BROOKLYN BEATDOWN (FIGHT CARD)

by Jack Tunney

  ***

  Duke left from the warehouse, nodding at Bendigo’s boys who unlocked the door and let him out. Duke rapidly walked over to his car and reached for the handle of the back seat. “C’mon, Curtis, get this thing moving. I need to stop a couple of places and then ...” Duke had the door halfway open before he realized two things, Curtis wasn’t answering him back and the car wasn’t running. Duke had one standing order for whoever drove him to keep the car running at all times.

  “If you been shootin’ up in my car …” Duke came around to the driver’s side of the Cadillac and his eyes opened wide. Curtis Sapp lay across the passenger’s side. The gold leather seat was now soaked with Curtis’s blood. The open eyes of the dead man looked directly into Duke’s.

  The first bullet took Duke right in the small of his back. He cursed and whirled around just in time to catch the next bullet in his stomach. Duke’s hands scrabbled on the Cadillac’s fender and door, scratching the paint off as Duke slumped to the sidewalk, his back up against the car. Another bullet joined the one already in his stomach.

  Teddy slowly walked from his hiding place in the doorway and stood over Duke, the smoking .38 in his right hand, the valise in his left. “Ain’t so tough, are you, Duke?”

  “You done gone crazy!”

  “Nah. I ain’t crazy, Duke. I just finally learned what you been tryin’ to teach me. And I thank you for bringin’ me into myself at last.”

  “You dumber than a stump, boy.”

  Duke reached for his shoulder holster and yanked out his snub nosed .44 Magnum. “Go to hell!”

  He squeezed off two shots. The first one took Teddy in the stomach. The second smashed into his right shoulder.

  Teddy dropped the valise, screaming in pain and rage. He fired back, but his shots went wide.

  Even with his fading vision and three bullets in him, Duke was still a better shot than Teddy. Two more of Duke’s heavy Magnum slugs slammed into Teddy’s torso, kicking him up and back. Teddy fell like dollrags to the already bloody pavement, his .38 clattering away.

  Now there were no sounds, just the ragged breathing of two dying men.

  Teddy looked up into the night sky and the stars suddenly seemed so much brighter. “Why’d you treat me so bad, man?”

  Duke couldn’t answer. He was dead. His eyes still open, looking at Teddy with something like satisfaction.

  Teddy heard footsteps approaching. They sounded like high heels. He turned his head. It was such an effort. His whole body felt both heavy and light at the same time. He saw a slim hand reach down and pick up the valise.

  Lillian stood over Teddy, the valise in her hand. She looked over at the once elegant body of Duke Williamson. He was elegant no longer. Then she looked back to Teddy.

  “You know your problem, Teddy? You’re only bad on the surface. Duke and me, we’re bad all the way through. On the inside, you just stupid.”

  Teddy tried to tell Lillian she was wrong. He was supposed to be a big man on the streets, with a big car and fine threads. Women lined up outside his door every night. Fat rolls of money in his pocket. He wasn’t supposed to be lying on a Brooklyn street with half his insides shot out.

  And then Teddy closed his eyes and died.

  Lillian turned away and started walking, the valise held tightly in her hand. Already detached from the scene, she wondered calmly where she might go. Maybe New Orleans. Or Tampa. Or Miami.

  One thing was sure. There was enough money in the valise to buy her a new life, and that was enough for now. She’d decide where she was going when she got to the train depot.

  ROUND TWENTY

  Levi caught Deathblow’s desperate uppercut, but managed to get out of the way to the wild follow up right that found nothing but air. They circled each other, the tape on their hands ragged shreds of bloody cloth. Sweat thickly coated their faces, their torso, their legs. It dripped from their chins in fat drops, soaking into the canvas under their feet.

  Deathblow pumped two fast left jabs at Levi. He blocked one, took the other. Levi pushed him away and delivered a haymaker that send Deathblow spinning into the ropes. The big man hit the ropes, bounced off of them and right into Levi’s wicked right cross. Deathblow’s legs visibly wobbled. Levi pounded solid body shots into Deathblow’s gut. Deathblow bent over, trying to catch his breath.

  Levi gave it all he had. First a left uppercut that snapped Deathblow’s head up and back. Deathblow stumbled back and forth like a man on the worst drunk of his life. Levi delivered the right uppercut. Deathblow dropped to his knees and as he did so, the crowd went wild. Levi took his time, drew his arm back slowly and with a speed that made the air hum, delivered a straight right to Deathblow’s jaw.

  Deathblow hit the canvas, completely out cold. Pandemonium took over completely. The next day, people for blocks around would say it sounded like New Year’s Eve in a nuthouse over on Lorraine Street that night.

  Levi could barely stand, but he did so, lifting his arms high above his head as he received his due from the mob. Twenty and fifty dollar bills were thrown into the ring by jubilant and appreciative big winners who’d be going home with fat wallets thanks to Levi.

  Nappy wrapped his arm around Levi’s torso, helping him stand up. “You okay, son?”

  “I will be once I take a shower and go to bed. We won, Nappy!”

  “You sure did. You beat that boy into bad health for sure.”

  “Let’s go find Duke and get my money,” Levi said. He watched as a couple of Duke’s boys lifted Deathblow from the canvas and carried him from the ring. Levi wasn’t surprised that he didn’t care one little bit if he had severely hurt Deathblow or not.

  Nappy was already cutting the tattered tape off of his hands. “You know there’s only one reason you beat him, right?”

  “I got a harder head?”

  “Nah. You’s a fighter, Levi. With a fighter’s heart. A fighter’s soul. Deathblow, he ain’t nothing but a vicious animal who was told he could fight. That makes all the difference in the world.”

  And listening to the cheers of the crowd, Levi couldn’t help but agree with him.

  “Levi! Levi!”

  He turned to see Dorothea climbing through the ropes. She ran over to embrace him tightly. “Oh, thank Heavens! I thought that thug was going to kill you!”

  “Dorothea, I thought I told you I didn’t want you coming to this fight.”

  Dorothea looked at Levi with firm determination. “Get used to it, Mr. Kimbro. Because I’m going to be in your corner for every fight you have from now on. And not just the ones in the ring.” She took his swollen, battered face gently in her hands. “You understand what I’m saying?”

  Levi smiled as best he could. It hurt even to smile, but it was a good, honest, hurt. “Yeah, Dorothea. I understand.”

  ROUND TWENTY ONE

  Levi heard the door of the rooftop kiosk open behind him and he turned slightly to see Dorothea coming towards him. “Hey,” he said, delighted to see her. It had been a week since the fight. Duke’s dead body had been left where it was after the fight as everybody in the warehouse had taken off in different directions as if the body had the plague.

  Levi had been with Dorothea through the painful process of shipping Teddy’s body down south for the funeral. Levi had slipped a few extra dollars to Bob Drake at the funeral home to clean up the body and make Teddy look presentable.

  Levi had assumed Dorothea would be going down south as well, but she didn’t. He wondered if she felt she had failed her brother and simply couldn’t face her family. Or maybe she had done all the mourning for her poor lost brother even before he was dead.

  It was pretty clear what had happened in the parking lot on the night of the fight, but that didn’t stop the police from rousting everyone they could.

  Levi had been hauled into the local precinct to answer questions about Duke Williamson’s death along with a bunch of others. The plainclothes detectives knew Levi was a backroom fighter and they’d heard
all about the fight.

  A large detective with the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to reveal his massive forearms had put Levi through the paces.

  “We know about the money Duke stole from you, Kimbro.” This was said through contemptuously curled lips. “Just because you were getting your brains beaten to pulp in the ring doesn’t mean you didn’t set the boy up to kill Duke for you ... You being all tight with his sister as well.”

  The questioning had gotten worse, a lot worse. Fist had even been thrown, but only by cops. Levi knew anything smacking of aggression on his part would have only made things worse. Eventually, after a full day, the badges had no choice but to let him go.

  All of which, made the current scene up on the roof of the gym a little bittersweet.

  “Nappy told me you were up here,” Dorothea said. “Whatcha doin’? Contemplating the mysteries of the universe?”

  “Nah. Not really. Just come up here to think a bit. Come on over and cop a squat.” Levi waved.

  She walked over to where he sat on a folding wooden chair. He got up and let her sit down. He went over to a crude shed and got himself another chair, opened it up and returned to sit back down next to her, thrusting his hands in his jacket pockets.

  “You keep chairs up here?” Dorothea asked.

  “Got a grill in there, too,” Levi said, jerking his head toward the shed. “Summertime come, me, Nappy and some of the boys like to hang out up here. Grill some burgers, franks, steaks. Drink beers and just enjoy ourselves.”

  “Little too cold for all that now,” Dorothea said. She was right. It was the last week of March and, even though it was a little milder than expected for the time of year, it wasn’t nowhere near spring.

  “I was just looking and thinking.”

  “At what?”

  “The big city.” Levi again jerked his chin. This time in the direction of the island of Manhattan. Dusk tickled the sky and Manhattan was beginning to light up for the night. Levi loved to look at Manhattan at night when it seemed to transform into a magical place filled with light. It looked like a wonderland where a man could make anything of himself he wanted. Manhattan was a city of promise. Which ones you chose to believe was up to you. “Nappy says we can make a lot of money over there.”

  Dorothea shook her head. “Levi, you got thirty-five thousand. Isn’t that enough?”

  “No. It’s not. And we done been through this, Dorothea.”

  “I got to fight, Dorothea. Somebody walked away with the money in the valise Duke showed Bendigo, and once Duke’s people heard he was dead, they divvied up the rest of his money and booked. There’s nobody left to give me the money I’m owed. I got to fight. Nappy says all I need is a couple of big paydays, and I can get them over there in the city.”

  Levi took his hands out of his pockets and wrapped Dorothea’s small hands in his. “Once the cops found out there was an illegal fight that night and Duke was involved, they cracked down hard,” he said. “I won’t be able to get a fight in Brooklyn for the next six months. I can’t wait that long.”

  Dorothea sighed. “I’m not the kind of woman to cry and whine and beg, Levi. I’m in your corner, just like I said. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to speak my mind.”

  “I wouldn’t want a woman who didn’t. So, you on board with me, Dorothea? All the way?”

  Dorothea scooted her chair closer until they were side by side. “Let’s just sit here for a while and look at Manhattan, Levi. It’s so pretty. Let’s leave all this talk of fighting until tomorrow. Okay?”

  Levi’s reply was wordless, but spoke volumes. He wrapped one muscular arm around Dorothea’s slim shoulders and the both on them sat on that Brooklyn rooftop, enjoying the comfortable silence, not minding the chill wind that blew around them. They shared an inner warmth. And as the night came on, they watched the lights of Manhattan blaze brighter and brighter, illuminating the night sky as if lighting the way for Levi Kimbro to come and try his luck.

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  FIGHT CARD: FELONY FISTS

  Los Angeles, 1954

  Patrick “Felony” Flynn has been fighting all his life. Learning the “sweet science” from Father Tim the fighting priest at St. Vincent’s, the Chicago orphanage where Pat and his older brother Mickey were raised, Pat has battled his way around the world – first with the Navy and now with the Los Angeles Police Department.

  Legendary LAPD chief William Parker is on a rampage to clean up both the department and the city. His elite crew of detectives known as The Hat Squad is his blunt instrument – dedicated, honest, and fearless. Promotion from patrol to detective is Pat’s goal, but he also yearns to be one of the elite.

  And his fists are going to give him the chance.

  Gangster Mickey Cohen runs L.A.’s rackets, and murderous heavyweight Solomon King is Cohen’s key to taking over the fight game. Chief Parker wants Patrick “Felony” Flynn to stop him – a tall order for middleweight ship’s champion with no professional record.

  Leading with his chin, and with his partner, L.A.’s first black detective Tombstone Jones, covering his back, Patrick Flynn and his Felony Fists are about to fight for his future, the future of the department, and the future of Los Angeles.

  http://tinyurl.com/bwob3qz

  FIGHT CARD: THE CUTMAN

  Havana, Cuba, 1954

  Mickey Flynn is an ex-Korean War vet turned merchant marine. He was born in the ghettos of Chicago and raised in an orphanage with his younger brother, Patrick. He was one of several young men who received an education from the nuns at St. Vincent's.

  But he was also taught the "sweet science" by Father Tim, a Golden Gloves boxer and retired police officer who only knew one way to bring a troubled boy to manhood. Father Tim worked with his young charges, taught them how to jab and punch and throw a hook that seemed to come out of nowhere. When the young men left St. Vincent's (Our Lady of the Glass Jaw), they were changed, fit and ready to take on the troubles the encountered around the world, no matter where they found them.

  Now Mick's in Havana, working on WIDE BERTHA, his ship. After surviving a fierce storm at sea, the last thing Mick and the crew need to do is get crossways with the Italian organized crime flooding Havana, but it doesn't take much to put him in the cross hairs of a vengeful mob boss working for Lucky Luciano.

  Unable to get free of bad luck and unfortunate circumstance, Mick ends up in the ring in an illegal boxing match fighting a human killing machine.

  http://tinyurl.com/cjm3s45

  FIGHT CARD: SPLIT DECISION

  Kansas City, 1954

  Jimmy Wyler is a fighter punching his way straight to the middle. All he wants is to make enough dough to buy his girl, Lola, a ring. And maybe make the gang back at St. Vincent’s orphanage proud.

  A slick mobster named Cardone has an offer for Jimmy – money, and lots of it – for a fix. Jimmy takes the fight. The ring is almost on Lola’s finger, until Jimmy collides with Whit – another mobster with another up-and-coming fighter.

  Whit has an offer of his own. Same fight, different fix. Now Jimmy is caught between two warring factions of the Kansas City underworld. He can’t make a move without someone getting mad, getting even, or getting dead.

  From sweat-soaked fight halls to darkened alleyways, the countdown has begun. With his girl and his manager in the crossfire, everything Jimmy ever learned about fancy footwork and keeping his defenses up may not be enough …

  Fight night is approaching and nobody is going to be saved by the bell.

  http://tinyurl.com/co4elvj

  FIGHT CARD: COUNTERPUNCH

  Milwaukee, 1954

  Danny Dugronski has been a fighter all his life.

  As an orphan at St. Vincent's Asylum for Boys, he first learned the "
sweet science" of boxing from Father Tim, the battling priest. Then the Marine Corps taught him far more lethal fighting tactics before shipping him off to do battle in the hell of the South Pacific.

  Now, with World War II over, Danny "The Duke" has returned home and earned a respectable ranking as a regional heavyweight in the Milwaukee area. But his record, free of KO losses, is jeopardized by a mob front man who tries to push him into a series of rigged fights.

  When Danny refuses, hard push comes to deadly shove, and he must call upon all his fighting skills to stand his ground. And when Danny comes out swinging, he’s determined to put the mob down for the count.

  http://tinyurl.com/brmbwwm

  FIGHT CARD: HARD ROAD

  Atlantic City, 1957

  Professional boxers Roberto Varga and Michael Boyle were once pals growing up at St. Vincent’s Asylum for Boys in Chicago. Under the guidance of Father Tim, the fighting priest, they learned values, respect, responsibility, and how to fight fair.

  But those lessons didn’t stick with Boyle. Two years after leaving St. Vincent’s, Boyle and Varga face-off in the ring with Boyle pounding out a bloody, lopsided decision, Varga swore wasn’t on the up and up.