by Tim Dorsey
Lenny glanced in the rearview. “Mick, you’re smoking my special blend. One part Saskatoon skunk weed that makes you see God; one part Maui-Wowee rad resin weed that makes you see the Devil; one part brown Mexican shake ’n’ bake that just makes you dizzy.”
“Okay, study Clay’s footwork, wearing Sonny down with surgical jabs, barely being touched—shocking the star-studded crowd at the Miami Beach Convention Center, which should be going by right about…”—Serge didn’t look up from the TV as he tapped the window with his pointer—“…now.”
Rusty and Doug saw the convention center pass by.
Serge let the tape run and climbed back up front. “We’re almost there.”
“I still can’t see it,” said Lenny.
“I told you, it’s right there on the corner of Fifth and—Oh, my God! Stop the car!”
“What’s the matter?”
Serge grabbed the dash, staring in horror at a parking lot and some new boutiques. “It’s gone! The whole building! They tore down the Fifth Street Gym!”
“They’re always putting up new things around here,” said Lenny.
“But this place was a shrine. Those great stained-glass windows, the wooden floor consecrated with sweat and blood, the echo of Dundee’s voice in the walls. Someone must pay!”
“What do we do now?” asked Lenny. “This is where Roy said Coltrane would be.”
“The building’s gone, but the boxers aren’t. They had to migrate somewhere. I need to find some Yellow Pages.”
SERGE AND THE gang stood on the corner of Seventh Street, two blocks away, staring up at a garish purple sign. WORLD-CLASS SHOWGIRLS.
“A strip joint?” said Lenny.
“Beside it. That little doorway leading to the upstairs loft.”
They entered a cold, dank concrete hallway with a single naked lightbulb. Serge took out a pocket camera and hit the shutter. The flash lit up a mural of Muhammad Ali. He turned to the other wall and raised his camera again. Flash. An autographed boxing poster for a 1992 light-heavyweight bout, Francisco Harris versus “Marielito” Mickey Rourke.
They trotted up the stairs.
It was a busy room, hot and musty from exertion. Grunting, shoes shuffling, pop-pop-pop on the bags, gongs going off every three minutes.
Serge scanned the room: nobody he recognized. He was about to tap a trainer on the shoulder when he heard a crash behind him in the men’s room. He turned around. There was another crash, like a stack of metal dustpans falling, then a bunch of fluorescent-light tubes bursting. The door opened.
Serge stepped forward. “Coltrane?”
A large man in overalls stumbled toward him. “That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”
“Coltrane, it’s me, Little Serge. Sergio’s grandson.”
Coltrane’s eyes narrowed, then spread. “Little Serge! Great to see you! Pull my finger.”
“Maybe later.”
“I’ll do it,” said Lenny. “What happens?…Ewwwww.”
“What are you doing here?” asked Coltrane, uncapping a flask.
“We need your help.”
“Tell me while we walk. A fighter’s waiting for me.”
“I’m looking into my granddad’s death,” said Serge. “I wanted to know what you remembered. And where I might find the other guys.”
They arrived at the corner of a sparring ring. Coltrane hit the flask again and leaned over the turnbuckle: “Jab with your right, kid. Your right!” He turned to Serge. “Then you want his diary.”
“Diary? What diary? I never heard about any diary.”
“Kept it religiously. A little black one. If someone killed him, their name’s probably in it.”
“So you believed him? You think he really got the jewels?”
Coltrane glanced around. “I wouldn’t talk about that if I were you, even now…. The left, kid! Lead with the left!”
“Know where I can find this diary?”
“Not a clue.”
“Damn.”
“But Moondog does.”
“Really? You wouldn’t happen to know where I can find him?”
“Sure, he’s still living in Overtown. Got his number somewhere here in my wallet…. You realize you’ll be stirring up bad history.”
One of the fighters came over to the corner and pulled off protective headgear.
Serge’s neck snapped back. “You’re a girl!”
“This girl will kick your ass,” said Coltrane. “Carolina, meet Serge. Serge, this is Carolina Garcia-Aguilera.”
Serge extended a hand. “Nice to meet—hold it, not the famous Cuban-American writer!”
“That’s her,” said Coltrane.
“What are you doing boxing?”
“Stress,” she said, unlacing a glove with her teeth.
“Why don’t you spar?” said Coltrane.
“I couldn’t,” said Serge.
Coltrane grabbed a dirty towel and threw it over his shoulder. “Why not?”
“She’s one of my favorites. You know, brain damage and all. I want her to be able to write more books…”
“Wussy,” said Carolina.
“…but I could go a round or two.”
They suited Serge up. Coltrane called instructions from the corner. “Get ready. Here comes the bell….”
Ding.
There was bright light at the end of a tunnel, a voice beckoning: “Serge…Serge…Serge…Are you okay…okay…okay?…”
They sat him up.
“Oh, my God, I’m so sorry!” said Carolina.
“What happened?” said Serge. “Did I win?”
“How many fingers am I holding up?” asked Coltrane.
“Twelve.”
31
1964
T HE SHRILL SCREAMS were unnerving. The gang stared in shock out the crowbar-jimmied door of the monorail at the Miami Seaquarium. Thirty-five feet below: a man writhing on the ground with legs bent in unnatural directions.
Lou sat down and lit a Lucky.
“Jesus! I can’t believe you just threw Joey Asparagus out of the monorail!” said Chi-Chi.
“You want to get paid, don’t you?”
“But this is the Seaquarium!…Look! A crowd’s already gathering.”
“That’s the whole point. We need some talk on the street.”
Sure enough. The street began chattering. The betting parlor on Collins got crowded with people rushing in to pay up, some taking second mortgages.
But not all. Lou led the gang on a merciless reign of terror, doggedly tracking down the remaining deadbeats who had cleared off the beach and were hiding out on the mainland. The gang was as frightened as the victims when Lou got down to business. She was handy with a sap and knew her way around a shiv. There were pistol-whippings, kneecappings, cigarette burns and chicken heads left on doorsteps in the part of town where that sort of thing held sway.
The guys were more than uneasy with the violence, but the increased cash flow limbered up their consciences. These were the good times. Piles of greenbacks all over the betting joint, the gang laughing, thumbing through wads of twenties, smoking cigars, buying new suits, getting the best tables in restaurants. The bulge meant increased tribute to the Palermos. Cops were put on the dole. Everybody was happy.
The gang was a little snockered the night they stumbled down a dock on the Miami River, climbing aboard the fifty-foot sailboat where Lou had requested a late-night rendezvous. They giggled their way across the deck. Then they heard whimpering.
The sound grew louder as the guys worked their way across the stern. They came around the back of the cabin and froze.
“Lou!” screamed Sergio. “Don’t! There’s got to be another way!”
“For the love of Christ!” yelled Chi-Chi.
“You’ve gone too far!” shouted Mort.
“Shut up, you pussies! We’re not running a charity!”
Lou stood at the starboard railing. In front of her, sitting naked with legs hanging over the side o
f the boat, was Frankie Clams. Lou had her gun in his back. Frankie’s feet were encased in blocks of freshly dried concrete.
Lou pushed the barrel into his spine. “See what you get when you fuck with us?”
“Lou! Before it’s too late!” said Greek Tommy.
“He’s into us for ten large!” yelled Lou. “What do you want me to do?”
“I swear I’ll pay!” said Frankie.
“Is that why you were hiding in a washing machine?”
“Lou! We didn’t bargain for this!”
Lou pushed Frankie hard with the gun. His sweaty butt slipped on the side of the boat. He screamed. His frantic wiggling made him slip some more.
The slippage stopped. Frankie was dangling right on the edge now, crying too hard to make words.
“Lou! We’re begging you!”
Lou set the gun down. The gang sighed with relief.
Then she unceremoniously shoved Frankie overboard.
Splash.
They ran to the railing. Frankie was thrashing around. In three feet of water.
Lou leaned over the side. “Pay up by noon tomorrow or we do it again at high tide!”
THE NEXT DAY, a minute before noon. Someone began feeding ten grand under the front door of the bookie parlor; then they heard feet running away.
Lou picked up the money and licked her fingertips.
Celebration time. No more dives for the guys.
The gang arrived in the prestigious Pompeii Room at the Eden Roc.
The seats at the bar were all taken. The patrons saw Lou approaching, and then seats were available. The gang settled in, and the opinion factory opened for business. The Warren Commission was hiding something, the Vietcong wouldn’t last six months, Queen Elizabeth II was pregnant, but who cared?
“Liston takes Clay in two,” said Chi-Chi.
“Will not!” said Sergio.
“Look at the size and power difference,” said Chi-Chi.
“None of that counts anymore,” said Sergio. “I’ve been watching Clay train at the gym. He’s invented this whole new form of boxing that’s going to shake up the world. He told me his plan is to get Liston overconfident.”
“You do not know Cassius Clay!” said Chi-Chi. “Jesus! I can’t tell you how old that’s getting!”
“I was hanging around the gym a few weeks ago. They needed a sparring partner.”
“Wow! You sparred with Clay?” said Mort.
“He did not spar with Clay!”
“Almost beat him.”
“Stop!”
“I’ll prove it,” said Sergio, standing up. “We’re going to go see him.”
The guys paid their tabs. Chi-Chi hopped off his stool. “This I gotta see.”
They piled in the new Mustang and Chi-Chi’s Cadillac and headed thirteen blocks south to the Fifth Street Gym.
“We can just go inside?” asked Mort.
“Of course,” said Sergio, opening the front door and heading up the stairs. “This ain’t no celebrity hangout. It’s a real fighters’ joint.”
They climbed to the second floor. Two bantamweights exchanged uppercuts in the ring. A young fighter from Louisville was off to the side, working on the speed bag. Sergio knelt next to Little Serge and pointed across the room. “See that man over there? That’s the legendary trainer Angelo Dundee. And the fighter next to him won an Olympic gold medal in Rome four years ago. He’s going to be the next heavyweight champion.”
“Okay, you were able to find the gym,” said Chi-Chi. “I’m amazed enough at that. Doesn’t mean you know him.”
“Watch this.” Sergio waved across the gym. “Hey, Cassius!”
Clay slowed his punching rate and looked across the gym in puzzlement, then went back to his workout.
“See?” said Sergio.
“See what?” said Chi-Chi.
“He looked at me.”
“Of course he looked at you. You called his name. He had no idea who you were.”
Moondog tapped Sergio on the shoulder. “Who’s the guy over there in the glasses? He looks familiar.”
“Malcolm X. Another real nice fellow.” Sergio turned and threw a fist in the air. “Malcolm! Bro!”
There was light pedestrian traffic on Fifth Street when the door of the gym flew open and Sergio came tumbling down the steps.
MOONDOG NURSED A Harvey Wallbanger in the corner booth, sitting with the only white people in the club. Dim red light, loud music, laughter.
Moondog pointed with a swizzle stick. “You got quite a shiner there, Sergio.”
“Who would have thought those guys at the gym could get so rough? They were wearing bow ties.” Sergio took a little black book from his shirt pocket and scribbled something.
“Can’t believe you were right about Clay winning tonight,” said Moondog.
“It was a sure thing. Sonny’s a bone-crusher, Clay’s a boxer. The boxer always wins.”
The house band launched into a number by the Coasters. Lou stubbed out a cigarette and got up. “I see someone I know.”
“This place is really jumping,” said Sergio. He looked to his side. “You having fun, Little Serge?”
Little Serge nodded, holding his Shirley Temple with both hands.
Moondog signaled a waitress for another round. Sergio grabbed the pack of matches out of the ashtray and turned it over: THE KNIGHT BEAT. LIVE MUSIC. OVERTOWN. Little Serge finished his drink and jumped out of his chair. He ran down an aisle, then back to the table, then down the aisle.
“Should he be doing that?” asked Moondog.
“Has a little trouble sitting still,” said Sergio. “He’ll tire eventually.”
“You and the kid sure are spending a lot of time,” said Moondog.
Little Serge crawled under someone else’s table.
“It’s up to two or three days a week,” said Sergio. “At first I thought it was going to cramp my style, but I’m having a blast! He’s just like his granddad, loads of natural charisma. You should have seen how the strippers took to him the other night.”
“Now he’s out on the dance floor,” said Moondog.
“He likes to dance.”
“He’s not dancing. He’s just running real fast in a little circle.”
“It makes him happy. The others seem to be getting a kick out of it.”
Sergio was drowned out by wild applause sweeping the room. The dim lights lowered even more. A soft spotlight came on, and an emcee announced the main act. Little Serge ran back and jumped on Sergio’s lap.
A handsome young man took the stage and grabbed the bulky steel microphone off the stand.
“Sergio, uh, I don’t know how to bring this up,” said Moondog. “I don’t want to meddle, especially when it’s another’s man’s…”
Sergio slowly bobbed his head as he watched the performer. “What is it?”
“It’s Lou,” said Moondog. “I mentioned her name to a few of the fight guys. There are some pretty wild stories circulating.”
“Like what?”
“Everyone she dates ends up dead. She’s getting quite a reputation.”
“Oh, that. Lou told me all about it. A bunch of coincidences. Said not to listen if I heard any of the talk.”
“Darling, youuuuuuuuu send me…”
“If you ask me, she’s nothing but trouble,” said Moondog.
“We’re in love,” said Sergio. “She wants to get married.”
“Then what’s she doing dancing with that guy?”
Sergio strained his neck toward the dance floor. “You mean Desmond? They’re old friends. She told me all about him, too. Strictly platonic.”
Moondog watched Lou platonically tongue-wrestle Desmond in front of the bandstand.
Sergio looked around the room. “The women really like this singer. Listen to that shrieking. It’s like back at the hotel with the Beatles. Who is he?”
“…Youuuuuuuuu send me…”
Moondog stirred the cubes in his drink. “New guy. Sam C
ooke or something.”
32
Present
F OUR MICHIGAN STATE alums sat at the bar in the Hotel Franklin, the door open to the beach air and sidewalk scene. Clocks for different international cities on the wall: Tokyo, London, Cairo. A green financial ticker ran under the TV set.
“Gimme a dollar.”
They turned.
“Uh-oh.”
Action 5 News came on. A report out of Orlando.
TELEVISION VANS CONVERGED on the courtyard outside a towering office complex in downtown Orlando. A stage and a microphone. The audience was already in place. A big, happy press conference about to get under way.
Elevator doors opened on the ground floor of a modern steel-and-glass building. Television lights came on. A dozen armed guards precision-marched through the lobby, escorting a man in a gray suit, Brian Levy, cofounder of Strauss & Levy Accounting. Levy held a metal box by the handle. It was handcuffed to his wrist. The marketing people had told him to do that. He stopped at the main guard station to shake hands with security officer Charley Pavlic, for the benefit of the cameras.
Levy arrived at the stage and made some brief remarks, thanking his employees, the press, and all the good people at McDonald’s. “Now, the moment you’ve been waiting for…” One of the guards gave a command into a walkie-talkie.
Twin columns of motorcycle cops came around the corner, leading a convoy of ten identical armored cars. More police held up traffic as the trucks backed up to the courtyard, forming a perfect row. The drivers kept the engines running. The guard on the passenger side of each vehicle got out, walked to the rear bumper and stood at attention.
“Eenie, meenie, miney, mo!” Levy pointed at one of the trucks. The guard unlocked the gun-ported doors, revealing thousands of McDonald’s paper soda cups ready for shipping to restaurants across the country.
Levy opened the metal box on his wrist with a big gold Ham-burglar key and took out an identical cup. He held it in the air. “The one-million-dollar winner of McDonald’s Instant-Peel Contest, with thousands of other instant prizes including jet skis, minibikes, Bic Macs, fries and Happy Meals. See stores for details. Good luck, America!”
