Half of Paradise

by James Lee Burke

  I wish the Lord I never seen your face,

  I’m sorry you ever was born.

  Stop rambling and stop gambling,

  Quit staying out late at night.

  Go home to your wife and your family,

  Sit down by the fireside bright

  I love Irene, God knows I do

  I love her till the sea runs dry,

  If Irene turns her back on me

  I’m going to take morphine and die.

  The crowd liked him and they applauded until he sang it again. They were still applauding when he left the stage.

  J.P. propped the guitar against one of the sets and wiped the perspiration off his forehead on his coat sleeve.

  “You got on my suit,” Troy said.

  “You can have it back. It don’t fit me, nohow.”

  “I told him to take the suit,” Hunnicut said.

  “I had it cleaned yesterday. He got sweat on the sleeve.”

  “Take the goddamn thing back, mister. I didn’t want it in the first place.”

  “Take it easy, Winfield. You did fine tonight.”

  “Do I get a job with you?”

  “You haven’t won the contest yet.”

  “Seth said I already had the job.”

  “All right, you’re working for me.”

  J.P. took a crumpled one-dollar bill out of his pocket and gave it to Troy.

  “This will pay for the goddamn cleaning,” he said.

  “Where are you going?” Hunnicut said.

  “To get my clothes.”

  He went to Troy’s dressing room and changed into his Sears, Roebuck suit. After all the contestants had gone on, Hunnicut announced that the winner was J.P. Winfield, who would soon be appearing on the Louisiana Jubilee with the rest of the band. J.P. combed his hair in the mirror and clipped the comb inside his shirt pocket. He left Troy’s sports suit unfolded on top of the chair. He rolled a cigarette and walked back to the wings where Hunnicut, Troy,

  Seth, and the brunette were talking. The auditorium had cleared.

  “You ain’t met April yet,” Seth said.

  J.P. looked at her.

  “This is April Brien,” Seth said.

  “Glad to meet you,” she said. Her eyes moved up and down him. Her peasant Irish face had a dull expression to it.

  “Evening,” he said.

  “April does all the spirituals in the show,” Seth said. He put his hand on the small of her back and let his fingers touch her rump.

  “Cut it out,” she said.

  He gave her a pat.

  “Lay off it,” Troy said.

  Seth winked at J.P.

  “Come in the office,” Hunnicut said. “I got a contract for you to sign.”

  They went into Hunnicut’s office, which he had rented with the auditorium. His white linen suit was soiled and dampened. The candy-striped necktie was pulled loose from his collar, and the great weight of his stomach hung over his trousers.

  “I start you on a straight salary at three hundred and fifty a month,” he said, “plus any commissions we make off records and special appearances. This contract says that I’m your manager and agent, and I take twelve percent of your earnings. We’ll see how you do, and later on maybe we can work out a pay increase.”

  “You take a commission off the same salary you give me?”

  “That’s right. But I’m the man that schedules all your appearances, and if you’ve got the right stuff I can push you right up to the top. I put a lot of people on the Nashville Barn Dance.”

  “How about an advance? That was my last dollar I give to that fellow for his suit.”

  Hunnicut took a black square billfold out of the inside pocket of his coat. He flipped it open flat on the desk and counted out several bills.

  “Here’s fifty dollars. Will that do?”

  “That’ll do just fine.”

  That night he and Seth went to a juke joint and got drunk and picked up two prostitutes. They spent the night in an apartment next door to the bar, and J.P. awoke in the morning with a hangover and looked at the woman beside him in the light and wished he had stayed sober the night before. He put on his clothes and counted the money in his wallet. He couldn’t find his clip-on bow tie, then he saw the prostitute sleeping on it, and he pulled it out from under her leg and left the room and caught a taxi to his hotel.

  He bought a new suit and a new pair of shoes and gave his old clothes to the porter. He checked out of the hotel and walked down the street, holding the guitar case by its leather handle. He thought about the long bus ride ahead with the band through the sun-baked, red clay country of north Louisiana. He thought about the money he would make singing, three times the amount he made as a sharecropper back home. And Hunnicut had said that he might go up to the Nashville Barn Dance. The sun was very hot, and he had to squint his eyes in the white glare off the pavement. It would be a long trip in the summer heat.

  TOUSSAINT BOUDREAUX

  A South American freighter had come into port the day before to unload a shipment of coffee and to pick up another load of machine parts. Down in the hold a gang of stevedores waited for the gantry to lower the cargo net through the hatch. The temperature was over a hundred degrees in the hold. The iron plates on the bulkhead would scald your hands if you touched them. Toussaint looked up through the hatch at the bright square of sky. The Negro watched the gantry boom swing around from the dock and drop the cargo net into the hold, loaded with crates of machinery. The gang loosened the net and pulled the crates free with their hooks and dragged them across the floor. Toussaint and another man whipped their cargo hooks into the wood and slid a crate into position against the bulkhead. It was almost quitting time. He watched the empty net go back up through the hatch. The work whistle blew and the men picked up their lunch kits and walked up the metal steps to the deck and down the gangplank to the dock.

  Toussaint was fighting a four-round heavyweight bout at the arena that evening against an Italian from Chicago. He had wanted to get off work early, since his manager had promised him a main bout with a contender if he won tonight; but his gang boss wouldn’t let him off, and he had only a short time to rest before the fight. He ate a light supper and went to the pool hall to pass the time. He found a table in back and shot a game of nine ball. He liked the smooth felt green of the tables and the click of the balls. There was a horse board along one wall and a ticker tape machine that gave the race results. A couple of hustlers tried to get him into a game. He ignored them, chalked his cue, sank the nine ball, and had the boy rack the balls for another game. The hustlers played the slot machine and waited for someone else to come in. Toussaint looked at their clothes: the high-yellow pointed shoes, the knife-cut trousers, open-collar shirts without a coat, and short-brimmed hats with a wide hatband and a feather. He threw a dime on the table for the game and left.

  He caught a bus to the arena. The preliminaries began at eight and he had the third bout. He carried his canvas athletic bag into the locker room and changed into his trunks and robe. The job he had on the docks was the best job he could find in New Orleans when he came to the city from his home in Barataria five years ago. But it was tough in the union and on the docks, and each man did his work and looked out for himself. It was very different from what Toussaint had known in Barataria. Most of the men on the gang, save a few, had accepted him by now; but when he first went to work he was treated with either indifference or resentment, and two men complained to the union about working in the same hold with a Negro.

  He did some calisthenics to loosen up and sat on the rubbing table. There was no fat on his body, and the elastic band on his scarlet trunks was flat and tight across his stomach. He had fought once a month in the preliminaries for the last year. He had lost one bout, and it was after a split decision and the referee had decided against him because of a foul. Some of the people around the arena thought he could move up to the big circuits if he was handled properly, except he was thirty years old and his be
st years were behind him. He could punch hard, move around fast, and stand up under a beating. He had gotten his start when a fight manager had seen him in a fistfight down on the docks. Toussaint had fought another stevedore who had said that he didn’t like working with a Negro. The manager called him aside after the fight and told him he could earn fifty dollars for coming down to the arena and putting on the gloves. Since then Toussaint had become a promising club fighter with a good classic style.

  Archie, his trainer, came into the locker room. He was an ex-navy man who ran a men’s health club downtown and picked up extra money as a part-time trainer. He wore white duck trousers, a T-shirt, and white low-topped tennis shoes. He had a thick chest and shoulders and biceps, and his face was tanned and part of his brown hair had been bleached out by the sun.

  “You’re early tonight,” he said.

  “I’m stiff. I need a rubdown.”

  “I saw the dago in the hall. He says he’s going to crack you open.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I’ve never seen him fight before.”

  “They say he’s good,” Toussaint said.

  “He’s a ham and egg boy.”

  “I want to get him fast. I don’t want no decision tonight.”

  “He’s going to have the reach on you. You’ll have to get under him.”

  “Where’s Ruth?” Ruth was Toussaint’s manager.

  “Down at ringside with the money boys. They’ll be watching you.”

  “What are the gamblers giving?”

  “Two to one on you.”

  “I wish I seen this boy fight before,” Toussaint said.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Tight.”

  “Lay down. I’ll work on your back.”

  Archie massaged his shoulders and taped his hands. Some of the other preliminary fighters came into the locker room and began dressing. The buzzer sounded for the first bout. One of the fighters left with his trainer. Fifteen minutes later they were back. The fighter was bleeding from the nose and mouth. He slammed the door and threw his robe into a locker. His chest and stomach were covered with red welts. He lay back on the rubbing table.

  “I tell you he had oil on his gloves. I couldn’t see what I was doing,” he said.

  His trainer pinched the bridge of his nose to coagulate the blood.

  “Every time I got in close he slapped me across the eyes. It ain’t right.”

  “You were lucky to last three rounds. He had it all over you,” his trainer said.

  “I could have chewed him up and spit him out if he fought fair,” he said, still bleeding from the nose.

  “Did Ruth say anything about talking with the promoters?” Toussaint said.

  “They’ll give you a ten-round bout next month if you knock over the dago,” Archie said.

  “I got to get out of the prelims before long. I ain’t got many years left fighting.”

  “How does your back feel now?”

  “I’m okay.” He rolled his arms and shoulders.

  “You don’t pick up any fat on the docks.”

  “Loading machinery don’t do nothing for me before a fight neither.”

  “The second bout is almost over. Move around a little bit.”

  Toussaint stood up and threw some shadow punches. Archie laced his gloves and snipped the plastic tips off with a pair of scissors. He put a mouthpiece, a water bottle, and some towels into a canvas bag.

  “There’s the buzzer. Let’s go,” he said. He picked up the canvas bag and the first-aid kit, and they went out into the corridor and up the concrete ramp that led to the arena.

  The arena was overcrowded and the air was heavy with a drifting haze of cigarette smoke. The house lamps dimmed for the third bout as they walked down the aisle. The lights above the ring were bright through the smoke. There was a steady noise of talking and scraping of chairs. Some of the people shouted to Toussaint as he passed them. He looked at his opponent, who was already in the ring. The Italian had a scarred face and was a few pounds heavier than Toussaint. He was rubbing his feet in the rosin and pressing one glove into the palm of the other. Toussaint climbed into the ring and did some footwork while the announcer tried to get the crowd’s attention.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer said. He was dressed in a tuxedo. “Tonight we have two good boys with us for the third bout. Wearing scarlet trunks at a hundred and ninety-five pounds is Toussaint Boudreaux, a local boy with eleven wins and one loss. His opponent in the opposite corner, wearing black trunks, at two hundred pounds is Anthony Pepponi from Chicago, Illinois, with seventeen wins and two losses—”

  Toussaint and Archie went to the center of the ring to get the referee’s instructions. They came back to the corner and Archie climbed down through the ropes. Toussaint handed him his scarlet robe.

  He moved out fast with the bell and started punching. Pepponi had the reach on him, but Toussaint stayed in close and kept his head low to catch most of the heavy blows on his forearms and to work in for a body attack. Pepponi opened his guard when he hooked, and Toussaint unloaded on him. His head jerked back and the Negro hit him twice in the rib cage with his left and slammed another right on his jaw before he could recover. Pepponi backpedaled, fighting defensively, then caught Toussaint on the chin with a long one. Toussaint moved in and worked on his midsection. He crouched low to keep under Pepponi’s arms. Pepponi fought his way out of the corner, jabbing with his left to keep Toussaint away, and sent a right to his brow. Toussaint took a punch on the forehead for every two punches to Pepponi’s body. The Italian was breathing hard. They tied up in the center of the ring and worked on each other’s kidneys until the referee separated them. The crowd applauded at the bell.

  Archie climbed up on the apron with the wood stool. Toussaint had a thin split over his eye. Archie took out his mouthpiece and Toussaint rinsed his mouth from the water bottle and spit into the funnel.

  “Stay in close and wait till he opens up,” Archie said, rubbing the Negro’s chest with a towel. “You hurt him with that first right. Keep working on his body. He’s winded, and he’ll have to try to put you away. If it keeps up like this you’ll have him on a decision.”

  “He knows how to hit,” Toussaint said. He could feel the flesh draw tight around his eye.

  “Ten seconds,” Archie said. “Remember, don’t try to cool him till he comes after you.”

  Toussaint kept his guard high to protect the cut over his eye. Pepponi concentrated his punches on the Negro’s forehead. The leather slapped as Toussaint brushed away the jabs, and then there was a raw crack when Pepponi connected with that long right. The blood came down in Toussaint’s eye, hot and sticky. He straightened up and gave Pepponi a target, and then ducked a right and caught him in the solar plexus. The Italian wheezed and pulled his elbows in to cover his stomach. Toussaint tried to move in on him, but Pepponi clinched him. The Negro took two more punches on the eye. Pepponi was throwing everything he had to keep Toussaint away. Toussaint worked on his body to open him up. Pepponi fought more carefully. He knew that Toussaint was waiting to unload on him, and he was going to try to take the fight on a technical knockout.

  Toussaint was badly hurt in the third round. Pepponi butted him in a clinch and lengthened the split over his eye. He could no longer see out of his left eye, and Pepponi’s right hand was outside his vision. His nose was swollen and the inside of his mouth was cut. He knew that he had lost the round.

  In the corner, Archie wiped his face with a wet towel and worked on the left eye with a cotton swab. The taste of blood in Toussaint’s mouth made him faintly nauseated. He drank from the water bottle and spit it out. The fourth round was the last one. He would have to get Pepponi then, or it would probably be a split decision. Toussaint had the first two rounds on points, but Pepponi had the third and he would probably get the fourth.

  Toussaint was unsteady on his feet as he came out of his corner. Pepponi hit him on the bridge of the nose. Toussaint feinted
with his left and drove a right hook into his side, just below the heart. Pepponi dropped his glove and Toussaint hit him hard across the side of the head. It knocked Pepponi against the ropes. Toussaint pinned him in the corner and went to work on him. He hooked a right into the Italian’s jaw, and then he felt a bone snap in the back of his hand. The pain rushed up his arm through his body, and made his eyes water. It had cracked like a dry stick. Pepponi got out of the corner and came towards him punching. Toussaint held his right glove in front of his face and tried to keep him away with his left. Toussaint feinted with his good hand to make him drop his guard, and shifted all his weight onto his left foot and drove an uppercut straight into the Italian’s throat. The pain almost made Toussaint pass out. Pepponi spit out his mouthpiece and stiffened as he bounced off the turnbuckle and sank to the floor with his head and arms hanging through the ropes.

  He couldn’t get up before the final count. The referee came over and raised Toussaint’s arm to the crowd. Archie climbed up on the apron with the robe, and sponged his face and chest. The Negro’s eye was completely closed. Archie draped the robe on Toussaint’s shoulders, and they left the ring and made their way down the aisle to the locker rooms.

  Toussaint lay down on the rubbing table while Archie tried to remove his glove.

  “Your hand is swollen up like a rock,” he said. He cut away the glove with a razor blade. The leather peeled back from the edge of the razor. “That punch may’ve ruined your hand for good.”

  Toussaint put his left arm across his face.

  “The ring doctor will be here in a minute. Is it hurting bad?” Archie said.

  “It’s numb now.”

  “I don’t see how you did it.”

  “I didn’t think about it. I saw him coming and it was over.”

  “You got a rough shake. Maybe I didn’t have your hand taped tight enough.”

  “The tape was all right. When I hit him he pulled his head in and I caught him with the back of my fist.”

  Toussaint’s manager came into the locker room. He wore his hair in a crew cut and dressed in a dark business suit and silk tie with a jeweled tie clasp, and there was a Mason’s ring on his finger. His face was ruddy and there was hair on the back of his hands.