While I was on a roll, I had a small problem. This particular flick needed a villain, but who? A shifty promoter? I could model him after slippery Tommy Domino from Jersey. The role would write itself. Or maybe the villain could be a dangerous gangster who wants to own a piece of the kid.
Just as I was busy molding a baddie in my head, the phone rang. I should have just let it ring, but my creative juices emptied as I answered it.
“Hello.”
It was Pete, and I’ll never forget what he said.
“Nicky! My ship came in!”
I was confused. Looking at my watch to get a handle on the time, I forgot it wasn’t ticking. “Come again?” I said.
“I’m fighting Rattlesnake! I got one last shot! Can ya believe it?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa . . . Slow down, Pete. What are you saying?”
“Me! Pete the Python will be fighting Rattlesnake McNeal for the heavyweight championship of the world!”
I was all turned around and felt like I was living in a cartoon. “Pete, I just saw you in the bar! What are you talking about?”
“Cuz, are you dippy? That was two days ago. We were all wondering where you were at the press conference.” Did I nap and not know it?
“How did all this happen?” I quietly asked.
“I dunno?” he answered. “It was all so fast. One second, I was just clowning around sparring with Rattlesnake, and the next we’re trading some great shots. His manager said I was just the type of fighter they were looking for.”
I lit a cigarette. “I’ll bet . . .”
“Besides, the pretty lady in the camp said she’d be handling things from here on out and to leave you alone because she thought you’d be busy writing your movie.”
“She did, huh? Look, Pete we need to talk about this. Please reconsider . . .”
“Reconsider?” Pete almost yelled. “You’re nuts!”
“Maybe, but there’s more going on here than you know.”
“I don’t care,” Pete said. “This is my shot. We’re all flying back to the coast the day after tomorrow. I hope we’re on the same flight.”
He was giddy and I didn’t want to spoil his moment. “Yeah, Pete . . . Me, too. We’ll talk on the big bird.”
After we hung up, I reached for my bottle, unsure of what my meddling had caused.
I poured.
On one hand, it was great Pete was going to be a real contender. But on the other hand, this couldn’t be a coincidence. No way.
I sipped.
It seemed to me the camp, Grenade and even Rattlesnake all had something different to prove. In a way, they were all looking for some sort of odd validation, and I was worried Pete was now going to be a dispensable pawn, stuck somewhere in the middle.
After I killed the bottle, my only goal was to clean up and find out just what in tarnation was going on. But I was fading. My eyelids were becoming heavy, like bunker doors. Could you blame me? A 48-hour writing tear and two bottles of Jack tend to do that to a guy.
I tossed off my shoes, crawled onto my bed and flicked on the nightstand radio. After pounding out page after page of dialogue and plot twists, my brain needed some music — it needed the sad moans of Chi-Town blues.
As my body shut down, the last thing I remembered hearing were those growling, painful kennings of Howlin’ Wolf. My last conscious thought was hoping they weren’t premonitions of things to come.
* * *
My hangover pounded so hard it could’ve marched in the St. Patty’s Day parade. I needed food for it to fade so I got up, got dressed and headed downstairs. After a tasty breakfast in the hotel’s coffee shop, I stopped by the front desk to see if I’d been left any flight information back to Tinseltown. Zilch.
I called Pete to see if maybe he could tell me when the flight was scheduled, but he didn’t answer. I then walked down to the hotel’s front desk, verifying Dillian, Grenade and the rest of the Rattlesnake’s camp had checked out hours before.
I knocked on the heavy mahogany counter separating me from the hotel clerk, more out of frustration than anything else. But there was still a kicker to come — I’d been stuck with my own hotel bill. I was also going to have to fly back to the coast on my own dime.
Clearly, I finally knew where Nick Moretti stood amongst the carnage of Rattlesnake’s boxing tour.
It was okay, though, since the long flight back to Hollywood allowed the newsman in me to emerge — the guy who had questions and would try his best to get the answers. They didn’t know it yet, but they’d made a mistake when they put me onto their scent, cooped me up on a plane, and gave me the rare luxury of time. I broke the absurd situation down bit by shady bit, replaying scenarios in my head over and over a mile high in the sky.
I kept going back to the fateful night in the alley behind a juke joint a few months ago — back when the whole mess started. A young man was dead under seemingly shady circumstances and no one seemed to care. Sure, Rattlesnake was questioned by the police, but I still couldn’t say why he was mysteriously let go. There was still a piece missing — one I’d maybe find by going back to that watering hole.
So, to satisfy my curiosity, I decided the first thing I’d do when I arrived in the City of Angels was pay Smitty’s Lounge a visit and bend an elbow or two.
* * *
Being I was now on my own dime, I decided to hang my hat in my writer’s bungalow at the movie studio. After all, I didn’t need much more than a sofa and running water, and the digs at Pinnacle were far better than some of the cold water flats I’ve lived in. I had a working typewriter, top-shelf booze, a radio and an obscene pile of typing paper.
Benny Carter managed to corner me on the lot and asked me how the script was coming.
“I need an ending,” I told him.
He nudged me with his elbow. “Just make it a happy one. Mr. Stuhlberg is very interested in this script. Wants to see pages next week.”
I told him the fight was next week and I may not have a completed draft.
“Just show us something,” Carter stressed once more. “He’s very interested.”
Sighing, I watched the hardest working man in the studio dart off into a soundstage before throwing a finske at a studio driver to take me to the shady part of town.
I’ll cut right to the chase. Smitty’s was a dark saloon in both mood and lighting. Another fella might even say skin tone as well. I cozied up to the bar and parked my keester on a stool. A barkeep wiped the counter in front of me and raised his caterpillar eyebrows. I guess that meant he wanted to know what I was drinking.
“Bourbon?” I asked.
“Old Crow,” he replied.
Great. Now I knew what kind of place this was.
“If that’s all you have . . . But lemme ask you something, Chief. Does it come with a paper bag I can put over my shot glass?”
He didn’t find me funny.
As he poured, I asked, “So, are you Smitty?”
“I look like a Smitty?”
I wanted to say, “You look like a monumental ballbreaker,” but I bit my tongue. “You could pass for an owner.”
“Smitty’s long dead, friend.”
Ah, suddenly we were friends. I decided to play my hand and slid an Andrew Jackson across the bar. He noticed, but didn’t take it. I slid it further toward him.
“Where’s your badge?” the bartender asked.
“I’m not on the job. I’m a writer.”
“Writer?” he repeated, almost scoffing.
I slid the twenty further in. “C’mon, man. Take it. I just wanna ask you a few questions.”
“Like . . .”
“Like . . . Were you working the night Hector Fernandez bought it in your alley?”
“Yup.”
“A man of few words, huh?” I asked. “Did you know him?”
“No more or no less than anyone else in here.”
This act was getting stale. “Pal, help me out.”
“Mister, I just tend bar. These
men come in here and do what they do. I mind my business and serve them their drinks. I suggest you take your business and questions somewhere else.”
It became obvious I’d worn out my welcome when he slid back my cash. All I could do was nod respectfully. I finished the last of the mouthwash he passed off as whiskey, and strolled around the bar. From my vantage point, Smitty’s looked like any other gin joint in the country.
The more I looked, however, the more things seemed a tad off.
There were studio publicity shots adorning the walls — an odd mish-mash of shirtless photos of actors like Rudolph Valentino, Rock Hudson, Tab Hunter, Monty Cliff and Marlon Brando. The juke had nothing but onion ballads, sappy stuff you play on a first date. We were in the big city. Where was the jazz? The bebop? The jump blues?
I digested the pieces one by one. The slow songs, foofy photos, and lastly, what the bartender said.
“Mister, I just tend bar. These men come in here and do what they do. I mind my business.”
Over and over, I repeated it in my head, “These men come in here and do what they do. Do what they do . . . Do what they do . . .”
I stopped walking.
When recognition rears her ugly head, she has a funny way of showing it. Could it be that Rattlesnake McNeal, heavyweight champion of the world, played for the other team?
* * *
It was fight week and there was a definite energy throughout Los Angeles. While I needed to catch up with my cousin, I had so many questions about the murder at Smitty’s that I really couldn’t think of anything else.
I couldn’t get back to Pinnacle fast enough. As the afternoon sun beat down on the studio asphalt, my bungalow was dark and cool. I flicked on the fan, sat down and dumped my collection of notes and photos on the desk. I must have combed through them three or four times when an early news clipping popped out and reminded me young Hector Fernandez worked for the studio as a groundskeeper.
Someone here had to know him.
The Pinnacle lot was buzzing like a beehive. It took me around an hour, but I managed to find an old Negro named Lucius who worked with Hector. In fact, he was the groundskeeper who trained him.
“For the most part, he was a nice boy,” he said.
“Whaddya mean for the most part?”
“He was a good worker, but he could be a tad wild, like most young pups.”
“Whiskey and women, huh?” I said, fishing. “That’s my own weakness, just like every other Clyde on the planet.”
Lucius mocked me. “Please. The boy was gay as a jaybird.”
Jackpot.
I feigned shock and asked about the night Hector got killed. “Sounds to me as if he had a lover’s spat, right?”
“Oh, no doubt. Hard to believe that boy coulda killed him.”
That boy. Jackpot No. 2.
“Who?” I asked. “Rattlesnake?”
“No . . . Hector was fooling around with Rattlesnake’s friend, some skinny kid who doesn’t talk. Had a quirky name like a food.”
What? Was Lucius talking about Popcorn?
Popcorn — who’s never more than 10 feet away from Rattlesnake — Popcorn, who tends to the champ’s every whim. My new theory? Popcorn was Rattlesnake’s dark secret.
This was a guy who’d earned an Andrew Jackson. “Friend, this is for you,” I said, handing Lucius the twenty before heading back to the bungalow.
“Thank you, Mister! I sure hope I didn’t get anyone in trouble,” the old man shouted.
It was right in front of me the whole time and it took an old man to spell it out. As I settled back in at my bungalow, it soon crystalized in my brain — Hector Fernandez and Popcorn had a fling. If I were a betting man, I’d say Rattlesnake caught them that night in Smitty’s alley and beat the snot out of Hector.
It was a simple crime of passion. Either way, the movie’s ending was getting a tad clearer. However, what still has me scratching my head is why the champ wasn’t arrested. Someone, somewhere, was pulling strings. I just had to find out who.
I looked at my watch, realizing I needed to catch up with the news and find out how the Rattlesnake circus had been treating Pete. I stretched my neck, reaching over for my afternoon edition of the Los Angeles Times. Pete was all over the front page of the sports section:
IS PETE MORETTI THE GREAT WHITE HOPE?
I sneered at the idea. It was just the kind of piece I would’ve written, but hopefully with more finesse. Even though I was the closest I’d ever been to the innards of a fight camp, I felt like an outsider more than ever. I figured Pete would be set up at the Hollywood Roosevelt, so that’s exactly where I headed.
* * *
I rang Pete’s room and he came down to meet me in the lounge. I ordered a beer. Pete was sipping water, which told me he was knee-deep in training — or at least serious about it.
“Pete, I feel responsible for all of this. Before you go any further, you need to think about what you’re doing,” I said.
“What I’m doing?” He seemed genuinely confused. “I did think about it, cuz. Take a look at me. I’m three punches away from barely being a prospect. This could be it. No more chances. Nicky, I should be thanking you.”
I felt like I had to be honest with him. “Do you have any inkling as to why they picked you?”
Mildly offended, he quickly answered, “Because I can box worth a spit.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But, so can lots of guys.”
“I’ll bite, Nick. You tell me why I got picked.”
“Pete, you’ve always been a solid fighter. Could be meaner, but that’s another story. I think the camp picked you because they knew it would tick me off and . . .”
“And what?” he asked.
“And you make a great poster,” I blurted.
Pete sat back in his seat, insulted. “Really?”
“Humor me,” I said. “Tell me, what’re they calling the fight?”
He smirked.
“C’mon,” I said. “Tell me.”
He looked away and eyed up a cigarette girl before answering, “Union of the Snakes.”
I repeated it to drive it home. “Union of the Snakes. That’s perfect.”
Throwing a few bucks down on the bar, there was one more bit of advice I wanted to give him. “Rattlesnake McNeal is the heavyweight champion of the world for a reason. He’s undefeated. Watch yourself because he’s not the cleanest of punchers.”
Pete smiled up towards me. “Nicky, he ain’t gonna be able to catch me.”
Placing my hand on his shoulder, I felt inadequate saying, “Just be careful in there, kiddo.”
As a walked out, I heard him yell, “You gonna be there, cuz?”
I stopped walking, turned around, and smiled.
“I’ll be there . . . Ringside.”
ROUND ELEVEN
Fight night finally arrived and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit there was a knot in my stomach the size of a busted kneecap.
Dillian managed to work some of her public relations hocus pocus and had succeeded in setting the bout at the Rose Bowl in Pasadena. I guess if you’re tight with a movie studio, the Los Angeles County Sports and Exposition Authority is just a phone call away. It was a perfect venue to make a high-profile fight even more so. And my idea. But this guy ain’t bitter.
I read in the papers they had printed tickets for just under 100,000 seats, and it looked as if each and every one were sold. I shook my head at the marvel of it all. The bout was shaping up to be a huge event fight. I half expected Jack Johnson or Jack Dempsey to be featured, like they so often had been in the past, easily prevailing over lesser opponents.
What was even more amazing was Rattlesnake’s camp managed to pull this off without a name promoter — which was even more reason for Grenade to keep his golden goose untarnished. All those greenbacks were going somewhere, and I’d bet every dime I owned it was into Grenade’s pockets.
There were a few undercards before the action, so I flashed my press car
d and figured I would mosey my way back to Pete’s locker room to wish him luck.
Walking down the long tunnel that hosted so many football greats — not to mention those Olympians in 1932 — I couldn’t help feel a sense of awe. For a small moment, I was excited for Pete. Even though he only had a few weeks to really train, he was a scrapper. In essence, he’d trained every day of his tough life. This fight was his salvation of sorts, and I started to finally understand where he was coming from.
I knocked a few times before I was let into his locker room. There were a bunch of guys I’ve never seen on the tour, so I could only assume they were working for the Rose Bowl.
Pete’s camp — if that’s what you wanted to call it — was equal parts Jiminy Cricket small and Oliver Twist pathetic. Sal the Saint, an old priest from St. Vincent’s was standing in as trainer, and Aldo the orphanage custodian was doing the honors as cutman. Like I said, kinda pathetic. I halfway considered tossing off my jacket, rolling up the sleeves and being his third cornerman.
As I watched Sal tape up Pete’s hands, I could see my cousin was focused and quiet. I punched him playfully and asked, “You ready, buddy boy?”
He gave me the sly smile I hadn’t seen since we were kids. Part of me felt reassured. If anything, Pete was going to give it his all.
Before I headed back to my seat, I told him about some of the observations I made on the tour, running down Rattlesnake’s dirty tricks and his overall weaknesses.
“Just be careful out there,” I said.
I wished both Father Sal and Aldo good luck and told them a steak dinner was on me after the fight — win, lose or draw. That was optimistic. This fight was only going to end one way . . .
In the hallway, I sighed nervously and leaned on the dank concrete wall a moment. I shook out my jitters by lighting a smoke. In the distance I heard the bell. It sounded as if one of the undercards was finished, so I started making for the ring.
Front Page Palooka: A Nick Moretti Mystery Page 9
