The trucker dropped me off somewhere before the border of Virginia at what looked to be a plantation juke joint. From the outside, it seemed like the kind of place where field hands and generations of migrant workers pissed away their sweat for sour mash. Luckily, there was a makeshift inn above, but I’d probably need a tetanus shot just to sleep on the rusty springs.
Inside, half the bar was in their third trimester of pork rinds and Pabst, so when I asked for a beer and a chaser of the hard stuff, the barkeep winked and clicked his tongue like I was his long lost war buddy.
“The name is Jasper,” he said, reaching under the bar and pouring some clear liquid from a jug. “And this is my grandpappy’s concoction. It’ll put hair on the chest of a nun and her Boy Scout nephew — all in the same day. That’s a promise.”
While the white lightning hit me like a land mine, it didn’t stop me from asking for another. And one more after that. By now, I’d settled onto my stool and was thinking about getting a bed upstairs — rusty springs and all — but then I felt a tap on my shoulder. I was hoping it would be the curvy mulatto sitting four stools down and keeping up with me every step of the way, but it wasn’t.
“Just what in the Hell you doing?” I heard an angry voice bark. I turned around to see it was Grenade, and then turned back to my drink.
I shrugged my shoulders. “What’s it matter? You guys are gonna keep doing what you want. I mean, really . . . Why am I even a part of this tour?”
“To write a decent movie, I thought,” he snapped.
I nodded in agreement. “You’re right, Grenade. I was hired to write a movie, but you know you need me to do a whole lot more for your camp then you’re letting on.”
“That so?” he said motioning to the barkeep for whatever I was having. “I’ve been in the fight game fifty years and you’re my savior?”
“Work with me. I’m trying to make it so the country doesn’t wanna lynch him from an old sycamore.” In hindsight, probably not the best thing to say in here. I felt retinas burning into my back.
“What’s your plan then, big shot?” Grenade asked.
“We need the champ shaking hands with fans before each bout. He should be kissing babies and petting puppies. We don’t need him sucker punching every honest contender who steps into the ring. Grenade, we need to humanize him.”
The manager downed his shot and slammed the glass on the bar and locked eyes with me. “I’ll ask you again . . . What’s your plan?”
I told him about Chicago and how Father Tim and the orphanage was just the kind of good will stop Time and Life magazines would pick up. It may even get us back in good with Stitch Bromer.
“Stitch Bromer can kiss my black ass,” he scoffed.
“It’s fool-proof,” I assured him.
Grenade sneered. “Just like Vegas, right? We listened to you and wound up getting robbed on the roof of a dice joint.”
My patience was waning. The last thing I wanted to do was get hot with too much giggle juice in me, so I asked, “Where’s Dillian? She’d agree.”
“Son, that girl’s looped. Out cold from too much hooch on a hot and stuffy bus . . . Which is where we should be.”
“No offense, Grenade, but I’m thumbing it back to L.A. unless . . .”
“Unless what?”
“Unless we go to Chicago. I’ve seen more dirty tricks these past few weeks than in all of my twenty plus years of covering the sleaziest of undercards. I want no part of it.”
Not sure if the crackly neon was burning extra bright, but Grenade saw red. “If you’re saying he’s dirty, you’re saying I’m dirty . . .”
I don’t know where I got the bravery, but I asked, “Is that how you kept your belts so long?”
There was a sinister, bloodthirsty gleam in his eye. He finished my drink, told the barkeep we were done and finally said, “Get your things, boy. We’re taking this to the parking lot.”
* * *
I’ve done worse things in my life than fight a 70 year-old in a dirt lot in the middle of the weeds, believe me. Truth be told, the former world champion could probably beat down men half his age, so I’d say we were on even ground. Still, it was hard to imagine punching a man who limped, even if it was ever so slightly.
Getting himself ready, Grenade spit and tossed away his cane. I just scratched the back of my head, not quite grasping yet what he was preparing to do.
“You get the best of me and we point that hunk of steel towards Chicago,” he said.
“And if you win?” I countered.
“No more buttin’ in. No more whispering in Dillian’s ear, giving her crazy schemes.”
“Fair enough,” I said nodding.
Years from now, when Louella Parsons interviews me about my rise up the Tinseltown ladder and asks why I would even entertain the thought of fighting such an elderly man, I’d answer, “Sweetheart, if it was going to take me knocking the piss out of Grenade to get the camp straight, then so be it. The movie I was hired to write had to have an apple pie ending so what better way to kick start that by visiting an orphanage with built in PR? The way I saw it, we needed to make Rattlesnake likeable, so I figured a visit to a beloved city coupled with giving another American son a shot at the title would be just the ticket.”
That was my two pennies on the situation. Spend it how you like . . .
“So?” Grenade asked motioning to my dukes. “You gonna put ’em up?”
I sighed. This was really going to happen. I tossed my jacket and bag towards the bus and clenched my fists.
“Son, you look softer than puppy turds . . .” he taunted.
I let him hit first, but it was a mistake because Grenade not only hit hard, he took my breath away with a curdling punch to my gut. I took a knee.
In the fight biz, gentlemen are supposed to respect when another brawler takes a time out — but that was my second mistake — assuming Grenade was a gentleman.
They say to never kick a man when he’s down, but punching was evidently okay in Grenade’s world. As I was huffing for air, it was obvious where the kid got all his dirty tricks. My bad shoulder started to sting and I groaned a bit more. Two could play at his game, I started to think.
I would eventually feel bad about it, but what else was I going to do at the moment? The old man was handing me my ass tied up with a pretty pink little bow.
Still trying to catch my breath, I spat out a gob of something that tasted like bourbon mixed with blood. That’s what made me angry more than anything. I hate the taste of blood.
A man’s best weapon is a certain part of his arm. I bent my elbow and used its pointy joint to slam directly into Grenade’s bad leg. It was beautiful, poetry in motion. Upon impact, he yelped like a sickly hound, and that’s when the bus doors swung open. Dillian, Rattlesnake, Popcorn and the rest of the camp flew outside and formed a semi-circle around us.
“Someone stop them!” Dillian screamed.
“No!” Grenade ordered.
“Fine by me.” I shrugged, licking my bottom lip. “We can go on.”
Just as we were about to make another impact, Rattlesnake slammed me in my bad shoulder and shoved his manager to the hard ground.
“This is nonsense!” he yelled. “I call it a draw!”
Grenade got up and dusted himself off and turned to his fighter, “Boy, you better stand down. Have you lost your mind putting your hands on me?”
“Has everyone gone crazy?” Dillian asked me more than anyone. I felt shame for a moment. A little shame can go a long, long way if used properly.
“This is all foolishness!” Rattlesnake said. “Dillian told me your plan, Nick. If you want to go to Chicago, let’s go. Grenade, we’re going.”
Was I hearing right? Did Rattlesnake actually challenge his manager? Dillian ordered everyone back on the bus and like schoolchildren, the men followed suit.
The tour bus was finally on its way to Chicago and no one spoke the entire ride there. In a way, I was relieved since it was
the most relaxed I’ve been since this crazy journey began.
Sleep had never felt so good.
* * *
Soon enough, we rolled into the Windy City and checked into The Drake. Not saying a word to anyone, I went up to my room and soaked in a tub the size of Wrigley Field. My plan was to rest up and hit a few of the bars near some famous gyms I knew. Before we proceeded on the tour, I thought it would be smart to take the temperature of the local punchers.
Like I said, that was the plan. What actually happened was that I passed out on the bed next to a complimentary bottle of Jack Daniel’s, listening to the famous Chi-Town wind whip against the bricks of the landmark hotel.
The next morning, there wasn’t much to do except listen to Bing on the radio. He was going on and on about not wanting to be fenced in. My ears weren’t up for that bass baritone, so I ordered some ham and eggs from room service. In hopes to get a handle on what else was happening in the world outside, I ditched Bing and found a local newscast on the dial. It was business as usual with a newsy staccato voice spitting out information like a Tommy gun:
. . . The Allies basically told Russia to go scratch and rejected their membership into NATO . . .
. . . Some kid named Roger Bannister broke the four-minute mile at a track meet in Oxford, England . . .
. . . Joe McCarthy was accusing everyone and their mother’s mother of being a Pinko . . .
. . . Alfred Hitchcock’s new flick Dial M. for Murder was arriving in theaters any day . . .
. . . And, finally, Boeing was in the testing phase of a new commercial jet airplane tagged the 707 . . .
And then, lo and behold, the sportscast came on . . .
It appeared Rattlesnake’s camp would be busy later this week as it was announced the champ would be visiting Father Tim at the orphanage. The champ would also be checking out a new round of fighters in the adjacent gym run by the its head trainer, Pete Moretti — my cousin.
I was dumbstruck. Chuckling with a mouthful of toast, I couldn’t help think, Wow, Dillian works fast . . .
It was obvious there was a rift growing between myself and the camp. How much more proof did I need? Just take a gander at the giant loop and the conscious effort to keep me out of it. Lady Chanel was going to get a visit from me right after I got the dead chickadees on my plate down my throat.
* * *
After I managed to finagle her room number from the Drake staff, I knocked on Dillian’s door. If it’s one thing newsmen know how to do, its finagle information from people. It’s the best skill I managed to get from this miserable profession.
Dillian’s door snapped open and, boy, Lady Chanel didn’t seem happy. “How did you find out my room number?”
“And good morning to you, too . . .”
“Nick, whaddya want?”
I playfully showed her a duplicate room key and asked, “Why didn’t you tell the hotel management you had a devilishly handsome husband? You’ve become increasingly forgetful these days. Probably all that plantation rum. Speaking of rum, you got any more in there?”
“I thought you didn’t like rum.”
Smiling, I said, “Only with Pepsi, baby . . .”
Scoffing, she tried to close the door, but I’d blocked it with my wingtip. It was then I noticed she was wrapped in the skimpiest of towels.
“Were you guys going to inform me you had plans for later today? Plans which were, in fact, my idea.”
“Nick Moretti . . . Purveyor of Great Ideas . . . How will we ever do this without you?”
This chick wasn’t going to sass me. This had been a long trip and I was all sassed out. “Look, Hummingbird, if my cousin is going to be tied to anything even remotely having to do with this camp, you’re telling me all the scam.”
“Oh, really? You’re calling the shots, now?” she asked, tugging up her towel.
I smiled at the view and answered, “Haven’t I been all along?” I tickled her underchin. “See ya at Father Tim’s . . .”
Walking away I was half-shocked the door didn’t immediately slam. Maybe she was waiting for me to turn around? Maybe she wanted to invite me in? Didn’t matter, really. For the moment, I needed to catch up with Pete and let him know how corrupt everyone was and, if possible, get him to stay far away from any of its action.
* * *
I scoped a few neighborhood gyms by myself and pretty much found what I had expected — tough immigrants with rough backgrounds who were willing to punch their way to Cadillacs and caviar. If I were Rattlesnake, I’d be worried in Chicago. Later that day, I hopped the “L” and made my way to St. Vincent’s, where Pete would be waiting for me out front.
It’d been over a decade since I’d seen Pete. I felt somewhat guilty I hadn’t made a better effort to spend time with him. Last time I saw him, I was in town covering the “Mayhem” Mitchell fight and Pete was on a low undercard — so low, the fight could have qualified as the night before. He fought under the name “Pete the Python” because he slithered around the ring so much other fighters couldn’t catch him. And when they did, he struck with his freight train right. That was Pete.
As lethal as his punching power was, Pete was too nice to make it in the ring. A shame because if he’d been a bloodthirsty bastard, he could’ve easily been a world champion. Pete never went for knockouts. He was a sleepy brawler who boxed and would beat you on points.
A killer instinct always sells in the fight game, and when a fighter doesn’t have one, it’s hard to sell a bout. I would never admit it to my cousin, but there’s nothing more boring than a nice guy boxer.
He won his fight ten years ago — easily, in fact. Eventually, however, as Pete faded into his thirties so did any dreams he might have held of holding a belt. That’s when he started to work with Father Tim and opened a gym a few doors down from the orphanage. By day, Pete worked with Tim and the boys at St. Vincent’s. By night, he ran the gym, hoping to discover the next Rattlesnake. I figured the gym’s proximity to the orphanage would make a wonderful narrative since Pete was practically raised by Father Tim.
Walking toward him, it was good to see Pete — slightly younger than me — and still in great shape. Maybe even fighting weight. I’d wager he could still hold his own in the ring.
“Been ten years, kiddo. This is embarrassing,” I said, embracing him.
We held the hug a good five seconds and slapped each other’s backs a few more times.
“Been too long, Petey,” I said, play-slapping his rough, unshaven, mug.
He nodded and gave me a light tap to the ribs. “I agree, Nicky. How ya been?”
I shrugged. “Depends on your perspective. We need to talk. Can I buy you a beer?”
“You can buy me two. There’s a saloon up the block,” he pointed.
We had afternoon beers at a watering hole that probably hadn’t been swept since the Herbert Hoover administration. It looked like a real sawmill, but the brew was cold and fresh — and that’s all that mattered.
At the tavern, I brought Pete up to speed, hitting him with the bullet points.
He couldn’t help but laugh. “Nicky, you always had to do things the hard way . . .”
I cracked open a peanut and threw the shell on the floor, watching it land near the hundreds of others. “Pete, honest to goodness . . . Had I known this camp was so shady, I probably wouldn’t be sitting here.”
“Are you stoonad? You’re writing a movie based on the heavyweight champion of the world. What are you belly aching about, ya putz? There are guys out there digging ditches.”
He was half-right. Still, reality kept socking me in the snooker when I thought about it with logic. “Cuz, if this kid gets into any more trouble, there is no movie and as far as I can see, he’s running amok fighting dirty with a manager who’s actually encouraging it all. You want to see a movie about that? Would you pay for it?”
“Nicky . . . Just make it your movie.”
Those words hit me but good. I nodded. Pete was right. It d
idn’t matter how the flick would end. It ended how it ended. For this to work, I had to take a step aside and just watch. It never hit me, but all along I was just indulging some self-fulfilling prophecy. By the end of this tour, I needed to have a first draft. I was energized and wanted to get back to my suite at the Drake and just start pounding the keys.
I slapped an Andrew Jackson on the bar and pecked Pete on the forehead.
“Petey, you have no idea what kind of an inspiration you are.”
“Me? What’d I say?”
Running out, I shouted, “Nevermind, cuz! I’ll explain later! See you at the gym on press day!”
* * *
When I got back to the hotel, I gathered my notes that were scribbled on everything from beer napkins to whiskey labels. I pulled the shades, unwound my watch and ordered enough black coffee to last me until the next morning. The key was to get disoriented with time, so I could concentrate on nothing but this script. It was a trick I drummed up to beat deadlines.
For the greater part of what felt like the next day, I was on a tear and managed to make The Rattlesnake McNeal Story compelling enough. The way I told it, he grew up an only child as the son of a working dancer on the seedier side of Hollywood’s nightlife scene. I painted a great sob story.
His mother Ruby Mae worked late into the wee hours and was never around to tuck the poor kid in. Instead, he was left in the care of his elderly aunt Vanissa, who provided little Jericho with what little wisdom he was able to scrape together through the years.
As for his father? He was a big shoulder shrug. Could’ve been any number of Joes. The tabloid boy in me romanticized it a bit. My story had his old man serving 30-to-life for killing a security guard during a botched robbery of the tea room in Hudson’s Department Store.
Enter scrappy Grenade Watkins, a former hard-nosed champ who wanted to sustain his career by planting a flag in La-La land, opening the Equinox, and by finding a perfect young boy he could mold into a superstar. It was beautiful in its execution and all halfway made-up. In my version, Grenade was a peach of an old man. Everyone’s grandpa.
Front Page Palooka: A Nick Moretti Mystery Page 8
