Felony Fists (Fight Card)

by Jack Tunney

  Tombstone wasn’t any help either. He’d been down to the Main Street Gym where King had set up camp. He’d seen King working, and he just looked at me and worried. How somebody so big could be such an old lady was beyond me.

  I was so mad, I was ready to go after King right there and then. Which, after a couple of deep breaths, I knew was exactly what King wanted.

  I wasn’t ready yet, but I would be. Only my brother Mickey and Father Tim knew the rage down inside me. Both of them had seen it and felt it turned against them. Mickey had the same rage, and like me, he couldn’t control it. On the streets, we’d almost torn the heads and limbs off of kids who dared cross our paths with intent to harm. Father Tim knew he couldn’t make the rage go away, but he taught us to channel and control it . . .

  . . . And he taught us when and how to turn it loose.

  I had no doubt Solomon King had his own rage, and once we were in the ring it wasn’t going to be about which one of us could hurt the other more. It was going to be about which one of us had been hurt the deepest –

  whose rage, the ball of anger exploding in their gut, was going to engulf the other – an uncontrolled fire being consumed by a larger raging fire.

  I could feel the burn starting to ignite inside of me. Maybe Pops had sensed it in me and was trying to bring it out. I couldn’t underestimate him just like I couldn’t underestimate King, but it didn’t matter. All I had to do was keep it under control for two more weeks.

  For now, I kept walking toward the locker room, leaving the ring, and Pops, and Donovan, and Tombstone, and everything else behind me.

  ROUND 12

  I was done training for the day. Oh, I was sure Pops wanted me to do more, watch film, talk strategy, but I was done. I was showered and putting on my clothes when Tina came into the locker room.

  She was quiet, straddling the narrow wooden bench. In her dungarees and a green tee shirt snitch from one of her older brothers, she look more like eight than thirteen.

  “You okay, Pat?” she asked.

  I was still pretty hot, but I couldn’t take it out on her. “Fine, kid,” I said, my voice gentle.

  “You worried about King?”

  I smiled. “You worried I can’t take him?”

  “No way!” She was emphatic.

  “All right then. Nothing to worry about. You gonna be in my corner?”

  “Of course.”

  I finished knotting my tie and threw a couple of shadow jabs at her. “You’re my good luck charm, kid. With you there, I can take this guy with one arm tied behind my back.”

  Tina laughed and batted at my hands. “Get outta here,” she said. “I gotta clean up your mess like usual.” She reached to pick my towel up off the floor.

  I smiled and moved out the door.

  ***

  When I got to the detective sedan, I was still focused inward. I opened the door and slid behind the wheel. It was only then I realized Tombstone was slouched down on the passenger side. His head was resting on the seat back, his hat over his eyes.

  I swore.

  “Give me a break. I need to get out of here – alone.” I realized I was gritting my teeth.

  “You’re not safe to be let out alone.”

  “Don’t you have anywhere else to be?”

  “I’m your partner,” Tombstone replied simply and without heat. “You’d be sitting here if the situation were reversed.”

  I blew air out through my cheeks. I didn’t make a move to start the car, just put my hands at ten and two o’clock on the large ceramic steering wheel and let my elbows sag.

  “You don’t think I can beat him, do you?”

  “You seen the films,” Tombstone said.

  I had. Pops had scrounged up some 8mm movies of King’s last two fights. Even in grainy, jerky, black and white, King was a colossus. He had two inches on me in both height and reach. His muscles were long and sinewy, making him both fast and powerful. When he hit opponents, they stayed hit. When they hit him, it made no impression.

  “I’ve fought bigger men.”

  “Maybe,” Tombstone said. “But have you fought tougher, smarter, faster men who know how to fight?”

  I ran my left hand over my face. “Then why am I going through all this?”

  “I didn’t say you couldn’t beat him,” Tombstone said. He plucked his hat off his face and put it on his head as he sat up. He turned to face me. “But you’ve got to get your head right.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You got to forget all about Mickey Cohen, about beating King for Chief Parker, about getting on the Hat Squad. All of that is a distraction. You’ve got to go against King because he is standing between you and a shot at the title.”

  “What? I’m not going to get a title shot . . .”

  “Not if you let King knock your brains out.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  Tombstone was silent. My brain was racing.

  I opened my mouth to speak, and then shut it.

  Tombstone nodded. “You let me worry about doing police work. You figure out how you gonna take King down on your route to being champin’ of the world.”

  “Crazy . . .” I said softly.

  Tombstone got out of the car. He walked around and opened the driver’s door. “Scoot over,” he said. “You too mixed up to drive.”

  I scooted over to the passenger side. Tombstone got in behind the wheel and turned the engine over.

  “You really think I got a shot?”

  He nodded. “You be where I put my money. Remember, I also seen you fight. But you can get back to working on it tomorrow. Tonight, you gonna help me do some detective work.” With that, he put the car in gear and pulled into traffic.

  ROUND 13

  Over an early dinner at Monty’s Steakhouse on Hollywood Boulevard a couple of blocks down from Vine, Tombstone filled me in on what detective work he’d been doing while I’d been busy training.

  He’d done some background work tracking Anita O’Shay back to her Kansas City roots. He’d even flown back there after telling me he needed a few days off to take care of personal business. He told me Chief Parker sponsored the trip, but hadn’t wanted me distracted until Tombstone came up with something concrete.

  I wanted to get upset about my partner not keeping me in the mix, but he’d been right. I’d needed to keep my head in the fight game.

  While he was in KC, Tombstone had come up with the goods. Anita O’Shay had been a rising star on the jazz scene in Kansas City before supposedly making her way west. The interesting thing, however, was the real Anita O’Shay was currently on an all-expense paid tour of the Havana hot spots – she hadn’t come west at all.

  Tombstone had dug deeper. Anita O’Shay’s real name was Mary Talbot. Mary had a sister, Eve Talbot, who was a year younger. Eve not only looked and sung a lot like her sister, but paid her bills by working for the Treasury Department in downtown KC. The rest of the story didn’t take a lot of figuring.

  “Think you’re pretty good at this detective work stuff,” I said when we were drinking coffee with the detritus of thick steaks and baked potatoes scattered around us. My voice was lightly mocking.

  “About as good as you is at fighting,” Tombstone said. It amused me how Tombstone slipped in and out of his poverty accent. He used it for effect, to catch people off guard and to get them to underestimate you. However, if you were a friend, he seemed to do it as if it was a joke he was including you in. I could tell he was still feeling me out, seeing how I was going to take all this.

  I raise my coffee cup to him. “Seriously,” my tone was sincere, “I’m impressed. When this is over and we’re permanent on the Hat Squad, you’re going to have to teach me a lot of this detective stuff.”

  “Ain’t much different than when you in the ring – you just tuck your chin in and keep punching.”

  ***

  We arrived at the Blue Cat before Eve Talbot, masquerading as her sister, Anita O’Shay came out for her f
irst set. I knew Louie, the guy working the door, and tipped him decent to get the right table.

  The Blue Cat was a smoky little dive on the outskirts of Hollywood. It was known for hot jazz and a mixed clientele – a sort of demilitarized zone where race didn’t matter. The only requirement was you played nice and had the cash to pay the steep price for drinks.

  Tombstone and I were sitting at a small table in the middle of the room. Around us at the other tables were couples and groups. Most of them were alligators – jazz fans who couldn’t play an instrument, but were caught by the beat of the jazz itself. Some of them, of course, just wanted to be associated with the scene. Nobody appeared to care what anybody else’s reason was for being there. Most of them were well dressed, well heeled, and well lubricated.

  The Blue Cat had a good reputation with jazz aficionados. The seven piece house band rotated through some of the best session players in the business. They came to the Blue Cat to jam and play, not to work. These were guys who knew every note there was and how to bring a melody back without missing a beat.

  Tonight, they worked their way into the same song the sax man outside the Federal Building had been playing, Someone To Watch Over Me, and then the spot hit Miss Anita O’Shay and her voice came out rich and full of pleading. The crowd was entranced. If Eve was this good impersonating her sister, how good was the real thing? It boggled the mind.

  She stood still, poured into a red sheath dress the same color as the flaming hair spilling to her shoulders. She kept it simple, not reaching for notes, no fancy vocal runs, but there was enough promise in her voice to pull every man in the room under a spell.

  Including Mickey Cohen, who we could see sitting with three uncomfortable goons at a too small table up front.

  Tombstone and I had worried a little about Cohen spotting us, but the gangster was too entranced to be aware of his surroundings. That was the job of his bodyguards, but even they only had eyes for the songbird on the small stage.

  “If those goons don’t pay better attention to their job,” I said, “Cohen could end up as dead as last year’s fashions.”

  “Can’t happen soon enough,” Tombstone said.

  “You think Cohen is so besotted with our little Anita imposter he failed to check her out.”

  I could sense Tombstone shrug in the darkness. “Maybe, but her cover is pretty tight. I went looking for trouble because you spotted her at the Federal Building. I think her background would hold up to a cursory check. She’s a ringer for her sister.”

  Anita, as I still thought of her, purred her way through a half dozen standards before taking a break. On the last number, she wandered through a couple of front tables before ending up on Mickey Cohen’s lap. She gave him a quick peck on the cheek, nothing more than a show kiss, but Cohen loved the attention. He waved his hand with the fat cigar in it and made as if to grab Anita, but she deftly slipped away. She moved off the dance floor and through the curtain before the audience stopped laughing.

  The band swung into an up-tempo number. It was dance music, not listening jazz, and couples got up from their tables and filled the miniscule dance floor.

  Tombstone and I got up, but not to dance. At least not in the literal sense. The doorman, Louie, was now acting as a backstage bouncer, but he let us slide past without comment.

  Behind the scenes, The Blue Cat was stripped down. What money the club earned was spent out front for the customers. In the back, there was threadbare carpet leading down a short hallway to a couple of dressing rooms.

  The door of the first was open. I tapped on it and stepped in when I saw Anita sitting in front of a lighted mirror. She was checking her makeup and turned with a big smile. It disappeared as soon as she saw me.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Hello to you too,” I said. I knew Tombstone would be in the hallway covering my back.

  Anita stood up, calling out, “Louie!”

  “Take it easy, Eve,” I said. It stopped her cold. “We’re on the same side.”

  “If Mickey catches you back here, he’ll hurt both of us. You’ve got him all riled over this fight with Solomon.” Her eyes flashed with both challenge and fear.

  “I’m sure you’re stoking that fire every chance you get to keep him away from finding out what you’re really doing.”

  “And what am I really doing? And my name is Anita, not Eve.”

  “You’re way too late for that line.” I laughed softly. “How are you going to survive as a Treasury agent if this is how you maintain your cover.”

  She sat down again, defeated. “I’m not an agent,” she said, almost in a whisper. “I was a secretary. I was recruited for this job because my boss saw me sing one evening in KC when my sister was sick. He felt it could be the perfect cover.”

  “It could get you perfectly dead if Mickey Cohen finds out. And how come KC is sending somebody undercover in L.A.?”

  “If you know what I’m doing, then you know I’m chasing Verne Chadwick. His first turn as a counterfeiter was in Kansas City. It’s KC’s case.”

  “You found what sweat shop is hiding the printing press yet?”

  She stood up, seeming to get some of her confidence back. “You are a bright boy. I haven’t found it yet, but I will.”

  There was a commotion in the hallway. I talked fast and low. “If we can find out who you are, Cohen can find out who you are. Keep your head down and don’t give him a reason to go looking.”

  “Thanks for nothing,” she said. “I’ve got another set.” She pushed me aside and went out the door. “Mickey, baby!” she said, sounding delighted as she entered the hall. “I wondered where you were.”

  “Sorry, sir,” I heard a voice say. It could only belong to Tombstone, but it was flat and nowhere near as deep as usual. “I didn’t know the lady knew you.”

  I stayed in the room listening. Eve as Anita played her part perfectly. “I’m sorry, Mickey. I forgot to tell the new guy to let you through.”

  “Yeah,” Cohen said. “I don’t care how big he is or good at bouncing. I want Louie to fire the guy now.”

  “Okay, baby,” Anita said. As her voice was fading it was clear she was guiding Cohen away.

  A few seconds later, Tombstone stuck his head in the door. “Looks like I’m gonna be fired,” he said in with his normal resonance.

  I shook my head. “It’s a tough town.”

  ROUND 14

  The next day, it was back to the grind. Or at least that’s what I thought. The night before had been little more than a jape. It was validation for Tombstone’s efforts in confirming my hunch about Anita O’Shay – the city cops letting the feds know they were on to them. A game of tit-for-tat that could have turned out nasty. Fortunately, the back hallway had been too dark for Cohen to recognized Tombstone and maybe force a standoff with his hoods. And just as fortunately, Cohen didn’t walk in while I was talking to Eve.

  The whole thing, from earlier in the evening with Tombstone, had started me thinking about a title shot beyond fighting Solomon King. I was fired up and full of energy. It gave me part of the mental edge I’d been missing.

  The physical edge I’d been missing walked into Ten Hawks Gym just as I was getting ready to spar with Donovan. It was Willy Stevenson and his trainer, Buddy Doyle. If King got past me, Stevenson was the final fighter he’d have to face before getting a championship shot at Archie Moore.

  Stevenson climbed into the ring. Buddy Doyle had pulled Willy’s robe off and underneath he was already dressed for action. Like Solomon King, Willy was two inches taller than me and built solid. The few years he had on me could be seen in the lines of his face, but nowhere else. “I hear you’re doing some police work for me,” he said, using the term in the boxing sense – a protector. “Gonna keep Solomon King from getting to me.”

  Already in the ring, Donovan didn’t like being cut out of the picture. The arrogance he displayed with me, was even more clearly displayed toward Willy. I’d talked to Pops about it,
but he had just shrugged. Donovan was his oldest. He loved him, but like a lot of parents, he couldn’t get through to him.

  “Get out of here, kid,” Willy said to Donovan, dismissing him without even looking at him. “The men have work to do.”

  Willy touched gloves with me and we started circling. We threw some half speed stuff – nothing of consequence, just warming up.

  “King has got two inches in height on you,” Willy said. “Just like me . . . means our reach is longer as well.”

  We were throwing punches faster now, getting warmer.

  “Always keep the pressure on a taller man,” Willy said. “You want to get inside, so you have to move forward.” He shuffled forward, forcing me back. I didn’t like it, but I didn’t have a choice. “Big guys often have coordination problems. They’re not as agile as smaller fighters.”

  Willy kept coming at me. We were almost up to full speed. I was purposely blocking and slipping only. Willy didn’t have a mouthpiece in, and I needed to hear what he was telling me.

  “If you keep him moving backwards, the odds are he’ll be out of his comfort zone,” Willy continued. “Lots of tall fighters need to get set in order to punch. Don’t give him that moment he needs to set his punches.” His movements in the ring showed me what he was talking about even more than his words.