I sat down and let a few moments pass. As I lit the last cigarette in my pack I decided to break the ice as I snapped my finger for the cigarette gal.
“Why don’t you guys tell me what it is you want with Jericho here.”
Paulie nodded and explained, ever so oily, that he wanted his crew to work security the day of the fight.
I told them to look around. “Does this look like a dice game in some basement in Jersey City? Hetrick has security.”
“You think so?” Bobby J. smirked.
Nodding, I said, “I’m pretty confident he can handle it. Anyway . . .” I knew this one was gonna get me marked. “Didn’t he throw you bent-nose guys outta his joint years ago? From what I understand, he doesn’t allow himself to be pushed around by guys with vowels at the end of their name.”
Bobby J. looked confused so I explained. “That’s a, e, i, o, and u . . . Code for paisons, like me and you.”
I heard Rattlesnake chuckle. BJ got even more peeved and turned to the champ. “Just because you can read your banana peels doesn’t mean you’re smarter than me.”
The champ patted his chest and opened his arms as an invitation to scrap.
Paulie tried to calm the scene. “Fellas, this is an impromptu meeting. We were walking in the casino, saw the champ and figured he may need some help with security. After all, didn’t he almost die in an alley? We’re concerned fans.”
I took a sip of the Tennessee whiskey Popcorn had placed in front of me before disappearing again. “We’re good,” I said. “Thanks for thinking of us.”
“No problem,” Bobby J. shot back.
“I’ll tell Hetrick you guys said hello.”
Bobby J. stood up, spilling a small glass of water, the liquid dribbling across the table onto Rattlesnake. “Do that,” he almost whispered.
As they huffed away, I called out saying we’d try to get Bobby J. a phonics book by fight night.
“Man, you’re asking for it,” Rattlesnake chuckled.
“Kid, I came out of the womb knowing guys like them. Their act usually works on those who don’t know the type.”
I suddenly wanted to get serious with him. “Lemme ask you something, Jericho. Why did you seem so rattled by them?”
He took a deep breath before answering. “Nick, you and me, we’re not dumb. Thugs like them run the game.”
“What are you afraid of?” I asked him. “You’re already champ. They can’t touch you.”
Rattlesnake scoffed. “Not until a Great White Hope comes along. Then what?”
“They only call the shots if you let them,” I said, knowing it was complete bunk, but what was I supposed to do? The kid seemed genuine in his belief.
He leaned in. “How do you think I became champ?”
“Don’t give me that. I’ve seen you fight . . . You pack a wallop.”
“I do all right.”
“You’ll do more than all right — especially if you quit walking around here like you’re Harry Belafonte and you just bought the joint.”
He nodded. I could tell that deep down he knew I was right.
I looked at the hour and quickly came to the conclusion this night was a bust. I got up to leave, but not before I shared a last pearl of wisdom. “Be yourself. Not who you think Rattlesnake needs to be.”
Jericho raised his glass and swirled what little was left of his drink.
“If I were you, I’d call it a night, too,” I said.
“Sounds like a plan,” he replied.
* * *
On my walk back my room, I thought about how I lied to Jericho. Just because I understood neighborhood guys like Bobby J. and Paulie, didn’t mean I wouldn’t keep my guard up. Pissing off those two gorillas may have been a mistake, but what else was I supposed to do? I had to save face for Rattlesnake and his camp. We were in a casino after all, and gambling is gambling.
The first fight was in a couple of days and, truthfully, I couldn’t wait to be out of Las Vegas. It’s way too hot and if you don’t have Daddy Warbucks money, the town might as well be dead to you. Case in point, it’s dead to me.
As I put my key into the doorknob, I suddenly realized I was lying on the carpet in front of the door and yellow canaries were circling my head. Funny, I thought, I didn’t have all that much to drink and I knew I wasn’t drunk.
Then I got hit again, and it sunk in that it was Bobby J. and his huge pinky ring doing the damage. His second clock to my cranium got me pretty good and, as I looked up, I saw him grinning. I also saw a more serious-looking Paulie than I had met downstairs over drinks.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Bob on a Knob . . .” I grumbled more to the carpet than the two shark-skinned apes.
“You’re a real comedian. Funnier than that schmuck they got in the lounge,” Paulie sneered.
I willed the strength to say, “I’m here all week.”
“C’mon, get him on his feet,” Paulie ordered.
As B.J. held me up, I could barely register what Paulie was saying.
“Now we were asking nicely downstairs. We ain’t gonna be that sweet no more. We’re gonna give you ten guys on the day of the event for thirty percent of the gate.”
I laughed and spit some blood on the carpet. I know, crude. But if there’s one way to look like you’re not rattled after taking a beating, it’s spitting some blood and let loose a chuckle or two.
“Still laughing, huh?” BJ asked.
“Let him have another one,” Paulie said.
I watched Bobby J. wind up that arm. I started praying he was going to get me in the face and not in the shoulder. I was still healing from getting shot and reeling from scrapping with Pogo.
As I braced for impact, I noticed something that looked like a blurry brick pummel both of them with one sledgehammer punch. It was the champ.
They say never hit a man when he’s down, but whoever said that wasn’t being ambushed by two gangsters in a Las Vegas casino. I took care of Paulie while Rattlesnake made sure Bobby J. was gonna smart in the morning.
A few punches later, a door snapped open and I saw Dillian horrified. She almost screamed when she saw both me and the champ, but I quickly shushed her.
As BJ and Pete crawled for the exit, I told Rattlesnake to hightail it to his suite and call the desk to change rooms.
“Stay in there until the fight. You come out of that room, you’re fighting me. Beat it.”
Dillian grabbed my arm and pulled me into her room and slammed the door.
“What in the hell happened tonight?”
“Oh, you know . . . Just the usual fun with gangsters and killer boxers.”
I watched her scurry to the wet bar in her silk nightgown. With all the commotion she must’ve forgotten to put on her robe. She scooped up some ice in a cloth napkin and applied it to my face.
“Dillian?” I said.
“What is it?” she asked, leading me to the suite’s couch.
“I’m not bleeding . . .”
She chuckled nervously. I took the moist cloth and applied it to the back of my neck, grimacing. That lug hit hard.
“So . . .” I said. What else do you say when you really have nothing to say?
She sat next to me tending to my neck. I’ll admit, I played up the theatrics and could you blame me? It isn’t everyday a guy gets a Florence Nightingale hotter than a demon’s playpen tending to him.
“So . . . You were saying,” she reminded.
I smiled and tossed the cold rag on the coffee table. “So, this is the view I’d get if we were married?”
She looked at herself in the mirror and was quickly reminded some very nice parts of her were indeed busting out of that teddy.
Dillian covered up and darted for the closet, wrapping herself inside a thick white robe. Tying its belt, she was now covered up practically to her neck. I frowned. She turned on the radio and once again asked me what happened outside the room.
All I heard were screaming horns. I pointed and asked her to find s
omething softer on the box. She complied with some soft piano. I asked for a cigarette and after she lit me, I finally settled in.
“Talk to me, Nick,” she said.
I took a drag and came to the conclusion I couldn’t sugar coat the events. I pointed to the door and said, “They wanted a piece of the gate.”
“Who wanted a piece of the gate?”
“Local guys. Gangsters.”
She seemed honestly perplexed and I couldn’t blame her. “Piece of the gate? For doing what?”
“Security. Or so they claimed.”
“Nick, we don’t need this trouble right now.”
“I know. I certainly didn’t ask to get worked over in the hallway, Dillian.”
She grabbed my hand. “That’s not what I meant.”
I was supposed to be writing a movie, but instead I was busy putting out fires and playing babysitter to a fighter and his camp. I explained it looked like the local greaseballs were circling the champ like vultures.
“I had to get tough,” I said.
She smiled. “I’m sure your trademark wit didn’t help.”
I leaned in. “As long as I’m around, I’ll do my best to make sure guys like them don’t infect this camp. Or you.”
Dillian looked away, a bit shy. My finger turned her chin to face me. “I mean it.”
Maybe I was exhausted. Perhaps she was stressed. But all the emotions and aggravation leading up to that night overcame us and we were just two regular people again.
I didn’t work for a studio . . . She wasn’t employed by a boxer . . . I was just a guy who fell for those huge brown peepers and rosebud lips, which, for the record tasted slightly like mango.
I’m guessing she was just a gal who felt overcome by the rigors of the road and back alley juke joints. I parked my shoes under her bed for the evening and I had a feeling that by morning we’d be back to bickering — which was fine by me. This was the best part of my journey so far.
It was still dark when I got out of bed and walked toward the window. It was halfway open and the cool desert breeze blew in making the silk curtains dance like whispy ghosts. Looking at all the lights still burning was a bit surreal. Still, I thought this was indeed the best time of night. Milkmen time. Street sweeper time. Vegas was as quiet as it gets. It was the only empowering moment on the wretched clock.
It was a moment when you could admit things to yourself you wouldn’t otherwise. I couldn’t help but wonder if this whole tour was a mistake. Las Vegas? It’s a sand trap, hot as blazes, and who knows what kind of atomic particles we were breathing. Bugsy may have been a tourism visionary, but it was hard for me to believe these dunes will amount to anything else in 50 years. As I lit up, I shook my head, hoping Friday’s fight would go off without a hitch.
* * *
Hitches . . . With all the genius planning we put into this crazy damage control tour, there was one thing no one expected — rain — in Las Vegas.
Not only did we have a rooftop fight scheduled, but it was pegged to an atomic explosion hundreds of miles away, which was cancelled at the first whisper of rain. With the first clap of thunder, our hook was gone before it even arrived.
Niles Hetrick, who had too much tied up in the fight, had his men rally with what little time we had. Every pool boy, bus boy, cabana boy, waiter, shoeshine, and barback installed canopies and tents, which were usually earmarked for outdoor weddings by the pool. Those poor stumblebums hauled them up to the roof and, in no time, we had a makeshift tent city prepared. As for the A-bomb? Well, there wasn’t much we could do.
Without the big kaboom, all we had was barely an undercard set up for a few hundred high rollers, dignitaries and town officials. It wouldn’t have been a spectacle at all if not for the champ. However, the kicker was that the newsreels would still be there to capture all of the excitement, or lack therof.
There were two pre-bouts scheduled — eight rounders — just to get the crowd smelling a little blood. Truth was, no one was really expecting much from the “Atomic Apache”. At least I wasn’t. The poor redskin was just picked because he was different. Part of me hoped for an unexpected barn burner. In all my years covering the fights, it was the unanticipated bouts that made the game shine. Just when you’re ready to excommunicate the fights from your soul, two sluggers would bring their best and just beat the ever-loving hell out of each other.
Unfortunately, the undercards were a bust. In the first bout, I could swear one pug took a dive after catching a ballerina punch to the chin. It was almost comical.
The second fight was just plain boring. When two fighters are matched perfectly, the results can either be legendary or make you yearn for 40 winks. With both undercards falling flat, I could see the high-rollers shifting in their seats, their fox-adorned wives giving them the stink-eye. The big shots weren’t the only ones receiving some retinal heat. Grenade was fuming, most likely at me since this whole affair was my idea.
Dillian sat next to me at ringside. Since our little tryst, she was going out of her way to keep our affairs strictly business. In a way, I halfway expected it. This was going to be a long tour, so I figured she’d eventually warm up again.
Radio announcer Stitch Bromer settled into his seat about ten feet away. I watched him pour some hooch into a paper cup before fiddling with his microphone. He tapped it a few times before pushing it away satisfied. Bromer being here was a big deal, perhaps more than the newsreels. At the end of the day, he was the premiere authority of American boxing — the sole syndicated sportsman whose voice echoed on radios throughout every gin joint, juke joint, saloon, tavern, truck stop, diner, jail cell, pool hall and living room in this great nation. If he was here, then it was a boxing event. And if he sounded like he enjoyed the fight, so will the rest of the country.
I excused myself with Dillian and approached Stitch. I crouched next to the legend as he fiddled with his stat sheets. He seemed irritated that I was interrupting his pre-fight routine. While we were acquaintances, I couldn’t say we were actually friends. We newsguys are pretty territorial when it comes to our beats and I sometimes kept my scoops a tad too close to my vest. I guess he resented it.
“Nick, whaddya want?”
“Not sure if you heard, Stitch, but I’m working for the champ now.”
He laughed. “As what? His personal barkeep?”
I let the joke pass. Stich hadn’t been complaining when I was buying him drinks at Toots Shor’s place after Iggy Nolan destroyed Harp Gunning.
I figured I’d enlighten him. “I was hired by Pinnacle Pictures to write a movie about the champ.”
An even bigger laugh now. “Who’d the studio cast as the dead kid in the alley? Don’t look at me, I’m too old.” More laughing.
I stood up. It was apparent this was going to be moot. “Have a good broadcast, Stitch,” I said.
He called after me. “Nick, c’mon! Don’t be mad. Come back here you son-of-a-bitch!” Once again, I approached. Another Moretti rule: When you make people think they’re wasting your time, they quickly become as serious as a heart attack.
“What’re you so goddamn sensitive for? I’m joshin’ you.”
“Be kind to us today, huh?” I asked. “We could use a good word. Half the country has this kid wearing prison stripes.”
Before I walked away, Stitch grabbed my arm. “I always liked you, kid. Now listen, I’m gonna tell you something without tellin’ you something. Keep it between us, capice?”
Can I just say Stitch Bromer speaking Italian just seemed wrong, but I indulged him and nodded.
“Everything about the Rattlesnake’s camp is surface,” he said. “Something is off and I’m not sure what. Especially with the kid himself.”
I explained that Grenade and I had what seemed like a decent working relationship. Stitch laughed once more.
Suddenly I was funnier than that kid Rickles in the lounge. “Glad I can entertain you.”
“Kid, I wouldn’t trust that guy farther than I can s
pit. Just because he’s an old manager now doesn’t mean squat. When Grenade Watkins was champ, he was meaner than a hangover stalking a drunk and he doesn’t strike me as the type to have mellowed with age. Believe me. I saw it all. He’s going to Hell in every religion.”
I took it in and nodded. “Am I making a mistake writing this movie?”
Stitch shrugged. “Who knows? But if I were you, I’d watch your back.” After swigging his booze cup he added, “After all, you’re part of the game now, not just covering it anymore. The snakes are everywhere.”
I patted his shoulder. “Thanks, Stitch . . . Maybe I’ll see you later at the bar.”
Searching for my cigarettes, I made my way toward the best looking dame at ringside. Sitting down next to Dillian, it dawned on me this wasn’t going to be just a run-of-the-mill night. I’d been down this road too many times, seen too many fights, not to know the gnawing in my gut meant something. I hoped I was wrong.
* * *
Since the fight was only three rounds, I knew it was going to be a real rubber match with the champ dominating. By the end of the first round, however, I had to admit the “Atomic Apache” looked better than any of us had expected. Dillian and I even started to hear some distant fanfare for the injun as he sat on his stool, looking intently across the ring toward Rattlesnake, who seemed to be huffing just a tad. This distressed me. A world-class champ shouldn’t be winded so early in the night. Something was off. If the champ won the round, I’d say it would be by just a hair.
In round two, the Apache came out strong, letting loose with a barrage of combinations and knocking Rattlesnake from side-to-side and onto the ropes. Again, no one expected this.
I glanced at Stitch. He was on his feet yelling with the crowd, who probably forgot by now an atom bomb was supposed to be the spectacle of the day — not a fourth-rate Native American pugilist.
The Apache kept whaling, but there was a quick turnaround almost halfway through the round. The Apache was blinking, closing his eyes tightly and turning his head away from the champ’s gloves. When the bell rang and he stumbled to his stool looking like a creeper from White Zombie, it was impossible to not see the criss-cross of lashes and small cuts across his red skin. His corner rallied to get the cuts to coagulate, but they looked ill-equipped.
Front Page Palooka: A Nick Moretti Mystery Page 6
