The next day was Friday. Still no sign of the Prof. I figured I could catch him at the fights, so I picked Max up and we drove over the Manhattan Bridge to the BQE, exited on Queens Boulevard and motored along, watching for the turnoff. All along the strip, the topless bars and storefront churches coexisted, each crew deluding itself it was competition for the other. I found the turnoff, followed the Prof's directions. The joint was off Skillman Avenue, an old arena that hadn't been big–time since World War II. We circled the area half a dozen times before Max spotted a parking place. I pulled in, secured the Plymouth.
"We're with one of the fighters," I told the guy at the door. "Where's the dressing rooms? I got a boy going tonight."
"Him?" the guy at the door said, nodding his head in Max's direction.
"Not this time," I told him.
"You're not gonna work the corner, you gotta pay like everybody else," he said.
I gave him a fifty for two ringside seats. "First come, first served," the guy said, gesturing toward the ring standing in the middle of the auditorium surrounded by rows of folding chairs.
One of the cable networks was setting up a trio of heavy cameras on massive tripods. I saw the lights had already been strung, the network's logo was firmly in place near the ceiling. They tape all the fights, but the four–rounders only make it to the screen if the main event ends early.
We walked around the perimeter until I found the entrance to the back rooms. The locker room was crowded with fighters— they were all in the one room, but separated by invisible lines, surrounded by handlers and hangers–on. The place smelled of fresh sweat and stale hopes. I spotted the Prof standing over to one side, saying something to Frankie as Clarence carefully wrapped the fighter's hands in tape.
"It's the first bout for the other guy too," the Prof was saying to Frankie, "but he's a Golden Gloves winner— they looking for you to be a sheep for the creep. But ain't the way it's gonna play, okay?"
Frankie nodded attentively, not speaking.
"You got to be quick, babe," the Prof continued. "Get off fast— don't let it last. On TV, KO is all they know. You ready?"
Frankie nodded again.
"We're up first," the Prof said to me. "Got about a half–hour." He turned to Frankie. "Just lie back, son. Relax. Don't bother trying to break a sweat until it gets close to game time."
Frankie obediently lay back on the table, closed his eyes.
"I got to ask you something," I said to the Prof, drawing him aside.
"After the bout, schoolboy. This is business now."
"Okay," I agreed, staying on his topic. "You know anything about this boy Frankie's going to fight?"
"Sure. See that guy over there? The one against the lockers? That's him. Jermaine Jenkins."
I looked over. Jenkins was a black kid, looked about nineteen. He stood about six four, looked like he weighed maybe two thirty. A real big kid. Big all over. He was admiring a neon–blue robe with his name on the back, rapping to a couple of guys in suits.
"We can take him easy," the Prof said, smiling. "Boy's got a nice wardrobe. Slick moves too. But his punch don't crunch. Only reason we got the date is they glommed Frankie's weight. We should be fighting cruisers, but there ain't no cash in the off–brands."
"What corner they give you?"
"Blue," he replied. "True blue."
"Frankie's ready?"
"He'll be on that pretty–boy like a ho' on dough, bro— nothing to it."
I walked back over to where Frankie was lying down. Noticed Clarence had placed a clean white washcloth over the fighter's eyes. "Be yourself," I told him, giving his shoulder a pat.
"I will," he said quietly.
Max and I went out, found seats near the blue corner. The place was filling up. I spotted a crew of dope gangstahs through the ropes, all sitting ringside. One of them was talking on a cellular phone, making a production out of it. A dark–haired man in his fifties in an expensive–looking midnight–blue suit sat a few places over to my left, his arm around the waist of a sharp–featured bottle–blonde about a foot taller and thirty years younger than him. Most of the crowd was local— blue–collar whites and flashier–dressed Latins. A group of Orientals sat by themselves, occasionally glancing over at the black gangstah crew. Hard looks, returned with interest.
The announcer stepped to the center of the ring, a middle–aged man with an elaborate hairdo wearing a bright–red tuxedo jacket with black shawl lapels. He held a microphone in one hand and a large index card in the other. Then he did the usual bit about welcoming us to the fabulous arena, announced each of the three judges by name, identified the State Boxing Commissioner and a bunch of other people. Then the referee. In the middle of his spiel, the two fighters walked toward the ring from opposite directions. Jenkins was resplendent in his pretty robe, surrounded by half a dozen different guys. Frankie's robe was wide black–and–white vertical stripes, like an old–time convict's uniform. Jenkins' handlers held the ropes for him to climb in the ring— Clarence did the same for Frankie. The cornermen removed their fighters' robes. Jenkins' blue trunks were a perfect match. Frankie's were striped the same as his robe too.
The referee called the fighters to the center of the ring, mumbled something. Jenkins looked much bigger than Frankie, a menacing scowl on his face. He glared at Frankie— Frankie gave him a blank stare back. The referee said to touch gloves. Frankie held his two hands out— Jenkins brought both fists down hard, said something I couldn't catch. The fighters went back to their corners, sat down.
Frankie opened his mouth for Clarence to insert the white rubber mouthpiece. The Prof leaned close to Frankie's ear, whispering something.
The bell rang.
Jenkins trotted out of his corner, circled to Frankie's left, up on his toes, firing a series of pretty jabs that Frankie caught on his gloves. Frankie shuffled forward methodically, working from a slight crouch, occasionally pushing a weak jab out.
"Let your hands go!" the Prof screamed.
Jenkins continued to circle, drawing cheers from the crowd with each flurry. Frankie cut off the ring, bulling Jenkins into a corner. But Jenkins spun away, slapping a glove to the back of Frankie's head as the crowd laughed.
Jenkins pop–pop–popped more jabs, then crossed with his right, catching Frankie flush on the jaw. Frankie stepped back, but quickly lowered his head and came on again. The bell rang with both fighters in the center of the ring throwing punches— Jenkins outspeeding Frankie by an easy three–to–one. Jenkins raised both hands over his head as he strutted back to his corner.
Clarence took the mouthpiece from Frankie, held a sponge to the back of the fighter's neck. A girl in a gold thong–back bikini pranced around the ring in matching spike heels, holding up a white card with a red 2 on it.
The Prof was saying something in Frankie's ear— I couldn't make it out.
The bell for the second round sounded. Jenkins was off his stool quickly, covering most of the distance between the fighters before Frankie took a single step. Jenkins flicked the jab. Frankie didn't move his feet, but he dropped his right shoulder, shifted his weight way over and exploded a pair of right hooks to Jenkins' ribs. Jenkins staggered backward, hands up to protect his face. Frankie threw another right hook, legs spread apart, feet planted for power. The crowd screamed as Frankie came on, hooking with both hands now. Jenkins dropped to one knee. The referee started to count. Jenkins was up at eight. The referee asked him if he was all right. Jenkins nodded, held his hands up to show he was ready. The referee wiped off Jenkins' gloves on the front of his white shirt, waved Frankie in.
Frankie shuffled forward as Jenkins retreated behind his flicking jab, maintaining distance. It didn't work— Frankie swallowed the jabs, a flash of white showing at his mouth. Either a smile or a snarl— I couldn't tell.
Jenkins still had his hands up, elbows against his chest, armor–plated. Frankie pounded away at what he was offered, smashing blow after blow to his opponent's forearms. Jenki
ns backed into the ropes. Frankie threw a left just below Jenkins' elbow, then followed with an overhand right to the temple. Jenkins lost his legs— his knees wobbled as he tried to pull Frankie into a clench. The referee separated the fighters, pushing Frankie back a few feet.
It didn't help. Frankie drove a right into Jenkins' kidneys and the other man went down— this time he didn't get up. A doctor came into the ring as Frankie walked slowly back to his own corner.
Max and I found Frankie back where he'd started the night. He had just stepped out of the shower and was toweling himself off.
"Good job," I told him.
The kid kept his head down, mumbled "Thanks." The Prof pulled himself up onto the table, used it for a chair as he spoke to Frankie. "You got to get off first, " he said to the fighter. "You was all warmed up before you went out there. What happened?"
"I…dunno," Frankie replied.
"That boy was all flash," the Prof said. "He couldn't hurt you with a fucking tire iron, right?"
"Yeah."
"Look, kid, you don't want to get a rep as a slow starter. You can't be giving away the first round every time— that makes the other guy brave."
Frankie's head came up, looking the Prof full in the eyes for the first time. "I know," he said.
A smile broke across the Prof's handsome face. "You hear that, schoolboy?" he said to me. "My man's got a plan. The other boy raps, my boy sets the traps. Beautiful!"
"You cannot be defeated, mahn," Clarence said to Frankie, as gravely as quoting the Bible.
Max tapped Frankie's shoulder to get his attention. Then he mimed throwing a right hook, bowed to Frankie. Frankie returned the bow. "How do I tell him thanks?" he asked me.
"You just did," I told him. I turned to the Prof. "You about ready to go?"
"I want Frankie to see the rest of the fights, all right? Only a fool cuts school."
We all went back outside, just in time to see another four–rounder come to an end, this time with both fighters standing. When the decision was announced, one of the fighters leaped into the air, waving a gloved fist in triumph— the other made an emphatic gesture of disgust. The crowd booed them both.
Frankie sat to my left, Max to my right. The Prof and Clarence went off somewhere, probably to arrange Frankie's next fight. Or to collect some bets.
We watched some paunchy heavyweights waltz around the ring to the thunderous boredom of the crowd. It was so bad that the ref tapped one of them on the shoulder when he wanted to cut in. I knew cable TV was desperate for product, but this was obscene— if it wasn't for the 10–point–must system, the sorry bout would have ended up a 0–0 double–draw loss. The crowd booed and hissed at the decision, disgusted that either of the slobs won. Like New York voters, wishing there was a Fuck–All–a–Youse choice on the ballot.
Finally, they announced the main event. Frankie sat up straight in his chair, taking it all in.
The Golden Boy was black. Twenty–one and zip, with seventeen KOs. He was as sleek as an otter— all smooth, rubbery muscle under glistening chocolate skin. He wore royal–purple trunks with a white stripe under an ankle–length robe in matching colors, his name blazing across the back: Cleophus "Cobra" Carr.
Tonight he was the main event, a ten–rounder. Middleweights, they were supposed to be, but they called Carr's weight out at one sixty–four.
There was a lot of betting in the mid–priced seats just past ringside— betting how long the fight would go before Carr stopped the other guy.
Nobody knew the opponent— he was the last–minute replacement for the guy Carr was supposed to fight. He walked to the ring by himself, wearing a thin white terry–cloth robe. His trunks were black.
The announcer pointed to the opponent's corner first. Manuel Ortiz. Dragging the last name out way past two syllables— Orrrr–Teeese!
Ortiz was fifty–six and sixteen, with thirty–two KOs. Originally a welterweight, he'd go up or down…wherever there was work. They had him at one fifty–nine tonight.
Maybe he had dreams for this once— now it was a part–time job.
I knew his story like it was printed in a book. He got the call the day before, finished his shift at the car wash, got on the Greyhound and rode until he got to the arena— I could see it in his face, all of that.
Carr was twenty–two. He'd gone all the way to the finals at the Olympic Trials before turning pro two years ago. They said Ortiz was thirty, shading it at least a half–dozen. The guy who managed him worked out of a phone booth in a gym somewhere near the Cal–Mex border. His boxers always gave good value— they wouldn't go down easy, didn't quit, played their role.
The fighters stepped to the center of the ring for their instructions. Carr had three men standing with him, one to each side, the third gently kneading the muscles at the back of the middleweight's neck. Ortiz stood alone— the cornerman they supplied him with stayed outside the ring, bored.
Carr gave Ortiz a gunfighter's stare. Ortiz never met his eyes. That was for younger men— Ortiz was working. I could feel the pachuco cross tattoo under the glove on his right hand….I knew it would be there.
The referee nodded to the fighters. Ortiz held out his gloves the way Frankie had, just doing as he was told. Carr slammed his right fist down against them. The crowd cheered, starting early.
The bell sounded. Carr snake–hipped out of his corner, firing a quick series of jackhammer jabs. Ortiz walked forward like a man in slow motion, catching the jabs on his gloves and forearms, pressing.
Carr danced out of his way, grinning. I dropped my eyes to the canvas, watching parallel as Carr's white leather boxing shoes ice–skated over the ring, purple tassels bouncing as Ortiz's black lace–ups plodded in pursuit.
Deep into the first round, Ortiz hadn't landed more than a half–dozen punches. He kept swarming forward, smothering Carr's crisp shots, his face a mask of patience. Suddenly, Carr stopped backpedaling, stepped to the side, hooked off his jab and followed with a smoking right cross, catching Ortiz on the lower jaw Ortiz shook his head— then he stifled the crowd's cheers with a left hook to Carr's ribs.
The bell sounded. Carr raised his hands, took a quick lap around the ring, like he'd already won. Ortiz walked over and sat on his stool. His cornerman held out his hand to take the mouthpiece, splashed some water in the fighter's face, leaned close to say something. Ortiz didn't change expression, looking straight ahead— maybe the cornerman didn't speak Spanish.
Over in Carr's corner, all three of his people were talking at once. Carr was grinning.
The girl in the gold bikini wiggled around again, holding up the round–number card. The crowd applauded. She blew a kiss.
Carr was off his stool before the bell sounded, already gliding across the ring. Ortiz stepped toward Carr, as nervous as a gardener. Carr drove him against the ropes, firing with both hands, overdosing on the crowd's adrenaline. Ortiz unleashed the left hook to the body again. Carr stepped back, drew a breath, and came on again, working close. Ortiz launched a short uppercut. Carr's head snapped back. Ortiz bulled his way forward, throwing short, clubbing blows. Carr grabbed him, clutching the other fighter close, smothering the punches. The referee broke them.
Carr stepped away, flicking his jab, using his feet. The crowd applauded.
The ring girl put something extra into her wiggle between the rounds, probably figuring it was her last chance to strut her stuff.
Halfway through the next round, the crowd was getting impatient— they came to see Carr extend his KO record, not watch a mismatch crawling to a decision.
"Shoeshine, Cleo!" a caramel–colored woman in a big white hat screamed. As though tuned in to her voice, Carr cranked it up, unleashing a rapid–fire eight–punch combo. The crowd went wild. Carr stepped back to admire his handiwork. And Ortiz walked forward.
By the sixth round, Carr was a mile ahead. He would dance until Ortiz caught him, then use his superior hand speed to flash his way free, scoring all the while. When he went back
to his corner at the bell, the crowd roared its displeasure— this wasn't what they had come to see.
A slashing right hand opened a cut over Ortiz's eye to start the next round. An accidental head–butt halfway through turned the cut into a river. The referee brought him over to the ring apron. The house doctor took a look, signaled he could go on. The crowd screamed, finally getting its money's worth.
Carr snapped at the cut like a terrier with a rat. Ortiz kept playing his role.
Between rounds, Carr's handlers yelled into both his ears, urging him to go and get it. Ortiz's cornerman sponged his cut, covered it with Vaseline.
The ring girl was really energized now, hips swinging harder than Carr was hitting.
Carr came out to finish it and drove Ortiz to the ropes, firing a quick burst of unanswered punches. Ortiz came back with his trademark left hook, but Carr was too wired to get off–tracked, smelling the end. A right hand landed flush on Ortiz's nose, a bubble burst of blood. Ortiz spit out his mouthpiece, hauled in a ragged breath and rallied with both hands. A quick look of surprise crossed Carr's face. He stepped back, measuring. Ortiz waved him in. Carr took the challenge, supercharged now, doubling up with each hand, piston–punching. Ortiz's face was all bone and blood.
The referee jumped in and stopped it, wrapping his arms around Ortiz.
Carr took a lap around the ring, waving to the crowd.
Ortiz walked over and sat on his stool.
The announcer grabbed the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen! The referee has stopped this contest at two minutes and thirty–three seconds of the eighth round. The winner by TKO, and still undefeated…Cleophus…Cobra… Caaaarrrr!"
The crowd stood and applauded. Carr did a back flip in the center of the ring.
Ortiz's cornerman draped the white robe over the fighter's shoulders.
Ortiz walked back to the dressing room alone.
"That's a real warrior," Frankie said to me. "Carr? He's nothing but a— "
Footsteps of the Hawk b-8 Page 6
