by Paul Cave
The mutt tugged against the over-extended leash and pulled itself closer towards this newcomer. As it got to within striking distance of Perkins, the dog bared its teeth.
“Heel, Truffles!” the old woman commanded, activating the leash’s mechanism. Squealing, Truffles returned to the woman’s feet, where it growled continually.
Perkins gave the woman his best smile. Truffles growled louder.
“Now, now, missy,” the woman began, addressing the Pekinese. “We don’t behave in such a manner. Not when we have people around.”
“Hey, no worries,” Perkins said. He slipped his hand into his jacket and wrapped cold fingers around the stock of the Derringer. “Gee, it’s one cold day, today,” Perkins said, scanning the length of the park. A couple of young teenagers were huddled together on a park bench about a hundred yards away. Other than that, the park was deserted.
The wind changed direction, enough to carry Perkins’ stench to the old woman’s nostrils. “Oh my,” she gasped, her nose obviously used to finer scents. The mutt jumped up onto its hind legs, twisting violently against the short length of cord.
“Thing’s a little jumpy,” Presley acknowledged, nervously, understanding that the dog could quite easily take a bite out of his leg. And, with no wish for that kind of pain, he took a step back before withdrawing the pistol.
“Gimme your goddamn bag, lady..!”
The dog launched into a frenzy, barking and twisting in circles, while the woman just stared back blankly.
“What?” she asked, her face as serene has the Holy Mother’s.
“Your bag. Give me your bag.”
“Why?”
“Because I have a gun.”
“Where?”
“Here,” Perkins said, jabbing the small weapon towards her.
The old woman squinted, her eyes forming into tight slits. She strained over the ten yards or so which separated them. “Don’t see it.”
Incredulously, Perkins took a step closer. “See, look. A gun!” he said, twisting the weapon around in his hand for her to get a more detailed look.
The woman shook her head. “No, still can’t see it.”
Jesus Fucking Christ! Why the hell had he picked this crazy old blind bitch to rob? He took another step closer, his intention to ram the fucking thing up her nose, but the second his foot left the ground, the small mutt shot forwards.
The old woman released the leash’s mechanism and said, “Go get him!” The nasty little dog darted across open space and snagged the hem of Presley’s pants in its teeth.
Then, as her would-be attacker was pulled off balance, she snatched a small can of mace from her pocket. Stepping forward, she launched a spray of liquid directly at his face.
Presley screamed as liquid fire consumed his eyes. “No… Ah… It burns…” he shrieked. Instinctively, he pulled the trigger. Two small hollow clicks answered as the hammer fell against empty chambers.
“Why you..!” the woman said, now understanding that the weapon wasn’t even loaded. She surged forward and rammed her knee into his groin, sending him to the ground in a twisted heap. Truffles released his cuff for a more satisfying mouthful of flesh.
“Call it off! Call it off!” Presley begged. The sting of pain at his groin paled against the fresh agony of the dog’s teeth. Truffles snapped at the tender meat of an exposed calf.
With nothing in the way of mercy in her immediate thoughts, the woman slipped the bag from her shoulder, and then started to whack Presley over the head with it. “Young man,” she said, hitting him with a downward swing of her handbag between each word. “I suggest you get yourself a real gun, next time you try to rob someone!”
“Christ, lady, please!”
The storm that was her anger quickly blew itself out. “Release,” she said, and Truffles backed away obediently. However, as the dog did, Perkins kicked out instinctively, catching the mutt on the chin. Truffles yelped in pain and surprise, and tore away in the opposite direction, hanging itself and spinning the old woman in a circle. Both handbag and mace clattered to the ground.
With tears streaming down his face, he reached out blindly. Mercifully, his fingers grabbed the small can of repellent first. Unable to make anything out clearly, Presley caught the dark blur of the woman’s legs. In a fit of vengeance he pointed the nozzle outwards and sent a jet of pepper-spray in the mutt’s general direction.
Pain sent the dog running. It pulled the leash from the woman’s hand, and took off across the park. With bag and spray forgotten, the old woman followed, hysterically shouting, “Truffles! Come back here. Come back to Mommy!”
Presley reached out blindly to rake in two handfuls of snow. He pressed the melting snow into his eyes, and whimpered in agony as he did so. The burning at his eyes was finally quelled. He climbed to his feet. He squinted and found the park had become completely empty. His little act of violence had gone unnoticed.
He bent to retrieve the Derringer and bag. Before the woman had a chance to return with cops in tow, he hurried through the park and exited out onto Broadway. Understanding that he would look suspicious carrying an expensive handbag, he stopped for a moment to gather his wits. The bag would look too obvious stuffed under his thin jacket and, if the cops were to stop him, then he’d be in real deep shit. He’d be arrested and it wouldn’t take them long to identify their clumsy mugger as a notorious cop-killer. He thought about emptying the bag and then tossing it into a nearby bush, but the thing looked way too expensive to waste, and would probably score a fair sum of money if pawned at the right shop. Looking inside the bag give him an idea – the only one available to him at such short notice.
Then, he put as much distance as possible between himself and Central Park, passing many a blank face as he went, only a few curious as to know why a homeless-looking guy would be walking the streets with a red bow in his hair, pink lipstick splashed across his lips, and a stylish handbag hanging from his shoulder.
A couple of horse-mounted cops watched the lipstick-wearing gentleman pass by, both following him until the crowd of people gathered him within its multicultural embrace.
One cop turned towards his partner. “Gee – I’ve seen it all now.”
“Yep,” replied the other. “City’s definitely gone to the dogs. That’s for sure.”
Chapter Fourteen
A black and white photograph had imprinted itself on the insides of Joseph’s eyelids. The picture, clear and crisp, refused to dispel, no matter how hard he tried to focus his attention elsewhere. Standing with hands clasped together were two young girls, grinning sheepishly. He opened his eyes and stared out towards the window. The small block of daylight that filtered through looked grey and dismal: a monochrome block that held the projected picture of the girls in Joseph’s imaginary eye. He huffed and turned towards the opposite side of the room. Nothing there apart from Profit, slumped in a chair at his side and snoring softly.
Joseph huffed again, and then allowed his eyes to close. The girls smiled back at him in a duplicated fashion. Joseph squinted, scrunching his eyelids tighter to get a better look. They were dressed in thick clothing, animal skins cut to fit snugly, and wore identical pairs of fur-lined boots. The boots weren’t the only identical things. The girls possessed an uncanny similarity, mirror images of each other, with broad Mongolian features. On closer inspection, Joseph noticed that the sisters, twins no doubt, were not holding hands but joined at the hip – literally. Now, Joseph knew where the image had come from - his memory.
Although he couldn’t remember their names or anything of any real importance, he figured that at some point in his life he’d read about the pair, that he’d seen this picture before. The significance of the photo hit him. Joseph opened his eyes and glanced at his left hand. He turned it over so his palm faced him. Then, he formed a tight fist, feeling power within his grasp. In contrast, his right hand was limp and lifeless, resting upwards, fingers partially curled, like an overturned crab. Joseph focused his thoughts and
tried to force his fingers to move. They resisted. He huffed a blue streak of expletives under his breath.
This was what the picture signified: himself. Two people trapped within the one body. One was fit and strong, the other weak and infirm. Without warning, Joseph began to panic as the full meaning of the Siamese twins analogy set in. One of the twins had died, unexpectedly, leaving the other to fall fatally ill with blood poisoning. They had shared just a single organ, the liver. Today, a relatively simple procedure would have separated them, but not back then. The remaining twin had died some days later when septicaemia destroyed her organs. Only in death had they been separated, and only then in the interests of science.
The photo in Joseph’s mind melted away, leaving behind it a wealth of terrible images. Most, if not all, were formed by Joseph’s own dark imagination. He watched in horror as a black decaying disease shifted into the left side of his body. Quickly, this malignant entity destroyed the healthy side, leaving behind a festering carcass.
Joseph shuddered.
Using all of his willpower, he turned his mind away from these worrying thoughts. His eyes came to rest on his old coach’s features. Once again, Profit had stayed by his side. They had a bond now; one that Joseph hoped would never be broken, no matter what the future held for them.
By the time he’d made a full recovery from his neck injury years ago, Joseph had not only missed his golden opportunity but had also found himself down by one promoter and manager. Only Profit had remained beside him, as he did so now, and Joseph felt a flood of affection and gratitude towards his aging friend. Not for the first time, Joseph thanked his lucky stars as to how Profit had come into his life.
In the late 1950s – when only one championship belt had existed – Eugene Profit had been a world contender. Number Two in the world rankings no less. Back then, Profit had cut a dashing figure; handsome, with an uncanny similarity to the Hollywood actor, Cary Grant. Time Magazine had listed the young fighter as one of America’s most prolific sportsmen.
By the time he was just seventeen he’d already turned pro and had quickly risen within the ranks. At twenty-one he boasted a scorecard of twenty-one wins, eighteen by knockout, and zero losses. In a sport that had become predominantly dominated by African-Americans, the public and promoters had fallen over themselves to get at this handsome, enigmatic, young white fighter. And by his twenty-third birthday, was working his way to a serious shot at the title.
What followed became the stuff of legend.
Profit, unmarked, touted as being too wet behind the ears by some and well out of his depth, had stepped into the ring that night as a 10-1 underdog. The then current champ had been an ugly, flat-nosed French-Canadian named Maurice ‘Mad Dog’ Russo. Mad Dog had laid waste to all that had stood before him, having defended his crown no less than eleven times already. A seasoned champ who knew every trick in the book – and then some.
For the first five rounds, Profit was forced to question his current occupational choice many times over. His straight, finally chiselled nose was busted by the end of round two, and a cut that was deep enough to shove dimes into had opened up above his right eye by the beginning of the fourth. Twice his corner men pushed to end the fight. Perhaps the masses had been right, and Profit was not ready for such an undertaking. But something had the young fighter in its grip and was unwilling to let him go. Profit shook off his fears and, with blood dripping from both nostrils and brow, he stepped into the centre of the ring.
Profit got on his toes and worked the ring like a matador. He utilised his strengths: speed and stamina, and concentrated on using his sticking left jab to maximum effect. Every time Mad Dog held them in a clinch, Profit stepped back and countered with simple straight lefts and rights. By the eighth round the fight began to swing towards the newcomer. The ninth saw both opponents floored – Profit by a swinging right hook that he failed to duck, and Mad Dog by a vicious right cross delivered with such speed that even the rolling cameras at ringside were unable to pick up clearly.
Rounds ten, eleven and twelve came and went in a blur of leather, with so many punches landing, the statisticians had difficulty keeping count. The current champ had two factors working against him now: age and tiredness. His guard began to drop and his shots were rapidly losing their power and accuracy. With fire in his belly and lightning in his fists, Profit backed his opponent up against the ropes.
The fifteenth round was Mad Dog’s undoing. Knowing now that only a knockout could save his championship, he came storming out of his corner like a man possessed. Within thirty seconds, though, he’d blown himself out, leaving himself wide open to a counterattack. Profit happily obliged. His simple combinations of left and rights eventually reduced Mad Dog to a spent force. And, with only seconds remaining on the clock, he’d landed no fewer than thirty punches that were undefended and unanswered. With no other option, the referee jumped in to end the fight.
The American dream now lay subserviently at Eugene Profit’s feet. He took hold with both hands. In less than a year, he had defended his title successfully on three occasions. The film studios of that time were falling over themselves to include him as a bit-part player in countless films. More importantly, he met the love of his life on the parking lot at Paramount Studios.
Elizabeth Montague, a B-movie actress, was herself on the verge of international success. Their first date had been awkward and unnerving, both in awe of the other, desperate not to make fools of themselves, and holding back in an unconscious way as to not suffer too greatly if rejected. However, captivated by this young man’s enthusiastic smile, Elizabeth had agreed to see Eugene again, a decision that in some respects would eventually cost her her life.
A string of more successful dates had slowly brought them closer, and in no time at all they had become Hollywood’s B-list dream couple. Elizabeth continued to work on gritty, low budget cult features, whilst Eugene made a number of successful defences. Fame and fortune courted them both equally. They married in the late summer of 1959 under a sky bluer than a tropical ocean.
In the 1960s, the film studios started to shift away from the formulaic romantic-dramas/comedies and hired a team of younger, more ambitious directors, eager to take the industry to new heights and along uncharted paths.
Already established as a serious actress, Elizabeth had landed the main role in a gritty movie about a courageous single mother who found love with a black inner-city teacher. The film opened to rave reviews and acclaim, and earned both Elizabeth and her screen partner – a handsome black actor – Oscar nominations.
Awards night should have been an evening of celebration. And had Eugene been there, it probably would have. Yet the promise of even greater successes had lured him away from the ceremony altogether. Instead of arriving at Elizabeth’s side, ready to share in her moment of splendour, he’d been almost 3000 miles away, stepping into the ring to the chant of ‘Champ! Champ! Champ!’
Old Mad Dog had returned, unwilling to let either time or defeat get the better of him. A string of recent wins had pushed him back within contention. Eugene had brushed the contest aside at first, with no wish to entertain the aging fighter. A succession of publicised comments, regarding his only career knockdown, and the promise of more lucrative financial endorsements, had worked its way inside his gut. Eventually, pride and desire won out, and Eugene finally agreed to take on the ex-champ again, ready to prove once and for all that he was now the best fighter of his generation. The fight had been a farce. Profit stopped his man within two rounds, before even breaking into a sweat. Only ten minutes after stepping into the ring, he was back in the changing rooms, feverishly searching for a spare dime. By the time he’d been connected to the hotel that was hosting the awards, Elizabeth had left – the ceremony drawing to a close – and had already begun to make her way to the after-party.
She never made it.
Her producer, a ruddy-faced middle-aged gentleman with a passion for film, liquor and fast cars, had escorted her t
o the after-party. Amazingly, even after downing over a quart of scotch, he almost made it. Yet somewhere high up in the Hollywood Hills, the vehicle had lost control, smashed through the side barrier, before plummeting to ground, killing the producer instantly and critically injuring Elizabeth.
Grief-stricken, Profit rushed back home, catching the first flight available – but arrived too late. His wife, the newly crowned queen of Hollywood, died an hour before he reached her.
Torn apart by both grief and guilt, Profit turned his back on the life he had, blaming himself for Elizabeth’s death, and had shunned the world, drawing the curtains of life closed. Until, that is, being discovered by a gangly young black kid named Joseph Ruebins.
Joseph, then just a lanky shadow of what he would become, had found the old fighter in the hope he could convince Profit to return to the world as his coach. It had been a very hard task. At first, the aging ex-pro had flatly refused to answer his door, never mind speak to anyone, particularly this annoying black kid. Still, Joseph had returned first weekly, then daily, before eventually drawing Profit out. They’d simply walked a few blocks at first, giving Joseph time to explain why he’d chosen the old man as a potential mentor.
That was simple: Joseph’s mother had brought the younger, enigmatic and handsome Eugene Profit into Joseph’s world through her passion for the old black and whites – particularly the films starring her idol, Sidney Poitier.
Joseph’s mother had been giving her son her usual monologue, of how brave the young black actor had been to take on such powerful roles at a time when the industry would ordinarily see Joseph’s forefathers as incapable of portraying anything other than bellboys or hoods or servants. Hell, the actor hadn’t even had the right to vote by the time he was receiving his nomination for an Oscar. And Joseph’s mother truly believed that the actor and those as brave as him had been instrumental in their battle for equal rights.
A casual comment about Poitier’s co-star, a beautiful young white girl, had started Joseph on the path to allying himself with the ex-champion of the World.
