying to pay me $10,000 to tell him where you are.”
Will laughed. “Dad…I mean, Dave, I admire your loyalty. Now, take that money then give the man the info he wants.”
Six months later Will was happier than he had ever been. Rodney Mobin had negotiated a three-fight deal with HBO worth $5 million. Will was at the top of his profession. People wanted to take pictures with him and own his autograph. He had money and all of the tra
ppings it brings; fast cars, faster women, bad food, and new friends. But the best part of his new life was his ability to control and protect his mom.
When Rodney Mobin asked Will to sign with his stable, he promised Will anything he wanted. He asked him to name his heart’s desire and Will said, “I want my mom to be drug-free and happy.” Mobin laughed and said, “What do you want for yourself?” Will repeated, “For myself…I want my mom to be drug-free and happy.”
Rodney Mobin arranged for Thelma to go to rehab in a posh center in Arizona. He got her counseling, some new teeth, a few wigs, and new clothes. Mobin knew some Black people who owned a golf course and was able to convince them to sell Will a house adjacent to the links. Will noticed how Fats had a network of friends, but Rodney really knew some powerful people.
Thelma was willing to do whatever Will told her in order to stay in his circle. She had started working at a counseling center and her birthday weekend was approaching. Will bought her a car that was being delivered as a surprise to her. He was so proud that he couldn’t wait to see her. He just had to stop at the barbershop and get a fresh shape--up first.
Chapter 3: The Gym
Saturday, 10am
T he driver was waiting when Fats exited City Hall. Fats jumped in the passenger side of the Tahoe and scrolled through his text messages. He reread the one from Terrance. “It’s done.” He didn’t feel any relief. He felt guilt and concern. Fats figured he needed to go to chapel and pray for forgiveness and a little luck. And then do some shopping. The church where he held a membership wasn’t open, but he figured the National Cathedral might be. So, he stopped on Wisconsin Avenue, parked, and dumped a quarter in a meter.
The St. Albans School for Boys was on the campus of the National Cathedral and four of the school’s little nerds were walking out of the chapel and heading toward other buildings. They wore blue blazers and khaki pants.
Killing a Snitch: The first of the Christopher Aiden Mysteries Page 4
