Pound for Pound

by F. X. Toole

  Chicky picked it up. Two words, “DAN COOLEY,” were scrawled large.

  “That’s for Mr. Cooley,” Eloy said. “Don’t you never open it before you give it to him, hear?”

  Chicky said, “You’ll give it to him yourself. We’ll get you fixed up and I’ll take you on back to L.A. with me.”

  Eloy dismissed the idea, turning down his mouth. He spoke formally. “You don’t open the envelope, understand?”

  “Yessir.”

  Eloy struggled to get the words out. “You put it in Mr. Cooley’s hand directly. You say it is from me. Use my name, say the Lobo Tejano sent ‘em, Eloy Garza, you understand?”

  “Simón,” Chicky said, but uppermost in his mind was how to keep his granddaddy alive.

  Eloy said, “Coach Oster’s helped me with my paperwork, and all. The ranch’ll be yours to do what you want with. There’s some money left if you want to jump-start it after fightin.”

  “I only care about getting you back in the saddle.”

  “And I only care about you.”

  Eloy died in the night. His legs were off the bed, but bent up underneath him, as if he was trying to beat the count. Chicky had Eloy’s rosary and funeral mass held at the little carrot-colored brick church of St. Philip Binizi in Poteet. Eloy went into the ground next to his Lolita, at the First Memorial Cemetery, where there were names like von Uffen, de la O, and Indian Pete. Chicky wept openly as he sprinkled dirt on the coffin, bronze and snazzy, an image of Our Lady of Guadalupe etched the length of the lid. Inside was Chicky’s 30 X El Patron.

  “Don’t forget me, Grandpa,” said Chicky. “Be good to him, Virgencita,” he added, touching the image of Guadalupe. He looked heavenward. “Have mercy on him, Lord. On him and on me.”

  Chicky wondered where all this would take him. He thought of the Cavazo brothers and Psycho Sykes. He thought of his passbook. He clenched his teeth and felt rage run through him like a powerful electric current.

  Chapter 36

  Sitting by himself in his office, Dan listened to the two short tapes that he’d found in the package Chicky had brought from the Lobo Tejano. Eloy had recorded them on a mini-cassette recorder he had borrowed from Coach Oster.

  The voice on the tape frequently faltered, and Dan realized that Eloy was often turning away to cough and hack things up, but the words came from a soul so long without God that even Dan, despite himself, felt a chill.

  “Dear Mr. Cooley. This here’s Eloy Garza. Used to be the Texas Wolf, remember me? No wolf no more.

  “I was afraid of you, Mr. Cooley, and I wronged you. See, I didn’t think I could beat you. So when a way come to me outside the rules to get at you, I took it. I never shouldda done it, but I did. It’s ‘cause I wanted so bad to be champion. But I stole my title shot from you, so it never done me no good. You know how I got whipped.

  “See, what I did, I let the Cavazo brothers take the padding across my knuckles out from the inside of my gloves. That’s how come I was able to bust you up. Afterward, the glove guy at the Olympic switched good gloves for mine, so nobody’d know. For a price.” On the first tape, Eloy explained that he had bought the farm just before his fight with Dan. He was flushed with confidence after all his wins as a barnstorming young boxer fighting his way across northern Mexico, through Texas, and west to New Mexico, north to Nevada, and west again out to California. He hadn’t started to make real money until he hooked up with the Cavazos, and when he did, he thought he’d died and gone to heaven.

  From the time he was a boy, he’d worked the fields, but he’d also, with his daddy’s help early on, raised ganado, cattle. Cattle money, along with money he’d earned in the ring, had helped him buy the farm in Poteet. After the ass whipping he took in his shot at the title, he’d retired from the ring to raise strawberries full-time.

  But now, he admitted, there was very little left of the farm, and nothing left of him, only shame and the expectation of a slow liver death. The farm had been good—he’d built it with his own hands from a weedy field into acres of something respectable.

  But there was that one moment of traición in Los Angeles when he’d bought Trini’s guarantee for a win over Dan Cooley, that moment of treachery to steal a title shot when he’d sold his huevos, when he’d become un vendido. The way Trini had put it, Eloy could slip around behind the rules—it was just once, after all—and then he could go back to being the same man he’d always been.

  There was a long pause at the end of the tape. In the background Dan could hear some noise. Maybe a toilet flushing, he thought. Then Eloy came back on.

  “I can’t ask you for forgiveness, Señor Cooley. I can’t lay it all on Trini or Paco. Hell, I coulda said no to the whole damn thing. Or I could have told you a long time ago.”

  Eloy was wracked by a spasm of coughing before he could continue.

  “Course I knew, and all these years I ain’t ever been able to live it down. You’da had me out in four rounds if I hadn’t done what I did. You’da clean knocked out the champ. Yessir, I’m who ruined your life, Mr. Cooley, I took the title from you before you ever even got your shot. But I want you to know that I ruined myself, too. It don’t matter about me. I got what I had comin. But not you. You deserved better. I acted yeller, Mr. Cooley. I tried not to own up to it forty years now, ‘cause I couldn’t face it like the man I once was, like the man my Chicky is.

  “God bless you for what you done for him. And please forgive me for what I done to you, if you can, for I am dreadful sorry for it. Please, sir.”

  Dan sat silently for five minutes, and then his laugh came out like a bark. There was glee in it, not fury and spite, no desire to desecrate the Wolf’s grave. “Yes! They had to cheat me to beat me, the sonsabitches! I was hard enough! I’da won the goddamn title, I’da won three fookin titles!”

  Dan felt no bitterness toward Eloy. Instead, he wished he could call him and thank him for telling the truth, for letting him know at last, but of course it was too late for that. He wanted to pray for Eloy, too, but he couldn’t do that, either.

  Dan played Eloy’s second tape.

  “It’s me again, Mr. Cooley. It’s about Chicky getting a shot at Psycho Sykes. No way’ll he fight a southpaw, and no way’ll the Cavazos let him fight somebody with a good record. And no way’ll they fight Chicky Garza. What you gotta do is turn Chicky Irish. You know how light-skinned he is. See, his other family name is Duffy, comes from the Irish side that goes way back.

  “And switch Chicky to a right-hander, too. Dye his hair blond or red. Call him Irish Eddie Duffy.

  “It’s just a idea, and I don’t wont seem like I’m buttin in. But I know you could switch the kid to the other side if anybody can. Just three, maybe four rounds of it. Once everyone’s into the fight, and maybe it looks like Sykes is winnin, let Chicky switch back to lefty. I don’t see it as too tricky a deal, but Sykes and the Cavazos won’t know they been reamed until it’s too late. I wont ‘em reamed, Mr. Cooley. Wont ‘em reamed bad, both the Cavazos and Sykes, too.

  “So you’ll know, and Chicky, too, if you let him hear this here tape, Trini and Paco stole Chicky’s passbook, and that’s how they kept him out of the Texas Regionals so Sykes could win. I knew about it, but kept my trap shut ‘cause I was afraid for Chicky, but most ‘cause I was a fuckin’ coward. Sykes won from my kid on a walkover, and went on to the Nationals, but Sykes couldn’t make it to the Olympic team. Chicky wouldda won the pinche Olympics.

  “I can only imagine how low you think I am by now, but this is my last chance to square things, so I’m pukin it out.

  “Que Dios te bendiga, may God bless you. Thank you again for what you’re doin for my kid. I just hope you can, well, you know, maybe not think too bad of me.

  “Adiós … old … friend.”

  Eloy’s voice held until the end, then broke just before he hit the stop button.

  Dan made up his mind right after the second tape finished. Chicky had no need to know about any of Eloy’s confession, how th
e Cavazo brothers had screwed him, then screwed Chicky all those years later. The passbook scam—all that was in the past and nothing could be done about it now. Chicky was riled up enough about Sykes; telling him how he had been screwed was just going to make the boy crazy. And that was the last thing anybody needed. It was going to be hard enough to pull it off. He needed a fighter who could think, not a fighter who would go into the ring like some mad bull.

  Eloy had given him the answer. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced it would work. He began to lay out a plan, first about how much to tell Chicky, then about the Wolf’s idea. He wondered if Earl would buy into it. Wondered if Earl should know anything about what was on the first tape. Not now, he decided. Maybe someday, and only if he couldn’t avoid sharing Eloy’s shame with his partner.

  Dan stood up and put both tape cassettes on the floor. He stomped on them, crushing the black plastic. Then he stripped out the tangle of brown tape. He scooped up the wreckage. Later tonight he would take some gas, douse the tapes, and set them on fire. For the moment he stuffed them in the bottom drawer of his desk.

  Suddenly the familiar pain knifed through him. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath and felt dizzy. Ah God, not now, Dan thought. He sat down in his chair and inhaled—long, slow breaths through his nose. Then he breathed out through his mouth, letting it come out in a gentle stream, his lips pursed as if he were whistling. He gripped his left wrist in his right hand and took his pulse. It was high, skipping beats. Kogon had warned him about arrhythmia. Not a good sign. He forced himself to continue the breathing exercise until his pulse rate slowed down and the dizziness seemed to recede. But when he stood up, he took two steps before he collapsed back into the chair. Not now, damnit! Not now! Give it time. Buy time.

  Dan walked down the stairs clutching the railing. Chicky was sitting on a wooden crate, looking out into space. When he saw Dan, he jumped up.

  “What …?”

  Dan held up his hand.

  “Sit down and listen up. Your grandpa told me all about the bad luck you had, how they lost your passbook and then this bum Sykes got a walkover. You want another shot at Sykes?”

  “Sure do! But how’s that goin to happen?”

  “Well, Eloy just told me how!”

  Dan cleared out the gym, sent the other fighters off to work elsewhere, and began to train Chicky to fight from the right. The switch was smooth and quick. Now that he had someone who knew how to teach him the science of it, Chicky’s feet began to make the right moves without his mind even having to think about it. Momolo was there to spar with him, run with him, cheer him on.

  Two months later, Dan took Earl off to the side. “It’s now, or never, what do you think?”

  “It’s now.”

  Dan and Earl put Chicky into a half dozen fights, spacing them a month to two months apart, depending on the competition. Most of them were down in Mexico, two in Colorado. No fight tapes. Each fight was tougher than the last. The last of the six was a ten-rounder that only went eight. Chicky won them all, three by KO, which gave him a record of only five and three, but his real pro record added up to fifteen and three, and eleven KOs. Chicky fought four more ten-round fights as Eddie Duffy. Dan’s instructions were to go for decisions instead of knockouts.

  “Too many KOs and Sykes’ll duck us.”

  Following Eloy’s scheme, Chicky would eventually be able to meet Sykes for a NABF title, a minor title, but one that would position him subsequently for one of the three majors, WBC, WBA, IBF. But having a plan was one thing; making it work was something else.

  Jolly Joe would be able to justify Chicky’s “official” record, should there be an inquiry of some kind. Seldom are there inquiries when the underdog whips the favorite.

  Aside from going “Irish,” Chicky covered himself with removable tattoos. Stars, snakes, panthers, barbed wire around his biceps, a devil’s head, etc. And fake body jewelry in his ears and navel. For his fights, he colored his hair green. He wore a Kelly green robe, with a golden harp on the back—the real Irish flag. White fans, especially the Irish, were thrilled, and younger fans of all colors loved him for his outlandish look.

  Jolly Joe of the Commission agreed to look the other way after Dan told him about his plan and how Chicky had been set up. The Commission is required to reveal a fighter’s real name to the opponent only if the opponent requests it. Virtually no one ever asks for real names, since the press usually puts them out. But because Chicky had had so few stateside fights before the Sykes fight, and would be seen as an “opponent,” the press would not catch on until after the sting had stung. Dan roped in Louie Carbajal to serve as a cutout. It wasn’t hard to persuade him after Dan promised Louie the lion’s share of the money if “Eddie Duffy” won. Chicky Garza had become a nonperson.

  The Cavazo brothers were lured to California on the premise that Eddie Duffy had limited experience, because of the big payday, and because Carbajal, promoter of record, was raza. When they first spoke by phone, Carbajal had driven up from Tijuana and was calling from Dan’s office.

  “Un maiate y un gabacho,” should draw a big crowd. “Otherwise I wouldn’t make the fight. Blacks want another Hurricane Carter, and the Irish are crazy for a new Billy Conn. The rest of the card’ll be mejicano.”

  Trini said, “So is it kike or dinge money behind you? Maybe drug money out of Culiacan?”

  Louie laid it on, his background information on the Cavazos and Sykes coming from Chicky. “Forty percent my money, but I got the other sixty from gangster Irish guys and their lawyers, who want to take over boxing from the prietos and judíos.”

  Trini went for it. “I got me two Texas white asses back here that want the same thing for Texas.”

  Louie said, “Then you know what I’m talking about. Pendejos.”

  “Fuckers don’t even know when they’re getting fucked, ése. But listen, fifty thousand isn’t enough for my boy, not with his name. We gotta have more. And I gotta check out Duffy’s record, right?”

  “Why not?” Louie said. “And maybe the two of us can share the salsa, know what I mean? But that’s just between you and me, eh?”

  “Claro.”

  “But Sykes can’t fuck around or foul out on me, or it’s my head in my ass with these micks, ¿comprendes?” You understand? “For these Irish hijos de la chingada, he’s got to fight a huevo.”

  “The nigga’ll fight, all right,” Trini assured him. “He knows what’ll happen to his dick if he don’t. Listen, oye, can you get me ninety?”

  “Tal vez.” Maybe.

  “Give me your phone number,” Trini said, “and I’ll get back to you about Duffy’s record. If it’s what you say, we’ll do business.”

  Louie hung up and shook hands with Dan, who’d been listening to Louie’s side of the conversation. Louie said, “He’s all shit, pura mierda, like you say.”

  Dan loved it—the icing on the cake. The fight would take place in L.A. Full circle. The Wolf would have been pleased.

  With Dan and Earl backing Louie, and putting up all the money for personal expenses and Sykes’s big purse, the fight was made for the Olympic Auditorium at sixty-five thousand dollars for Sykes, plus ten thousand dollars for training expenses, under the table to Trini, that was to be split with Louie. Sykes would never know about the “training expense.” And Chicky would never know that Dan and Earl were putting up most of their savings plus a secured loan from the Bank of California. They were literally betting the business on Chicky’s winning.

  Chicky would get twenty-five. “I’d fight him for free, just to get my teeth into him.”

  “Naw,” Earl said. “A man works, a man gets paid.”

  Chapter 37

  Dr. Kogon, Earl, and Chicky were standing in the hall when Father Joe came toward them carrying a small, black, leather-covered case.

  “I would have come sooner, but the housekeeper at the rectory doesn’t always get messages to me on time. Guess she thinks us old retired guys shouldn�
��t be disturbed.”

  “Well, padre, we just thought …” Chicky began to explain.

  “Dan isn’t doing so well, Father,” Kogon said. “We expect a certain percentage of patients to have a rough time after a quadruple bypass. But Dan’s problem isn’t physical, as far as we can tell. The psychological part of it is another matter. He went into a depression after the angioplasty. This is different. He just isn’t fighting—and if he doesn’t fight, we can’t win.”

  It was nine days after the match with Sykes. Dan had been in intensive coronary care for six days after the bypass operation. He was now in a private room on the coronary-surgery floor.

  “I understand. I have seen this before, many times,” Father Joe said with a sigh. “But is he willing—prepared?” Earl rubbed his eyes; he had not clocked a lot of sleep in the last forty-eight hours.

  “Prepared. Well, I don’t know. But what he needs is sumpin they don’t have here.”

  Kogon simply nodded his head in agreement and left.

  “You must understand,” Father Joe said quietly. “This is also a sacrament of healing for many. But only if there is a desire to be healed.”

  He turned away and went through the door into Dan’s room. The blinds were halfway closed, leaving the still figure on the high hospital bed in a kind of twilight. Above the bed was a bank of monitors, green traces running across the screens. In a kind of counterpoint, a faint but regular beeping noise could be heard in the background.

  Dan’s eyes were closed. An IV bottle was hanging on a stand with a clear plastic tube leading into a butterfly needle in Dan’s arm. Another tube was feeding oxygen into Dan’s nostrils.

  Father Joe pushed aside a carafe of ice water on the top of the table beside the bed. Slowly unzipping his case, he removed two candles and a container of oil for anointment. Before he could remove all of the contents, Dan’s eyes suddenly opened. A prayer to the Blessed Mother went through the priest’s mind: “Be with us … nunc et in hora … now and at the hour of our death.”