by Iceberg Slim
Tango started to rise, faltered, shot an agonized look at Speedy. Speedy hardened his eyes, nodded almost imperceptibly to prod Tango to hang tough and split.
Tango tightened his jaw, hauled himself out of the chair, swallowed and said stoutly, “Since you can’t do it, Mister Hoffman, I’m walking. I ain’t on welfare.” He turned and walked toward the door, followed by Precious.
The players let them go through the door, waited long moments before Folks said, “All right, Speedy, reel him back in.”
Speedy went after them, spotted them at the elevator and whistled as they were stepping into it. “C’mon back, brothers! We’ve won!”
The corridor resounded as they spanked palms and embraced one another. Tango hugged Speedy’s waist and lifted him into the air as passersby gawked.
“Shit, brother, you got to be the greatest nigger there ever was. I love ya!”
Speedy said, “Now, brother, remember you don’t sign the contract until I can dig us up a contract expert. Pick up the contract and split again.”
Tango said, “Brother Genius, I can dig it. I’m letting you call the shots!”
They entered, went into Folks’ office. Kid was sitting in Folks’ leather throne behind the desk, smiling charmingly. Folks sat, morosely, in Kid’s chair.
Kid said, “Congratulations, Mister Brice. I have decided to meet your demands. Ann is inserting the addenda you requested. Please relax and have a seat. You’re dealing with me now.”
They seated themselves. Ann brought back the contracts, placed pen, and the copy of the contract on the desk top before Tango, smiled and departed.
Kid said, “Mister Brice, for a layman, you’re an absolute whiz at getting your way in a business transaction,” as he darted a hooded, suspicious look at Speedy.
Tango stood, snatched the contract off the desktop and grinned. “I got mother wit, Mister Hoffman. I’ll call you and sign after a lawyer fine-tooths these papers.”
“Of course, Mister Brice, that’s your privilege.” Kid stood and leaned across the desk to pump Tango’s hand.
Then Folks came to shake Tango’s hand. He said, “Mister Brice, your demands shook me up a bit. I’m sorry, I hope there are no hard feelings.”
Tango banged Folks’ shoulder. “Everything is mellow, Mister Hoffman. See ya.” Tango turned away for the door, followed by Precious and Speedy.
Folks said, “Carl, I’d like you to drop me off at the gym before you take Mister Brice and Mister Allen home. I want to check up on Upshaw’s condition.”
Speedy said, “Why not, boss?”
Kid said sternly, “Steven, I certainly hope that you stay away from that gambling den in that building where the gym is located. Gamblers are neurotics, prone to pain and disgrace. Protect our name as your dear departed mother would wish.”
“Dad, I haven’t taken a bet since that raid in college. I share your views about gamblers.”
“That’s my boy!”
As Folks started to leave the office with the others, Kid said pleasantly, “Hope to see you soon, Mister Brice. Oh Steven, may I have a brief word with you?”
Folks turned. “Of course, Dad,” then said over his shoulder, “Carl, you may take the gentlemen to the car. I’ll join you shortly.”
Speedy led them to the limousine’s front seat cushions. They sat smoking in silence for several moments until Tango said, “Brother Carl, you and Upshaw really are boss squares if you wait to start a nest-egg with that dago in the old country. Brother, your boss is ready now for the killing floor!”
Precious exclaimed, “Tango, I know what you’re thinking. And it’s mellow!”
Speedy said, “Me and Upshaw been waiting to do business in Rome because Sergio is the only one with enough bankroll to make Upshaw’s . . . ah, loss worthwhile for us. He guarantees us fifty percent of what the boss loses. We trust him, I trust you, so share your thoughts, Tango.”
Before Tango could reply, Speedy’s eyes caught fire. He snapped his fingers. “Don’t tell me, brother! In a week or so you’ll have a big bankroll from the franchise deal. Then we can arrange a private bout between Samson and Upshaw. Junior makes reparations, a hundred grand or so when Upshaw loses. You bet Hoffman bread against Junior. Brother Tango, what beautiful thinking you do!”
Tango’s Neanderthal face was smug. “Carl, you been playing me cheap. We ain’t gotta wait for that deal to intercourse Junior outta the first bundle.”
“What first bundle, brother?”
“You heard me. Why shit, after the franchise deal goes down, Junior’s nose will be wide open for a re-match. That is, if Samson and Upshaw do a secret rehearsal before they have the first bout.”
Speedy leaned across Precious from behind the wheel and pumped Tango’s hand. “Brother, it’s brilliant!” But even as his praise echoed, Speedy frowned. He slumped behind the wheel, apparently crestfallen. “There’s too much risk. After losing that first bundle, suppose Junior gets the idea that we rigged the bout to cheat him. He’ll get salty and maybe cancel the franchise deal.”
Tango said, “That square-ass peckerwood can’t wake up if our fighters rehearse. ‘sides, his old man is handling my deal, and ‘sides that, you heard how his old man feels about gambling. Junior is tee-rolled!”
Speedy’s brows hedge-rowed in thought before he said, “What’s your opinion, Precious?”
Precious answered, “Tango is right. Junior is in a box.”
Speedy nodded toward Folks stepping from the elevator into the garage. “All right Tango, me and Upshaw are in, if you can prod Junior into a bout. You take over, brother.”
Speedy started the car and eased it abreast of Folks, then leapt out to open the rear car door for Folks. Speedy shut the door behind him, went behind the wheel and drove them into the late afternoon traffic.
Twenty minutes later, they sat inhaling sweat and resin odors on a row of reclaimed wooden movie seats at a ringside in the spacious two-ring gym. It was resonating with grunt, smash and whish sounds of two dozen black and white pro boxers honing their skills, jumping rope and banging punching bags.
The Folks’ group’s eyes were riveted to the gargantuan Upshaw, in tights and training helmet. His hawk face blossomed sweat as his sleek muscles undulated beneath his inky skin. He thumped and peppered his bullish Mexican spar mate with ferocious jabs and hooks to the face and body as he feinted, danced and sidestepped with superstar matador finesse.
In a clinch, Upshaw’s eye flicked across ringside and snared Speedy’s twitch of right eyebrow signal. The white haired mulatto referee stepped in and separated them. Upshaw rammed a wicked left hook into his opponent’s solar plexus, followed by a crunching right cross to the chin that flew his mouthpiece through the air like a mini Frisbee. The Mexican shook, for a moment, like a cerebral palsy victim before he crashed backward to the canvas and lay motionless in kayo slumber.
Handlers leapt into the ring with smelling salts to revive the boxer, who left the ring on rubbery legs. Harlem grifter Tear Off Thomas, alias Upshaw, climbed from the ring. Folks stood and blotted off his sweat with a Turkish towel. He flung a terrycloth robe across Upshaw’s shoulders and gave him a bottle of Gator Ade as Upshaw sprawled himself on the row of seats between Tango and Folks.
Folks said, “Good boy, Upshaw! I’m proud of you. Your timing is exquisite and your combinations are cooking.”
“Thank you, Mister Hoffman. Does that mean you’ll try to get me a fight soon here in the States, maybe with a ranked contender?”
Folks removed his gloves and patted his shoulder. “I’ve thought about it, Upshaw. You deserve and are qualified for a shot like that. However, there isn’t time to arrange an important match like that. Two months from today we fly to the Continent to fight the number one contender for the European title. I called Rome this morning to make the arrangements.”
Upshaw slumped his shoulders, stared disconsolately at the floor.
Folks jabbed his shoulder. “Cheer up for me, Upshaw, and perhaps I
can arrange to get you on the card next month here in the stadium in the main event.”
Then he sighed. “That is, if the matchmaker can dig up an adequate opponent on such short notice. It’ll be virtually impossible for any unranked heavy in America to stand against your attack for more than two rounds. I’d like to insure you some tune-up action and the buffs a run for the price of their tickets.”
Tango snickered.
Folks leaned across Upshaw. “Why do my remarks about my fighter amuse you, Mister Brice?”
Tango grinned and jogged a manicured index finger down the razor crease in his trousers. “’Cause you jiving yourself, Mister Hoffman!”
“Jiving myself, Mister Brice?” Folks asked with rising heat.
Tango smirked. “Yeah! You remind me of them kooky jokers that seen the moon in a pool of water and tried to cop it with a rake. Mister Hoffman, you ain’t got to waste no time moon raking to find a heavyweight to sweat Upshaw. I got one that will pop sweat and fire outta Upshaw’s old ass. I got one that can beat Upshaw!”
Folks said, “This marvel of yours, anyone anybody has ever heard of?”
“Everybody is gonna hear about young Samson, the champ in a couple years.”
Folks frowned in thought for a long moment, then he laughed. “Samson! He’s just a novice with moderate promise. I saw him in a pre-lim at the stadium. Why, he can’t be more than twenty years old, raw and unseasoned, fresh out of amateur competition!”
Upshaw glowered and sneered. “Brice, I’ll chase any green punk like that back up his mammy’s ass. I want Samson, Mister Hoffman!”
Folks tightened his face in fake apprehension as he massaged Upshaw’s neck, corded in grifter rage as he stared balefully into Tango’s eyes. Upshaw rhythmically sledged his fists against his thighs. His jaw muscles rolled and lumped.
Folks crooned, “Easy now, Upshaw, get hold of yourself. Don’t do anything foolish. Remember you fight for money, not for fun. Forget Samson. I can’t let you fight pre-lims. That’s all a matchmaker would give us with Samson. Now go to the showers.”
Upshaw stood, then glared down at Tango before he turned away.
Tango loud-mouthed, “Oh, Mister Hoffman! Thank you! I’m so glad you called off your ugly gorilla before I crapped my pants!”
Upshaw spun back, fearsome face contorted as he lunged for Tango as Tango leapt to his feet in a combat crouch. A small crowd gathered. Speedy jumped between them and led Upshaw away beyond earshot of the ringside.
“Tear Off, that was sweet! Play the gorilla for the mark until I cut him in as a friend later on,” Speedy whispered as he smacked the giant’s rump.
Speedy turned and joined the others at ringside.
Tango was saying, “You heard me right, Mister Hoffman. We’ll put up a respectable purse for a private bout. The winning fighter takes the pot . . . unless you done changed your opinion about your gorilla being so great.”
Folks frowned and procrastinated a response.
Tango goaded, “Well, Mister Hoffman, you eating crow?”
Folks smiled. “We’ll fight Samson, Mister Brice. But not in your personal ghetto ring, not with the ill feelings you forced between Upshaw and yourself.”
Tango snickered. “You copped out! You know they can’t fight in the alley. You afraid to fight Samson, ain’t you?”
“Hell no!” Then he stood and walked away.
The trio watched Folks enter a glassed-in cubicle at the far end of the room with OFFICE stenciled on its door. Folks smiled charmingly at the cauliflowered owner of the gym, seated behind a blistered desk.
“My name is Jelke, Mister Dolan. As a manager, I want to congratulate you for having a truly fine facility here.” Folks shook hands with the battered ancient and seated himself in front of the desk.
The trio, at ringside, watched Folks animatedly chatting with Dolan in the manner of old friends.
Precious said, “I wonder what he’s doing in there?”
Speedy offered, “Knowing Junior, I’d bet he’s making arrangements with his old friend Dolan to stage our fight, privately, right here.”
Tango said, “You’re right! I told you we could trim him!”
Folks came back to join them with a radiant face. The trio stood.
“Well, Mister Brice, it’s all set. This gym closes early tomorrow at two P.M. At three, we’ll have our bout in private with Mister Dolan as referee. Any questions, Mister Brice?” asked Folks.
Tango said, “I don’t like the referee, if he’s gonna judge the fight solo.”
“Would you still have that objection if we agreed to a fight to the finish? Mister Brice, you can referee since I’m confident Upshaw will knock out your guy early on. Mister Dolan will preside simply to break clinches. Well?”
Tango grinned. “Your way suits me. What kinda purse we gonna put up?”
Folks said, “I’ll cover, in cash, any amount of cash you bring to wager, Mister Brice. Carl will pick you and Samson up in the early afternoon tomorrow for a meeting before the bout. Agreed?”
“I sure do. See you tomorrow!”
Folks turned to Speedy. “Carl, I’ve invited Mister Dolan to cocktails down the street. Please wait and take Upshaw to his hotel.”
Folks shook hands with Tango and Precious before he turned away and walked back toward the office. They watched him as he paused to speak briefly with Upshaw, togged out in a noisy maroon ensemble, with his boxer’s bag in hand. Speedy led the way to Upshaw as Folks walked away to enter the office.
Speedy said, “Come on, Upshaw, I’ll drop you at your hotel before I take these gentlemen to the southside.”
Upshaw glared homicide at Tango. “Carl, I ain’t riding with this jive-ass nigger. I’m afraid I’ll tear his fucking head off and get in trouble with Mister Hoffman! I’ll get a cab.”
Speedy laughed. “Relax, old buddy. Meet Tango and Precious Jimmy, our friends. They’re with us to set up Junior for a big buck killing.”
Upshaw’s eyes popped wide in complete flabbergast. “Well, I’ll be a sonuvabitch!” he exclaimed. “Damn! Brother Tango, you had me fooled.”
Upshaw darted a glance toward Folks in the office before he pumped Tango and Precious’ hands. They left the building for the parking lot behind the gym.
Speedy drove the Outer Drive to the southside where, minutes later, he, Upshaw and Precious followed euphoric Tango into his house to rehearse the rigged fight.
Back in the Loop, Folks had taken a cab to his hotel suite immediately after Speedy left the gym with the group. Folks and Kid sat in the living room sipping Jack Daniels on the rocks.
Kid said, “Laddie, I think I’ll pack and get a flight tonight back to Rita . . . unless you think you’ll need me.” He drained his glass and stood.
Folks went behind the plexiglass bar to refill his glass. “Pappy, you know how much I appreciate your bringing Tear Off and coming in to help. We won’t need you now except to make that phone call tomorrow to the meet suite at two-thirty P.M. as Mister Dolan. The mark won’t know if it’s local or from Tibet. Pappy, I’ll send your ten percent end of the score plus expenses to your hotel in the Apple tomorrow night before we split Chicago.”
Folks came from behind the bar, put his arm around Kid’s shoulder as he walked him to the door.
Kid said, “Laddie, it’s been a pleasure to play with you again. I’m angling to fix Rochester for us, so jingle me at the Sherry Netherlands at least once a week.”
They embraced warmly before Kid stepped into the hallway. Folks stood at the open door watching his friend until he disappeared into his suite down the hall.
Folks heard the beat of a drum. Glass in hand, he went to a patio chair and watched a young guy on a hotel patio across the way, practicing on an incredibly shiny, heavily chromed drum. He gazed transfixed, listening to the drum beat as he tried masochistically to snare the infant memories and trauma visions of the past. He felt a ball of tension inflate inside his chest. He fled the patio, went into the bedroom, then
shut the door to blot out and forget the sound of the drum across the way.
For some strange reason, he couldn’t forget the sound of that drum. He wondered why. He tried to turn his mind from it but it was no use. Then he closed his eyes, surrendered and let his mind grope back through the past. Perhaps it could make some kind of connection there.
Then the painful reason why the sound of that drum was so insistent came in a blinding burst of chrome! On the screen behind his closed eyes he saw once again that glittery, elusive drum . . .
He saw the featureless image of the blond giant striding through the hazy doorway. He felt again the transient, joyful fear in the pit of his stomach when the shadow had hurled him into the air. He’d catch him and squeeze his cheek against his. At his feet would be the drum.
He heard Phala’s, his mother’s, cries of happiness as she rushed into the visitor’s arms. Then he’d heard her soft, sobbing moans behind her bedroom door.
He saw himself so lonely, amusing himself making faces in the gleaming trim of the drum. He felt a familiar aching boulder of tension roll and tumble inside his chest when he saw himself waking up the next morning. He rushed frantically through the apartment but he couldn’t find it anywhere! The drum! That mute, shiny drum was gone again.
Phala tried to blink back her tears. He got in her lap and they bawled together because the drum was gone. One day the drum did come and never came again.
The pictures were becoming more vivid. Spinning on the reel of memory, back to Kansas City, Missouri. It was, perhaps, like the total recall that a dying man might experience.
Shortly after the drum left for the last time, Phala’s loneliness and heartbreak became real to him. There were blond white men, many of them, in drunken succession. But no drum. They brought bottles, and far into the night he’d lie awake listening to Phala’s wild, sad laughter.
He was a little past three years of age, when his terrible crying seizures started. He’d cry until he threw up. Sometimes Phala would hear him above the clamor of the drunken revelry. She’d come to him in the darkness. He’d be holding his testicles. She’d turn on the light and look. His testicles would be swollen to big sore lumps from his bitter crying.
