by Jack Tunney
Round four was slow and methodical, we moved around the ring feeling each other out. Rocko thought I was gonna be a pussycat and lay down nicely for him, but that was proving to be a painful mistake. He had become uncertain as to how much I was willing to hurt him.
On the other hand, I had come into this thinking I was still young and had plenty left in the tank to capture back the title and wreak some havoc along the way. If it meant saving Homer and hopefully straightening him out, it was a small price to pay
I decided this was the round. I would make it look good, but I would take the dive. I was tired of the charade. I just wanted to get it over and then drown my sorrows in a bottle of scotch and a few buxom brunettes – maybe a blond as well.
I was almost cheerful as I waded in and threw a few half-hearted jabs at Rocko, which he easily ducked. This seemed to light a fire under him. He started throwing his own jabs as well as a few roundhouses and uppercuts. I allowed him to land a few. They actually stung a bit, but I still grinned at him, egging him on to finish the job.
Rocko attacked me like a man possessed. He felt he had the momentum, and he did. I was gonna lay down and relinquish my title. I telegraphed a right hook, which Rocko easily blocked. He pounded a couple quick jabs into my face. I faked anger and launched a wild right. He deflected the blow and countered with a combo to my midsection. I wobbled and acted winded.
Rocko stepped in, faked a left, and then unloaded a right-handed, straight-armed, shot that I allowed to find its mark. It hurt more than I expected, shooting jolts of electricity across my jaw and sending me to the canvas.
I gathered my wits, rolled about a bit like I was dead to the world. I let the count go to seven this time, raised up a little and got on my feet. The ref was trying to make sure I was okay, when Rocko stepped in and gave me a sucker rabbit punch to the back of my head. It knocked me for a loop and caused me to hit the mat and bounce off it.
Little glitters of light floated around my head like a thousand stars and the world whirled around me. I shook the cobwebs out as best I could and got to my feet.
I was enraged by the sucker punch and all sense of the reality left me. I saw nothing but red like a charging bull. I pushed the ref out of the way and advanced on Rocko.
He started jabbing at me, even trying to throw another a straight-arm, but I was in a void. I deflected his jabs and the straight-arm with ease, then stepped in and landing an over-hand shot to his temple, which buckled his knees.
I moved in and hammer a few jabs through his gloves as he sought to protect himself. I bent my knees and powered through my hips with a left-handed hook, which landed in his floating rib section.
I felt Rocko’s rib give way and I quickly followed up with a straight right to his sternum. I backed away and began to pound on his forearms. When he could no longer hold them up, I moved in and pounded first his right and then his left shoulder, pretty much crippling him
I smelt blood and stepped in with a left hook, snapping his head to the side. I followed it with an uppercut, with every bit of the two hundred and thirty pounds of my frame behind it.
The blow connected solid, sounding like the big thump you hear when the punter kicks off in a football game. Rocko came off his feet a good six inches, before finally crumbling to the mat.
I knew in that instance I had probably forfeited Homer’s life and possibly my own. It was a sick sensation as the world around me seemed to move into a vacuum, the sounds distant. I looked out into the audience and saw Carmen and his goons hurrying down the aisle away from the ring.
The ref stood over Rocko giving him the ten count, even though we both knew he wasn’t getting up anytime soon. I turned toward my corner and saw Homer just hanging on the ropes, a dazed look on his face.
Homer knew we were done for, and there was no fight left in him.
The ref finished the count and the ring was swarmed by reporters as well as Rocko’s trainer and a medic. I didn’t even turn to see if they revived him with the smelling salts. I just waded through the reporters who jammed their pencils and pads of paper into my face. Each one trying to get a few words out of me. I brushed a few of them off and climbed down from the ring.
Homer was already being escorted to the locker room, and two of the meat pies hired as bodyguards and bouncers helped hurry me through the crowd as well.
I half expected to see Carmen and his goons in the hall as I was guided toward the locker room. Camera bulbs were flashing still, and loud questions were hurled my way until the entrance door to the back hallway closed and drowned them out.
The hall was empty except for several maintenance people and a few reporters lucky enough to have backstage passes. They knew better than to ask me any questions until after I had been untapped, showered, and dressed. Then they would get first dibs at the conference Homer gave after every fight. I wasn’t sure they were gonna be happy with this conference, because I wasn’t sure if Homer would even give one.
I pushed open the door of the locker room and Homer was just sitting on a bench staring at the floor. I found myself speechless for the first time since me and Homer became friends.
Part of the reason we were such good friends was we never kept secrets from one another, no subject was taboo. Homer never hid the drug use from me. And as much as I hated the fact he did drugs, I didn’t condemn him for it.
However, he had goofed up this time. Being the friend I was, I should have saved him, even though it meant taking a dive and losing the title. But that didn’t matter. The title wasn’t why I knocked out Rocko. My simple inability to control my temper caused it. Father Tim always warned me a fighter who couldn’t control his temper, could never stay on top, no matter how talented he was.
I had controlled it though – at least up until tonight. I let it loose outside the ring once in a while, but once I stepped into the ring it was buried away in some deep recess of my mind. Father Tim’s words had stuck with me. I was always in control in the ring. So why, of all nights, was this was the night I chose to let the temper out? I guess the fact that I needed to throw a fight cost me the strength I had always used to suppress it.
It didn’t matter now. Now I needed to figure out a way to save my friend and get us the out of Chicago, maybe even the country. Homer looked up at and shot me a half-hearted smile.
“Pat, I don’t blame you a bit. I did this to myself, I never should have expected you to take a dive, never should have asked.”
“No, but you did.” I found myself at a loss for words. Nothing I could think of sounded right or would help the matter. “I just lost it.” I shook my head. “I should have been a better friend and controlled myself, taken the dive. I’m sorry, Homer. I truly am.”
I stared at him for a minute and noticed for the first time how much he had aged over the last few years. Homer was five-foot-five on a good day, but was always built like a fireplug. I had watched him take out many guys who thought his shortness meant he was easy prey. They had learned the truth the hard way.
Now, he was different – the dark curly hair showing some spots of grey, the bags under his eyes as well as the dark rings, and the paunch that now hung where once a washboard had existed. The drugs had really taken their toll on him, making him look ten years older than he was.
I felt a deep sense of sorrow in my gut. Not just that I hadn’t taken the dive, because as his friend I hadn’t found a way to stop him from the drugs. If I had, maybe things would have worked out differently.
I found myself thinking back to the days at the orphanage, but Father Tim always said to never dwell on the past. “What’s done is done,” he would say. “You can’t change it, only learn from it.”
Homer broke me out of my thoughts.
“Take a shower, Pat, and get changed. Let’s get the post-fight conference with the reporters out of the way. Afterward, I think we should go out and paint the town. There are a few bottles of scotch with our names on them somewhere.”
“Homer, we need to ge
t you out of here. Carmen will be looking for you – and it won’t be to pour you a few fingers of scotch, trust me.”
“Forget it, Pat. It’s time I started taking care of my own problems. I’ll get things squared with Carmen. It might take a while, but I’ll figure out a way to pay him back.”
I shook my head. “Not so sure that’s the best idea. Carmen isn’t known for his generosity.”
“Don’t worry about it, champ. Tonight is about you keeping the title. Tonight we paint the town red.”
He never knew how true those words would turn out to be.
ROUND 3
The press conference went pretty much as expected. It had been the usual questions, a few accusations about cream-puff contenders being brought to the trough, and the usual pitter patter about who was next.
Homer handled the press better than ever. By the time it was over, the reporters were laughing and asking us to pose with them for a few shots. Homer’s spirits seemed high and it rubbed off. I felt great, so we headed out of the stadium and grabbed a cab.
Homer and I started out the celebrating at a place called Bear’s Tap. It was a neighborhood bar in Bridgeport so everyone knew us. It was ran buy an ex-Bear’s lineman, Sig Hoffman. He never made much of a name for himself as a lineman, but he carefully invested what money he made and, when they gave him the boot, he opened Bear’s Trap.
It was as good a bar as any. The scotch was good, and Sig never skimped on the pour – it was three fingers plus. It was the way he did things, on the level. The guy was easily six-nine and probably pushing three bills in weight, but he had the heart of a teddy bear.
That was probably why the place was always packed with the local color. Bridgeport was a blue collar neighborhood, with taverns on more than half the neighborhood corners. But people always liked going where they felt they got their money’s worth, making Bear’s Trap very popular. Sig kept things clean, and offered good booze at a fair price. He was never short on a good joke or a shoulder to cry on. He also made some of the best homemade brats this side of Wisconsin. I’d never been to Wisconsin, so Sig’s brats were tops in my book.
Homer and I were the center of attention. We bought rounds, and lit up the pool table. But come two in the morning, Sig was closing up hook or by crook.
We made our way to another bar further down Thirty-First Street called the Union Inn. The place wasn’t more than a dive, but at least they stayed open almost twenty-four hours a day.
We entered the place three sheets to the wind. Smarter men would have called it a night a long time before, but we weren’t feeling too smart. We waddled in and ordered a few scotches, the booze was watered down, but the price was higher. The place stank of stale beer, and urine, but it was open.
They had one of those new-fangled bowling machines, so Homer and I made our way over. It was neat to see. Basically you had a flat disc about the size of a hockey puck, which you slid down the wood board to knock the pins down.
It was fun and before long a crowd had gathered to watch, realizing the champ was in the house. Course I think it was more because we had the biggest wads of dough in the place. Anyway, we bought rounds and played the game till the sun was just starting to cast its gaze upon the Bridgeport neighborhood.
I was having a blast, but since Homer had long since passed out on a chair in the corner, I figured it was time to leave. I left a tip and gathered Homer up and carried as much as dragged him out the door.
Luckily Freddie’s Diner was just opening up for the early crowd right across the street. I carried the babbling fool that was my friend across the street and grabbed a booth. I poured Homer in and ordered us a few coffees black, and a special. Freddie’s special consisted of three eggs, a stack of flap jacks, four slices of a hearty cut bacon, and the best hash browns in the world as far as I was concerned.
I attacked the plate like it was the heavy bag. Homer attempted to take a few mouthfuls, most of which ended up in his lap. I shook my head with a smirk as he finally swallowed some of the coffee instead. I polished off my plate and was giving the last piece of toast a work out when the bell attached to the front door chimed.
I had my back to the door, so I didn’t see who came in. I finished off my toast and noticed Homer’s chin was down on his chest and he was ready to fall into his plate. I gently pushed his head over so he rested on the side of the booth. I was ready to flag down the waitress for the check when I noticed there was someone standing next to the table. Actually it was four someones.
I turned and smiled at the nearest one as I tensed to slide out of the seat in a hurry. I knew instantly they were some of Carmen’s muscle, and the chances they were here to pick up the check were pretty slim. I held the salt shaker in my hand and had managed to unscrew the lid from it just as the first goon spoke.
“Mr. Amello sent us to deliver a message, Champ. He told us to make it loud and clear.” He smirked a little as the other three chuckled behind him.
I returned the grin in my most sincere manner as I spoke, trying to keep them off balance.
“What? Carmen couldn’t come himself? I’m cut to the bone, gentleman.”
I sprang up then, tossing most of the salt container in to the first goon’s eyes as I threw a right cross that knocked the next closest on his behind.
The first was bent over, screaming and trying to clear his eyes, so I brought a knee to his face. I felt the bone give way, and the bite of a few of his teeth digging in from the impact, but he went down.
The other two attacked together. I fended off the first punch and planted my foot in the goon’s crotch, but the other managed to catch me a solid shot behind the ear.
I bent forward and he grabbed my ears in an attempt to drive his knee in to my face, but a straight left to his groin loosened the grip. I twisted my hips and threw a right uppercut, which lifted him off his feet as well as cracking a few of his teeth.
I turned to look at the second guy, but not in time. His sap caught me on the side of my jaw, and then again on the top of the skull, sending me to the ground in a daze.
The kicking and stomping followed, but after a while I didn’t feel anything.
ROUND 4
I awoke to find myself strapped into a chair with my hands manacled to a work bench of sorts. There was a single bulb burning brightly, causing me to squint and causing the pounding in my head to grow a little worse. At least I was alive, or perhaps this was some sad idiot’s idea of hell.
I could make out a few shadows surrounding me. One directly across the table came into view due to the small red flare from the cigar as he inhaled. I formed as good of a smile as I could under the circumstances and spoke.
“Carmen Amello, so nice of you to grace me with your presence.”
The cigar made its way to an ash tray sitting atop the table, but still there was silence. I didn’t say another word, just waited for him to get his words together.
I knew I was in deep trouble, but at this point, nothing I did or said would change things. I just hoped I would live to see tomorrow. However, if I didn’t, I wasn’t going to give him any more satisfaction then he was already getting out of seeing me tied up like a pig ready for the slaughter.
“”Hammer,” Carmen called out in a mellow and drawn voice, “I am afraid you have upset me, and I donn’a like being upset.” He picked up the cigar and inhaled a moment and then set the cigar back down, blowing out a cloud of smoke across the table. “I made what I thought was a fair deal with your manager. A deal I expected to be honored. However, you decided to go against’a me. So, I ask’a myself why? Why would’a someone go against a perfectly good agreement?” he lifted the cigar, but then thought better of it.
I still wasn’t answering him. I just looked at him with an expressionless stare on my face. He stood up and walked over to me.
“You could’a gone a long way if’n you just’a played along. But no, you had’a be a wiseguy. I gotta something to show you, Mist’a Champion.”
I could
see him turn a bit and gesture with his hands. There was a moment of silence and then a loud click. The rest of the lights came on in what I could now see was a warehouse, lighting the place up like the morning sun.
I blinked a few times to get my eyes adjusted, then wished I hadn’t. I felt my stomach churn like it did after a bottle of scotch and twenty white castles. Homer was lying as much as sitting in a chair not far from me, his eyes were open, but they weren’t seeing anything.
They would never see anything again.
The needle still hung from his arm where they had given it to him. I saw red and started to struggle in my chair.
I gave up after a few moments and a couple inches of skin.
In the meantime, Carmen had sat back down in the seat across from me, the cigar wedged back between his lips. He leaned back with his hands folded across his chest. The faintest of smiles formed on the corners of his mouth. He was enjoying the rage and pain showing on my face.
I felt helpless, but even worse, I felt an awful blame because Homer was dead. It was his fault for getting into the mess in the first place, but he was the closest thing I had to a brother, and Father Tim had embedded it in us that you always looked out for each other – always.
My head hung as I aimlessly stared at the floor without seeing it. Thoughts of the first time I met Homer up until the sight of seeing him in that chair flooded my head.
Carmen set the cigar back in the ashtray and walked over and stood next to me. He reached down and put a hand on my shoulder and spoke to me.
“Donn’a worry champ, you I donn’a kill. No, sir. You Im’a gonna teach a big’a lesson.” He reached down and pulled my chin up and stared into my eyes, the smell of his nasty cigar, mixing with the stale garlic from whatever Dago food he’d eaten, nearly caused me to vomit.
“You see, champ! Death is’a too good for you. I want you to think about the mistake you made. I want you to think about it for the rest’a your miserable life. And trust’a me, its’a gonna be miserable.”
