Fight Card: AGAINST THE ROPES

by Jack Tunney

  Quinn heard everything Johnson had told him and he didn’t like any of it. He hated being hemmed in; both inside and outside the boxing ring. He liked to have options, room to operate. If everything he was being told now was true, there were only two options on the table: Throw the fight and live. Or win the fight and die.

  Two options. Both of them lousy.

  He took a stiff belt of scotch and was surprised when Johnson filled his glass. “Like I told you. I’ve been where you are from time to time. Happened to me inside the ring and outside of it, too. I deserved it though.” He smiled as he poured himself another scotch. “I thumbed my nose at those crackers every chance I got. Dressed like a white man. Lived where white people lived. Dated and married white women. Hell, even traveled like a white man. All over this here country. Europe, too.”

  He looked down into his glass as he slowly turned it with those thick fingers. “Paid a price for it though. Everyone pays a price for not doing things the way people think you should do them. I’m not just talking about Tammany now. I’m talking about people in general, people everywhere. They don’t like it when you don’t fit in the way they think you should. They lock you in jail. They ostracize you. And then they really start to go to work on you.”

  Johnson drank his scotch and made a grand gesture at the empty night club. “A lot of people think I still own this joint. But I don’t. You know who does?”

  “Doyle,” Quinn said. “Heard he bought it from you a few weeks ago.”

  Johnson toasted him. “You’re a pretty smart boy for a fighter, but you’re right. That Irishman took my Club De Luxe and turned it into The Cotton Club, a two-bit dive where he can peddle that water he calls beer up here to the Harlem crowd. Won’t allow any of us in any of his joints downtown, but he expects us to welcome his pale face up here with open arms.”

  “But if he owns the place, what are we doing here?”

  That smile again. “On account of I still got the keys. And because there’s way of winning and there’s ways of losing. I shouldn’t be in here right now, should I? Yet here I am as any fool can see.”

  Quinn thought the scotch might be affecting him worse than he thought. He set his drink on the table and began to stand up. “Your club’s got nothing to do with what Doyle’s trying to do to me. So…”

  Suddenly, Johnson’s eyes didn’t look so friendly. “I told you to sit down and I don’t aim to tell you again.” When Quinn did, Johnson said: “This has everything to do with you because I’m trying to show you there are ways of giving up and there are ways of making them think you’re giving up. And there are ways of getting out from under. Even in the fight game.”

  “Like how?”

  “Like you going after Rothman and Whitowski one on one like you want to,” Johnson said. “And don’t go telling me it’s out of your system ’cause I know it’s not. Wouldn’t be out of mine if I was in your shoes. I know what you’re thinking right now. You’ll get Augie home, put him to bed, then start to thinking how old Jack Johnson doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Then you’ll go looking for Rothman and Whitowski and try to put a hurt on them. They call that a fool’s errand son. Because going at the Tammany Tiger will get you nothing but dead.”

  “I’m not throwing the fight. I can beat Whitowski in the ring. Dempsey, too.”

  “I’ve seen you fight. I know you can.” Johnson pulled the cork out of the scotch bottle and filled Quinn’s glass again. “But we both know these Tammany guys will never let you get that far. Even if you beat Whitowski on the level, they’ll do everything they can to keep you out of the money. And they will, too. Because they make all the rules.”

  Maybe it was the scotch or maybe it was his hangover, but Quinn’s head started to hurt. It felt like Johnson was talking in circles. “So what the hell am I supposed to do now?”

  Johnson was smiling that wide, bright smile again. “Sit and listen, boy because your Uncle Jack is going to tell you exactly what you’re going to do.”

  ROUND EIGHT

  It was almost noon by the time Johnson got through talking. But Quinn wasn’t used to thinking so much and the whole thing seemed like such a lousy mess. And when he threw in what had happened to Joey, it made it even worse.

  His mind raced with options as one of Johnson’s friends drove him and Augie back home.

  Part of him knew he should just walk away from the fight game all together right then and there. That is, if he knew another way to make a living.

  But he didn’t. He was just a pug so he was stuck between the gym and Tammany Hall.

  If it had just been him against the boys, the decision would’ve been a lot easier to make. But with Augie’s life on the line, Quinn had to worry about him, too. He hadn’t been seeking a father figure when he’d met Augie. Father Frawley and the orphanage had been the only family Quinn had ever known or wanted and he liked it that way.

  Until Augie. Now, he was part of Quinn’s family, too, whether he liked it or not. So was Joey.

  Just letting things sit the way Johnson had told him didn’t set well with Quinn. But it made the most sense. And it gave him time to make up his mind.

  Quinn had just carried Augie up to his own apartment, ignoring the looks and stares he drew from people, including the landlady. He took off Augie’s shoes, loosened his tie and dropped him on the bed. He put a blanket over him in case he got cold. He took his keys with him and promised himself he’d stop in to check on him later on.

  It was going on one o’clock as he left Augie’s building and headed back to his place around the corner. He figured he still had enough time to stop by the drug store and call the hospital to check on Joe. With any luck, the little man was doing better. Unfortunately, Quinn had never believed in luck.

  He’d always made his own.

  He was just about to go into the drug store when he saw a familiar man leaning on the wall in front of his building.

  Archie Doyle.

  He was wearing a different suit from the night before. This one was charcoal gray with a red tie and matching pocket handkerchief. Still no hat, his graying hair holding its own against the uptown wind.

  Quinn forgot all about the phone call and everything Johnson had told him as he started over toward Doyle.

  The Tammany man saw him coming but kept leaning against the wall, smoking like he was without a care in the world. He took the cigarette from his mouth as Quinn got closer and said, “Careful, kid. I run this side of town, so don’t do anythin’ stupid. I came here to talk, not fight.”

  Quinn realized Doyle probably wasn’t alone so he stopped dead in his tracks. “And what if I did?”

  “What if you did what?”

  “Come here to fight.”

  Doyle’s eyebrows rose as he let out a long breath. “Then this conversation is gonna go a different way than it should. I came here to apologize for what happened to Joey. He was a good kid.”

  “Was?” Quinn felt his legs begin to go out from under him. He backed against the wall and sank to the ground. “You mean he’s dead?”

  Doyle nodded. “Happened about an hour ago. Just got word of it myself. I wanted you to hear it from me before you heard it from anyone else.”

  Quinn’s hands balled into fists again. “That’s awfully swell of you, pops. Seeing as how you’re one of the guys who killed him.”

  Doyle hitched his pants at his knees and squatted next to him on the sidewalk. “That’s where you’re wrong, kid. I heard that story myself and I want to set that straight with you right here and now. No one ordered anything. Not against you. Not against Joey or Augie either. That was just four drunks who ran into each other at the wrong place at the wrong time. That’s all.”

  “That’s not all.” Quinn fought back tears. He’d die before he’d cry in front of Doyle. “Joey’s dead.”

  “And nothing’s going to bring him back. And no one meant for that to happen. Because if they did, we could’ve wiped out you and Augie and that punch drunk jungle
-bunny up at the Cotton Club this morning.”

  Quinn didn’t know what his expression must’ve been like, but Archie was already nodding at him. “That’s right, kid. We knew you were there and we could’ve taken care of you if that’s what we wanted. But we don’t want that, see? And no one wanted anyone dead last night.”

  “Because blood’s bad for business, right? It gets cops curious and you guys can’t have that, can you?”

  “That’s part of it, but not all of it. You see…”

  Quinn got to his feet. “You’re going to find out that killing my friends is bad for business, too.”

  Doyle stood up as well. “Save it for the ring, kid. You’re gonna need it against Whitowski.”

  “Not if he’s in jail. And I’m going to make sure they put him there for what he did to Joey.”

  Doyle shook his head slowly. “Who’s going to put him there? You? You weren’t at Lefty’s. You were at the Kaye Klub getting drunk with a police detective, no less. Who else? Augie?” Doyle shook his head some more. “We both know he’s smarter than to put the finger on Whitowski or Rothman. You know I’m right, too.”

  That was the worst part of it. Quinn did know he was right, but he wouldn’t admit it to Doyle.

  “I hear Joey has a sick mother in Astoria,” Doyle said. “Don’t worry. She’ll be provided for.”

  Quinn sneered. “Tammany takes care of its own, right?”

  Doyle’s narrow eyes brightened and he lightly poked Quinn in the chest. “That’s the ticket, sport. Be sure you keep that in mind between now and the fight. Oh, and I don’t want to hear anything about Whitowski being mixed up in Joey’s death. If I do, I’ll know where it’s comin’ from. And our next chat won’t be so polite.”

  “I’m not throwing that fight, Doyle. I don’t care what you do to me or Augie, either. I don’t dive for anyone.”

  Doyle flicked his ash and popped the cigarette back in his mouth. “We’ll see about that. You’re a smart kid and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, time heals all wounds. I’ve got a feelin’ you’ll come to your senses soon enough.”

  “Don’t count on me being too smart.”

  Doyle shrugged and began to walk away. “Might not matter anyway. See, the commission won’t let Whitowski fight anyone else, but they did let us move up the fight. That means you’ve only got two months to get ready. And after the beating you took last night, I don’t think there’s any way in the world you’ll be ready by then. Not for an animal like Whitowski. Sorry about the short notice, kid, but…well, you know how it goes.”

  Quinn knew how it went. He was supposed to get three months between bouts. But Doyle and his pals had pulled strings to get the time shortened.

  But it didn’t matter to him if it was two months or two days. He said what was in his heart before he realized he was yelling the advice Jack Johnson had given him word for word. “I’m going to kill him, Doyle. I’m going to kill him for what he did to Joey. And if anyone doesn’t like it, I’ll kill them too.”

  If he thought that would stop Doyle from walking away, he was wrong. Doyle never broke his stride as he walked north. But he held two fingers high for Quinn to see. “Two months, Terry Quinn. Two months to train. Two months to think about consequences, too.”

  Yeah, Quinn thought as he watched Doyle walk away. Plenty of time to do plenty.

  ROUND NINE

  The next week was a complete blur to Terry Quinn.

  His body was too sore from the beating Genet had given him to sit up straight, much less train. Sleeping was difficult, too. That put him one week behind. One week less he had to train for a monster like Whitowski.

  But just because he wasn’t training didn’t mean he wasn’t busy. Joey’s funeral had been a mess. His mother apparently didn’t like her son very much and refused to pay for the funeral. She spent Doyle’s hush money on a new radio and a living room set.

  Augie hadn’t stopped crying the whole week. He apologized to everyone who would listen about letting poor little Joey die. Quinn dried him out every time he got drunk, but the next chance he got, Augie crawled right back into a bottle.

  Since his ribs didn’t hurt so much when he was standing, Quinn found himself going to work every night at the Kaye Klub early, hoping to catch Rothman there with one of his bleach blonde frails. But the gambler hadn’t shown his face in there since the night Joey died. After his shift, Quinn usually drifted over to Lefty’s to see if Rothman had been around there, but came up empty. Quinn pumped the show folks and theater crowd that frequented the place. Rothman loved being seen with actors and actresses. None of them had seen him. Whitowski either.

  Quinn had never had any trouble sleeping in his life before then. Even in the dormitory at the orphanage, he could drop off without a problem and wake up wide awake each morning. It made training for the ring a lot easier.

  Even as his ribs began to heal, he hadn’t slept more than a few hours each night since Joey’s death. Instead, he walked home from the club every night, tucked his feet under his bed and did sit-ups despite his tender ribs. He didn’t bother to count how many. When he got tired, he flipped over and did pushups. Sometimes he did so many, he collapsed on the floor and slept there.

  After a couple of weeks of this, he decided his anger wasn’t getting him anywhere. It was turning in on itself over and over again like a coiling snake. He couldn’t train if he couldn’t get his head right. And if he didn’t train well, Whitowski had the power to knock him out in the first round.

  With Augie in a bottle and with nowhere else to turn, Quinn thought of the only man he knew could help him. He called Father Frawley and asked to come see him.

  The old priest agreed, but only if they met at their old stomping ground: The Gym at St. Vincent’s. Eight o’clock that same evening.

  The old Jesuit leaned into the heavy bag while Quinn hit it with random hooks and jabs.

  “Combinations, Terry,” Father Frawley said, his wire-rimmed glasses sliding down the edge of his nose. “Combinations, not one punch at a time. One-two. One-two. Then two down low and three up top, just like I taught you.”

  Quinn had been hitting the bag more to appease the old priest, not to get a work out. He needed guidance from his former teacher, not punching drills.

  But this was where their bond had been formed all those years before. The gym at St. Vincents’ Home for Boys was where Quinn had left boyhood behind and became a man. Where what had happened to him when he was a child no longer mattered as much as what he chose to for himself in adulthood.

  Other boys from St. Vincents went on to become mechanics and plumbers. Some became cops and others criminals. One or two even went on to become priests.

  But Quinn had never wanted to be any of those things. All he’d ever wanted to be was a boxer. He enjoyed every part of the craft. The early morning runs, the jump-rope sessions, the heavy bag sessions, the sparing. He liked standing in the ring with men who’d trained just as hard as he had. Men who’d put in their time and belonged in there with him. He liked hitting them and he didn’t mind getting hit. His nose was a testament to that. Quinn paid the priest back now by always sending a piece of his take from the fight back to the orphanage. It was the least he could do.

  He was aware Father Frawley began to jerk as he began to hit the bag harder. And he was hitting it harder because he was thinking of what he didn’t like. Bullies and grandstanders who’d rather talk than train. Who’d rather cut corners and intimidate people than work for a title shot like he had. He didn’t have anybody at Tammany pulling strings for him. He didn’t have...

  “That’s enough, my son,” Father Frawley said, leaning into the bag. “That’s enough. You can stop punching now.”

  Quinn did as he was told. “But why, Father? I’m just getting warmed up.”

  “Because you’re not just hitting the bag anymore. You’re hitting something that isn’t there. Like you always do when something’s bothering you.” He nodded over toward the ring. “E
nough training, it’s time to talk.”

  Quinn tucked his right glove under his arm and pulled his hand free. “But if you didn’t want me hitting the bag, what the hell did you have me work out for?”

  “You’ve always been able to express yourself better with your fists than you have with words,” Father Frawley said as he cleaned his wire-rimmed glasses with a towel. “I needed to know what was really bothering you, so I had you hit the bag for a while. And judging from your performance just now, whatever’s bothering you is very profound.”

  Father Frawley hopped up and sat on the edge of the ring, like he used to when he was a much younger man and Quinn was one of his many boxing students. “So, tell me what it is, and remember leaving out details will only make you feel far worse for much longer.”

  Quinn undid the laces of his left glove and pulled it off. “I need you to level with me, Father. Do you think I can beat Whitowski?”

  The priest thought about it for a moment. “If you fight the way I taught you, yes. Like the way you fought Genet. But we both know it’ll take more than speed and skill to beat a man like Whitowski. If you are going to take down a man like Whitowski you’ll have to have your head in the right place. And you won’t beat anyone if you step in the ring carrying the heavy burden you have on your shoulders now.”

  Quinn laid one glove on top of the other on the edge of the ring, next to where Father Frawley was sitting. He use to tell the priest everything that was troubling him as he was a boy. But as a man, he felt awkward about it. If childhood is about freedom, adulthood is about walls.

  Quinn closed his eyes and started in, “They want me to throw the fight against Whitowski.”

  Father Frawley didn’t look surprised. “Who asked you to do it?”

  “Nobody,” Quinn said. “Not officially, anyway. A gambler named Rothman and Whitowski ran into Augie and Joey as they were coming out of Lefty’s a couple of weeks ago. Lefty’s is a…”

  The priest held up a hand to stop him. “I’m aware of what Lefty’s is, Terry. Go ahead.”