Ever the company man, Carter jumped in. “Bought is such an ugly word.”
Stuhlberg knew I was onto something and nodded my way. “We own the rights to Rattlesnake’s story, and we were simply protecting our property.”
It wasn’t bad enough fighters had to deal with crooked promoters. Now they had movie moguls going through their pockets.
“So, you’re just picking my brain here?”
“Not at all, son,” Stuhlberg said. “We want you to write the movie based on his life.”
I let my brain digest that for a moment. Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. Carter let in a slinky secretary who rolled over Stuhlberg’s lunchcart.
The three of us watched her shake those cookies out the door and, as soon as she left, Stuhlberg barked, “So, kid? You want in the movie business? This is your way in.”
“Are you sure I’m the right guy for the job? I mean, I never wrote a picture before.”
“What’s to know? You know boxing. That’s most important. The clickety-clack of the typewriter is the easy part.”
He had a point and I must admit, the job sounded enticing. I could easily shack up in one of these cozy studio bungalows with a decanter of bourbon and stare at palm trees while I wrote. Sounded like paydirt to me.
Stuhlberg interrupted my fantasy. “I have just one piece of advice: We need to make Rattlesnake likeable. Like Bogart . . . Now there’s a tough guy who’s likeable. Women want to schtup him and guys want to be him. Think Bogie, kid, and you won’t have any problems.”
I watched Shulberg tend to his chrome and glass lunch cart. Because of his incessant hand shaking, which he managed to hide quite well behind his desk, most of his clam chowder was splashing onto the floor and his lap. I looked to Carter and felt someone should help.
“Do you need help, Mr. Stuhlberg?” I asked, catching a glimpse of Carter cringing from the corner of my eye.
Stuhlberg didn’t look at me. I figured he just couldn’t hear. Little did I know I was being ignored. I leaned over his burlwood eyesore and said somewhat louder, “I can feed you your soup if you’d like, sir.”
Big mistake.
Dropping the spoon into the bowl, Stuhlberg stared right through me and I’ll never forget what he said. “My family arrived at Ellis Island from Poland. In those days there were no welcome mats. We were outsiders and we adapted.”
I respectfully nodded.
“I fought my way out of the wretched slums of Chicago and built this entire industry from a pebble,” he said rising from his chair and pointing at me. “I didn’t do all that only to have some writer feed me soup like an infant. I can feed myself, young man. Now, go write me a blasted movie!”
ROUND FIVE
My rump had teethmarks, theoretically speaking anyway.
“I got my hide handed to me in there,” I joked to Carter, as I fake rubbed my tuckus.
We’d started a stroll through the backlot toward the bungalows and Carter laughed. “Never play with an old man’s pride. Especially a successful old man. That’s rule number one in this town.”
“I’ll make a mental note,” I said, lighting a smoke.
Suddenly, I heard rat-tat-tat pops leak from a nearby soundstage and my head snapped around. From the sound of it, Pinnacle was making one hell of a cowboy picture. Maybe it was why I’d seen Sterling Hayden earlier. Squinting towards the building, I tried to get a better glimpse. It was futile since a red siren light was spinning above the entrance, letting us gawkers know serious business was going on inside.
“Say, is that a cowboy picture?” I asked Carter. “I thought I saw Sterling Hayden before.”
“Forget all that, we’re going to your bungalow, and don’t worry, It’ll be well-stocked.”
“With beer and bourbon, I hope?” I asked more serious than joking.
“Indeed. Only top shelf for our top scribes. You’ll also have a brand-new Royal typewriter and more paper than Schwab’s sold last year.”
“I’m more of a Smith-Corona man,” I darted back.
Carter didn’t exactly get my joke but it didn’t matter because who I saw inside that cozy little bungalow hit me like a ton of bricks.
Carter made the introductions. “Miss Dillian Dawson . . . Meet writer Nick Moretti. He covered prizefights a few years back and the studio has chosen him to write the big screen version of Rattlesnake McNeal’s life story.”
I extended my hand, shaking hers, and asked, “Miss Dawson, will you be my typist?” Somehow I knew she just wouldn’t be.
She smiled the smile I’d been thinking about since our lengthy cab ride and then turned it into a smirk. “No, Nick, I don’t type.”
I shot her my fair enough look. “Well, then, are you Rattlesnake’s costume mistress?” I looked to Carter. “Someone has to keep all those robes straight, huh?”
“Miss Dawson is the boxer’s new publicist,” Carter clarified.
As a newsman, I must admit public relations hacks usually made my job harder and who can blame them since their interest lies with the client. As far as I was concerned, they were all hurdles.
I smiled at Dillian and truthfully was excited as to what would come next. “Public relations, huh?”
Dillian stiffened her posture and lobbed one at me. “What’s the matter, Nick? Are you thrown by a female publicist?”
“Not at all, Miss Dawson,” I jabbed back. “I just never met a publicist who couldn’t type.”
Carter placed his palms on both our shoulders and motioned to enjoy the swanky bungalow.
“I’ll leave you two kids at it . . .” Carter said with a wink.
I poured bourbon for two. Neat. Carter wasn’t kidding when he said the studio didn’t spare a dime. It was Basil Hayden’s.
“I thought you were a nice girl,” I said, handing Dillian her glass.
She walked back to the liquor hutch and raised her eyebrows. “I’m sorry?”
“I said, I thought you were a nice girl, Dillian.”
She dropped a few ice cubes into her hooch and strutted back over to me and clinked my glass. “What’s that supposed to mean, Nick?”
“Nice girls may not stay for breakfast, but they obviously work for killer boxers,” I answered.
She smirked. “He’s no killer. At least not outside the ring.”
I fiddled with the radio and tried to find something quiet. I eventually settled for some Louis Jordan. “Not a killer, huh? Somehow I think the bulk of the country thinks otherwise today. The papers have him convicted and this studio is scared shitless.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because the twerp he beat to death looked like my Puerto Rican poolboy. The ninny was half McNeal’s size.”
She suddenly got stern with me. “It was self-defense.”
“Now, there’s the public relations gal I was looking for,” I pointed. “I was beginning to wonder what your role really was.”
She slammed her drink on the nearby desk. “Just what are you implying?”
“Why so testy? It’s just you don’t look like a public relations hack. At least not any that I’ve seen plus . . .”
“Plus what?”
I chuckled. “You don’t type.”
“I do type, Nick. Just not for you.”
“Dillian, I’m the one they hired to make this guy look good,” I said. “And I can’t do that until I feel better about McNeal. That’s the honest truth.”
“Well, then there’s only one thing left to do,” she said inserting a white sheet into the Royal.
I watched those fingers work the keys. When she was finished she walked back to her drink and swallowed what was left, motioning for me to read what she typed.
Obliging her, I whipped the sheet from the scroll and found three words in the middle of the page — Let’s meet him.
“Sure thing, Dillian,” I said.
“Grab your hat then,” she said, motioning toward the door.
“Lead the way, sweetie.”
> * * *
A guy can get used to this writing motion pictures jazz. A studio car — a jet black Olds Ninety-Eight at that — drove us to the part of town where men drank pints of Old Crow from paper bags.
“Is this Lincoln Heights?” I asked.
Nodding, Dillian scooted next to me a bit and locked the backseat door. The neighborhood was peppered with storefronts swirled with whitewashed windows. Banks of vacant buildings suggested this was once a vibrant community. I’m talking before the war. Looking around, I didn’t blame Dillian for locking up. I’m from New Jersey and even though I’ve seen my share of crummy neighborhoods, this one certainly took the cake. Even in the daytime.
“Rattlesnake trains here?” I asked, halfway expecting the current heavyweight champion of the world to work out in some fancy ballroom with sweeping curtains and fresh linen. “We’re headed to The Equinox, right?”
My recent scuffle back east, not to mention my mild hangover, had led me to forget one of the most famous fighters in the world trained at the almost mythical gym.
“It’s the best gym in the state, Nick, if not the country.”
I smiled at the bold statement. “Trainers Pappy Sullivan in the Bronx and Horace Greene in Philly would disagree.”
The Olds stopped in front of the legendary Equinox where a parking spot was reserved. The irony made me chuckle — I’d managed to secure a reserved parking spot, but it was in the worst part of town. Nick Moretti has indeed arrived.
“Rattlesnake’s manager owns the gym—” Dillain started.
“No need to take me to school, Dillian. I know all about Grenade Watkins,” I said with an obvious tone. “The old bugger bought this pile of cinderblocks in, what, the early Thirties, when he retired?”
Dillian nodded. “You’re good, Nick. He bought it from a studio chief who used the gym as somewhere discreet to exercise.”
Things were starting to piece together. “Lemme guess, the studio chief’s name was Isaac Stulberg, I bet?”
She didn’t answer. Her smile said I was right.
“I gotta admit, you taught me something. I didn’t know he bought this dump from Stuhlberg,”
“Why would you? Mr. Watkins keeps his business affairs private,” she said. “And besides, if we in the PR game wanted you to know, you’d know.”
Jeez, was she really hung up on my PR crack from earlier? I laid on my guinea charm. “Relax, Turtledove,” I said, holding up both palms. “I come in peace. We’re on the same team now. Remember?”
She smirked as she opened the car door.
The west coast sun was still blazing, and from what I could tell, it never stopped. However, the crisp, clean light of day wasn’t exactly painting the picture on a postcard. The Equinox Boxing Club looked even cruddier up close than it did from inside the car. We were a long way from Beverly Hills — at least in theory.
There were two sides to The Equinox. The locals, a healthy mix of Mexicans and Negros, trained on the street level. They’d pay their finske-a-month, and in return, they’d find a decent supply of lockers, showers and speedbags. They were really nothing more than journeymen fighters who would never compete past the local level. For them, it was the last stop on the train to what we newsmen referred to jokingly as Palookaville.
The second part of The Equinox was down below. If you trained and were worth an iota of a shoeshine, you’d hoped one day ol’ Grenade would tap you on the shoulder and point toward the downward staircase located in the corner of the gym.
As we entered, Dillian and I strolled past the pitter-patter of club fighters and walked down the dank stairwell. It was nicknamed “The Boxing Basement” and it was where Grenade’s private stock was groomed.
Boxing handbills — some dating as far back as the Roarin’ Twenties — were crudely taped along the basement’s cement walls. I wasn’t prepared for the raw history of this treasure trove. I took off my fedora and wiped my brow in awe. I looked at the gladiators on the wall, staring into their eyes. Some were champs, some contenders, others were taken by the war, and even more were taken by the cruel realities of a sport that spits out its warriors when finished.
“Nick, are you okay?” Dillian asked.
“I’m fine, Dillian,” I said. “Just paying my respects.”
She must have thought I was loopy. She motioned for me to follow her toward the back of the cellar where Grenade Watkins was seated.
Grenade was a character if the sport ever saw one. A legend when he was champ, his calling card was his killer left, hence the obvious nickname. He also boasted a near-perfect record in the days of notorious fight throwing. From what I remember hearing about Grenade, it was death by a thousand cuts for most of his foes. He’d mastered a specialty of breaking them down little by little, relentlessly so. My best guess was he either had an angel on his side — and I mean the kind that wore a black hat — or he was just that good. Something told me I was going to find out.
Grenade barked into the ring where a brawler with obnoxious purple satin trucks shadowboxed in the center. A stablemate was nearby in the corner, keeping warmed up. Both fighters eyeballed me. I eyeballed back.
As we approached, Grenade stayed seated, keeping his eyes on the punchers in the ring. He motioned for them to start sparring. I’d seen better.
Dillian made the introductions. I shook Grenade’s hand. He was still a large man, and I couldn’t help but think my baby palm looked ridiculous inside his bear claw.
“A pleasure, sir. Truly,” I said.
He grunted a hello.
Dillian told Grenade I was a boxing writer from back east hired by Pinnacle Pictures to write the motion picture based on Rattlesnake’s life.
Grenade, his attention still on the ring, simply grunted again.
“Well, that, and make him look good,” I piped in.
Grenade cut his stare from the fighters and locked eyes with me. I nodded to emphasize what I just said.
“Making him look good is our job, Nick. My job, specifically,” Dillian said, trying to ease the situation.
Whether they knew it or not, I was the only other person in the gym who knew the fight game as well as Grenade. If anything, I certainly would make a better press agent than the Coco Chanel standing next to me.
“Mr. Watkins . . .” I said, trying to shift gears a bit.
He cut me off. “Grenade, son. Call me Grenade.” I watched him turn his body to face me, making his wooden stool creak alarmingly.
Dillian crossed her arms.
“Grenade,” I said. “All due respect, before I even sit down to write this picture, we gotta get your guy back in the good graces of Americans — heck, the world. Who’s gonna go see a movie about some cretin they dislike, much less someone accused of killing a man in an alley?”
“In self-defense,” Dillian sternly reminded.
“What do you have in mind?” Grenade asked me. Surprisingly, he sounded sincere.
My eyes widened. “Bus trip. Across the country.”
“Out of the question,” Dillian immediately objected. “The cost alone . . .”
I ignored her, keeping my focus on Grenade. “It’s the only way. We’ll go to big cities and small hollers. Swamp towns and plantation farms. We target everyone — from plain folk to city slickers.”
Dragging a nearby stool to get almost eye-to-eye with Grenade, I waited to sweeten the pot a bit. “Here’s the rub. We give local fighters three sanctioned rounds with Rattlesnake, and the one who impresses us the most gets a shot at the title. Only a swell guy would do that, right?”
I was on a roll with Grenade and Dillian knew it. I pointed at her. “Dillian, it’ll be your job to get the local press there. Newspapers, radio stations, newsreels. The works. If you can get television stations to show up, all the better. These TVs are popping up in more and more houses, so who knows?”
Suddenly, I heard a voice from the ring. “Hey, Mister! What makes you think you know so much?” It was the fancypants in purple who was s
hadowboxing when I walked in.
I looked up. “You talking to me, kid?”
If it’s one thing I’ve discovered all these years hanging out in gyms, bars, and locker rooms is anyone with stubble on their chin hates to be called kid. It was a great way to get underneath skin and it almost always worked.
“Who you calling kid?”
I smiled at him, which, for the record, also infuriates antagonists.
“Me?” Fancypants asked.
I mock looked around the dark basement. “I don’t see anyone else in here wearing a purple diaper,” I darted back. “So yeah, you? Wanna make something of it?”
Dillian stepped in. “Nick, what’re you doing?” She turned towards Grenade. “Mr. Watkins, we apologize.”
Grenade didn’t say anything. I got the impression the room was testing me and that was more than fine. I saw Grenade smile at the notion of the two of us mixing it up, so I figured this was a good way to impress him.
“You wanna tip your mitt, Fancypants?” I asked the punk.
He punched his gloves together. That was a yes.
“You got it,” I answered, loosening my tie. I took off my blazer, folded it on a stool and placed my fedora on top.
“Nick, are you nuts?” Dillian said, panicked. “I’ve seen Pogo punch. It’s not pretty.”
Did she really say that?
“Pogo?” I had to ask. “This kid is named after a comic strip possum?” I started to laugh at his awful ring name.
Everyone in the gym heard that laugh. It was the third rule of angering antagonists — laugh at them.
Since my shoulder was still stinging a bit from Sonia’s bullet, I had to think quickly. I opted for a fail-safe trick I learned as a kid back in Newark.
As soon as I’d slipped on a pair of gloves and climbed into the ring, I dry-gulched him — hard — forehead to forehead. It stung like a son-of-a-bitch, but at least I knew it was coming unlike Fancypants, or Pogo, or whatever his name was. He stumbled back into the ropes.
After the head-butt, I bum rushed his bread basket. The kid’s belly felt harder than the steel of a Patton tank. I decided to go upstairs. There’d be only seconds before he got his wind back, so I had to keep moving quicker.
Front Page Palooka: A Nick Moretti Mystery Page 3
