“How much?” he asked.
“Sixty large.”
He whistled and I could see his eyes swimming behind his glasses. “What’re you gonna do with it? Run off and start a circus?”
“Never mind what I need it for. You’ll get it back with your interest.”
Danny’s eyes narrowed. “See, I have a problem with anxiety management, and it gets worse when I hear ‘don’t worry about it, Danny. I’ll get it back to you.’ I already have a very strict regimen of pills I’m taking. Prozac, Valium, Lithium.” He began taking out little orange prescription bottles and lining them up on the round table. “I’m trying to balance them out with my alcohol intake. And now you sit down and announce you want sixty thousand from me and won’t tell me what it’s for. Does that seem fair?”
“I’m sorry, Danny. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
But I wasn’t going to tell him about the boxing promotion either. A lot of Danny’s money came from people like Teddy and my father, and I didn’t want Danny telling them what I needed it for. It was bad enough having to sink to these depths. But I didn’t see any other way.
Danny rattled a highball glass with ice cubes in it and asked the waitress for a drink called Sex on the Beach. I just had a beer to settle my nerves. Another bad habit I was falling into.
“Anthony, let me tell you a little story,” said Danny, suddenly sitting upright. “Did you know I used to be a millionaire?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I used to be one of the top bookmakers in Philadelphia,” he said, taking a pill at random from one of the bottles and gulping it down with the drink the waitress brought him. “Every Saturday, I had forty phones ringing with schmucks trying to bet on college football. It was like a disco, everybody mumbling, ‘I gotta get down, gotta get down.’ I hadda start working with another bookie, just so I could lay offsome of the action. Ever see a job opening for a bookmaker? No. Because it’s a great goddamn business, that’s what it is.”
“Look Danny,” I started to say. “All that’s very interesting, but I promise you’ll get your points ...”
He chopped me off with his hand. “Listen, shmendrick, I’m trying to teach you something.” He paused, making sure he had my full attention. “I used to get into these manic phases where I would come down here to Atlantic City and gamble my brains out. I’d play blackjack, roulette, and baccarat, screw fifteen hookers, and then get so drunk I wouldn’t remember any of it.”
“I’m not borrowing money to gamble, Danny.” I smiled.
“Wipe that goddamned smile off your face,” he hissed. For a little guy Danny could be fierce. “I’m trying to tell you how I lost every cent I had and had to go borrow money from your father Vin and Teddy. Do you know what happened when I couldn’t pay it off?”
The question hung in the air between us for a second, and I became aware of the bells ringing and change spilling on the casino floor.
“Your father held me down on the floor by the arms,” said Danny, “and Larry DiGregorio spread my legs. And then Teddy came up and stomped up on my balls.”
I felt my scrotum shrivel.
“Yeah, you don’t know the half of it,” Danny said bitterly. “I was in the hospital a month. They hadda amputate one of my balls because it got gangrenous.” He leaned across the table and blew that parakeet breath of his right in my face. “So I wouldn’t expect much in the way of mercy if I were you, Anthony. Not if you’re thinking about missing a payment. Like I said, it’s a war in here. And in a war people get hurt. Just ask Larry.”
I started to stand up. “So are you going to lend me the money or what?”
“Yeah, I’ll probably spot you some, seeing as you got a house and a cement truck as collateral,” Danny said, scratching the back of his head furiously, like he had fleas. “But it’s a large sum you’re asking for. I wouldn’t just go to one source to get it, like Teddy. I’m learning to diversify. Like in banking. It’s an interesting parallel. The emphasis on paying off interest before the principal. I’ll discuss it with you sometime.”
“Well don’t go telling Teddy or any of the others that I’m looking to borrow all this money.”
If Teddy found out, he’d flatten my head the way he flattened Danny Klein’s ball.
Danny smiled enigmatically. “I know the value of discretion, provided you hold up your end of the bargain.”
“I will.”
“That’s good. Because I’d hate to tell Ted what you’re up to.” His smile faded.
I understood the consequences. I raised my glass for a toast and he clinked it with one of his orange pill bottles.
“By the way,” he said. “I knew your real father.”
“Mike?”
“He was one of my best customers. Never bet with his head when he could bet over it.”
“What do you mean?” I gripped the arm of the bamboo chair.
“I mean, he took a lot of chances,” Danny explained. “He was always overextending himself. Driving a car he couldn’t afford. Living in a house that was too big. Wearing clothes that put him in debt. Mind you, he was never late in paying me. That’s the only reason I’d consider lending you the money.”
I felt like Danny was fooling around with the cords to my heart. “So he was a good guy?”
“He was all right.” Danny shrugged. At that moment, he looked like he could’ve been born shrugging. Like he came out and said, I’m here, Mom, now what am I supposed to do?
“You have any idea what happened to Mike?” I asked.
“Should I know?” Danny shrugged once more. “He was in the war and he got hurt. That happens sometimes when you take too many chances.”
30
MRS. CAMILLE MARINO was having another one of those dreams—the kind in which she was a Miss America contestant and her late son, Charlie, was the pageant host. She was about to kiss his cheek and accept the crown, when a voice from above asked where her husband was.
She opened her eyes slowly and saw a tall, square-headed F.B.I. agent kneeling at her bedside with a gun in his hand. He put a finger up to his mustache and indicated that he wanted her to be quiet. At least six other agents were standing by the open bedroom window with their guns drawn. Curtains flapped in the breeze.
“Just tell us where to find your husband, Mrs. Marino, and no one in your family will get hurt,” said the agent beside her bed.
Camille tried to speak, but no sound left her throat. A scream was stuck in her chest. At this ungodly hour, she didn’t know if she was more traumatized by the agents breaking into her house or losing Charlie again in the dream.
“Come on, Sadowsky, we got him!” called a voice from the other room.
All the agents went rushing into Teddy’s adjoining bedroom. Camille struggled to her feet, found her pink robe and fuzzy slippers, and went in after them. Teddy was down on his knees at the foot of his sofa bed with his hands behind his head. He wore only a striped nightshirt, exposing his big white butt.
“What are you waiting for?” he snarled at Camille. “Call Burt Ryan.”
She saw by the digital clock at his bedside that it was a quarter to six in the morning.
Kathy walked into the bedroom hanging on the arm of a muscular agent, like a lovesick teenager. She had no idea who these men were or what they were doing here, but she was lapping up the attention.
It was all too much for Camille. She sat down on the carpet and put her face in her hands. She heard the agents forcing Teddy into some street clothes as they slapped the handcuffs on him and read him his rights. From what she could understand, they were charging him with some kind of racketeering and tax evasion. She tried to shut out their voices. As far as she was concerned, her husband was in the linen business.
They yanked Teddy to his feet and started to haul him away. She went to the window and looked out. Birds were chirping. At least two dozen reporters and cameramen were gathered on the sidewalk. The TV vans were from as far away as Philadelphia. She turned her h
ead and saw Teddy coming down the front steps. His hands were cuffed behind his back and he was surrounded by eight F.B.I. agents.
Kathy was already standing out by the model of the jockey on the porch, hopping up and down excitedly, like she was seeing her first Easter Parade.
The agents brought Teddy over to an unmarked blue Ford parked by the curb. The swarm of reporters followed as if drawn by magnetic force.
One of the agents put a hand on top of Teddy’s head while another opened the car door. The reporters were murmuring as Teddy looked up and saw Camille watching him from the window.
His face looked dark and haggard. For the first time in years, she felt something for him. But it was only pity.
They forced his head down and shoved him into the car, slamming the door after him. Another agent ran around the front and got into the driver’s seat. The cameramen and reporters closed in around the car windows, but Camille could see from the look on Teddy’s face inside he had nothing to say. The car started suddenly and drove away. A couple of reporters made a halfhearted effort to run after it. Most dispersed to their cars and were gone within two minutes. But Kathy was still jumping up and down on the porch, waving and shouting, “Goodbye, Daddy, goodbye.”
With nothing better to do, Camille wandered back into her bedroom and found her sleep mask. The Valium bottle was still open by her bed. She considered taking one. Or two. Or three. Or why not twelve? But then who would take care of Kathy?
No. Relief wouldn’t come so easily. She was stranded in this life, at least for a while.
She put the sleep mask back on and lay down again. And once more went looking for Charlie in her dreams.
31
WITH THE SIXTY THOUSAND dollars I borrowed from Danny Klein—at three percent interest, due every two weeks—I was finally able to pay for Elijah Barton’s training expenses and sanctioning fees. Eddie Suarez from the boxing federation took his ten thousand with about as much grace as a parking attendant accepting a two-dollar tip. I swore at him under my breath, but we were on the road. And with Teddy getting arrested, I didn’t have to worry about his interference for a few days.
The first thing John B. did was arrange a public workout at the Doubloon, to drum up press and show everyone Elijah was still in good shape.
But when Elijah walked into the Admiral’s Ballroom that mid-August afternoon, I noticed his face looked a little more bloated and bovine than before.
“What’s the matter with him?” I asked John B. as his brother slowly climbed through the velvet ropes of the ring they’d set up. “Has he been mainlining Häagen-Dazs or something?”
John tried to play it off. “No, no, man. That just the way he look when he’s in training. He’s already been sparring awhile. That’s why his face get all puffed up.”
Elijah began to walk in a circle within the ring, like a shaman priest trying to summon the spirit. He wore a long red robe with his name and the words “... Once and Future Champion” in white on the back. A red Everlast head guard covered most of his face like a mask. He shuffled a little as he walked, like a drunken sailor trying to cross the deck on a rainy night. I wondered if I’d made a mistake in borrowing all that money from Danny K.
But it was too late to back out. The sparring partners andtrainers had already been paid off and now gamblers from downstairs were streaming in to take seats in the folding chairs around the makeshift ring.
“You sure he’s not punch-drunk?” I asked John B. quietly.
“He just playin’ possum.”
The first of the young sparring partners climbed into the ring and the bell rang. Elijah shucked off his robe and started bouncing around. Rolls of fat jiggled at his sides. I found myself worrying he wouldn’t make his weight for the fight.
“Sure he’s not eating too much?” I asked John B., who sat next to me in the first row.
“It’s all protein. Brain food. It go right to his head.”
Elijah suddenly lunged forward and swatted his sparring partner with a quick right hand. He seemed more alert now that the bell had rung. The sparring partner danced away from him and bobbed his head from side to side. I noticed this kid was built the same as Terry Mulvehill, the current light heavyweight champ, who we’d be fighting in the fall. Same big head, wide shoulders, and narrow hips. I wondered if Elijah had the strength and stamina to keep up with someone half his age.
“Is he going to be able to defend himself come October?” I asked John.
“Look at his legs,” John said proudly.
I looked at Elijah’s legs. They were like tree trunks. The most powerfully developed part of his body by far. You could break a chainsaw on them.
“Legs like that, he won’t never go down. They’ll keep him standing all night.” John elbowed me.
“Great,” I mumbled. “It’s just the rest of him that’ll get destroyed.”
But I had to admit Elijah was more than holding his own in the ring. He threw a fast jab and a cross combination and then backpedaled in a half-circle. The sparring partner staggered for a moment and had to steady himself against the ropes. It was like a scene from a Bruce Lee movie where the old Kung Fu master teaches his young charge some new tricks. Elijah took a run at the kid and clapped him with a right on the ear as he soared past him. The crowd, which had grown to about one hundred fifty people, laughed and began to applaud.
I started to relax and enjoy my surroundings. The glass chandeliers, the red damask curtains, the gold embroidered wainscoting along the walls. This was where I belonged. Not under some grubby Boardwalk, firing a gun. I fell into a daydream of what it would be like to run a place like this. Men in gray suits running up to ask my opinion about things I didn’t really care about. People at the slot machines taking a break to shake my hand.
But then a side door opened and snapped me out of my reverie. In walked the reigning champ Terry Mulvehill with his father Terrence Sr., who was also his trainer, and a stocky bald white man wearing an expensive suit. Even sitting fifteen yards away, you could feel the heat coming off this Terry. He wore a bright red T-shirt that was straining at the seams, like the manufacturer had never intended for it to be filled with muscles this big. Dreadlocks fell over eyes that didn’t move or widen. His whole presence was like a fist, with all the parts drawn together and clenched for the purpose of annihilating another man. I went back to being nervous about Elijah fighting him.
The white man at his side had a shaved head that gleamed like the tip of a missile. I made him for about fifty years old, but he was bursting with good health. He had the bull neck and rounded torso of a weight lifter and the bearing of a Roman senator. He wore the same double-breasted brown Armani suit that I’d coveted months before in GQ magazine. It grabbed him across the chest and seemed to declare, What a man this is!
“Who’s that?” I whispered to John B.
“That Frank Diamond,” he murmured. “He’s the promoter for the fight.”
“Why haven’t we met him yet?”
“Oh, he’ll go along with the other people we been dealing with ...” But when John swallowed the rest of what he was saying, I knew we had trouble.
The bell rang, signaling the end of the round. Elijah went over to his corner and stood there breathing heavily. Terrence Mulvehill walked across the room to look up at him.
“Old man can’t catch his breath,” he said loudly.
Elijah ignored him and just stared straight ahead with his gloves resting on the top rope.
“I say old man fight like a old woman!!” Terrence taunted him again, even louder this time.
There were scattered giggles in the crowd and then a long silence. Terrence put his hands on his hips and waited for Elijah to respond. You could hear the squeaking sound of people shifting uncomfortably in their seats. I looked over at John B., who had his head bowed. Finally Elijah spit out his mouthpiece and looked down at Terrence at ringside.
“Next time I appreciate if you call me by my proper name,” he said slowly an
d deliberately.
“Kiss my black ass, motherfucker!” Terrence turned back to the spot near the side door where he’d been watching with Frank Diamond the promoter.
The bell rang and Elijah stuck his mouthpiece back in. I realized I was rooting for him in the way I rooted for Vin to get off the barroom floor after he was shot. Elijah walked right to the center of the ring, dropped his hands to his sides, and stood stock-still in front of his sparring partner. It was a defiant gesture, meant more for Terrence Mulvehill than his immediate opponent. Terrence smirked to show he wasn’t impressed.
“C’mon, champ!” John B. shouted. “It’s your show, E.! It’s your show!”
Elijah threw a head fake, offering his chin, but his sparring partner didn’t take advantage of the way he dropped his guard. So Elijah did the head fake again, almost as if he were teaching the kid a lesson. When he did it a third time, the kid hit him squarely on the jaw.
Elijah’s mouthpiece flew out and he fell backwards into the ropes. The crowd gasped as the mouthpiece landed like a bloody grenade on the canvas. He turned halfway toward us, and through his headgear I could see his eyes rolling back in his head. If he wasn’t actually knocked out, he was on his way to oblivion. My future was struggling on the ropes beside him.
“He all right, everything gonna be all right,” John B. mumbled uselessly as he jumped to go help his brother.
“Old man oughta stay in the old man home,” Terrence announced as he turned to leave with his promoter.
32
“CAN I EXPLAIN, TED?” said the attorney named Burt Ryan. “A majority of these lawyers and judges are known as erudite, professorial, ah, ‘egghead’ types. They will not accept words in a brief to the effect, ‘Go fuck yourself!’”
“So don’t do our work then,” said Teddy, leaning forward in the leather armchair. “Don’t do my fuckin’ work.”
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