Maddog 1 The Begining

by Tom Golabek

I awoke with the sunlight from the window hitting me square in the kisser. Lola was still out like a log, sprawled across the bed with her cuddly, nude body on top of me. I squeezed my arm from under her breasts, lifted her leg, and pushed her shoulder off of mine. She rolled over still sleeping like a baby as I eyed her succulent body, savoring over the memories of last night. Ahhh yes, last night! Lola was pretty dizzy, but she knew how to treat a man. Needless to say, that’s one of the reasons I loved her.

  Knowing that there was plenty of choice grub in the kitchen, my stomach grumbled in want of some chow. Trying to diminish my hunger until I got to the refrigerator, I chewed on a smoke from the pack lying beside the bed, lit it, and shuffled to the kitchen.

  Besides being a marginal secretary, a wonderful piece of recreation, and a good companion, she was an excellent food shopper…at least for me. I pulled out a couple of pans, and fired up the stove.

  The smell of bacon, eggs, bologna, and home fried potatoes cooking, must have reached her, as she came staggering out with the look of hunger in her eyes. We dug in, and made with the usual small talk while slugging down the Java. I told Lola, I wasn’t going to make it to the office, and for her to hang loose there in case anything came up.

  After chow, we threw the dishes into the sink, walked to the bedroom, and got dressed. For the first time in two years, Lola finished dressing before I did. It was hard to call her dressed though, because her hem line was a good eight inches above her knees, nothing covered her back, and the “V” between her boobs drove half way to her belly button. I wondered what the hell held them up. The velvety smoothness of her dress left little to be imagined. We walked out of the apartment, hopped into the car, and headed uptown.

  I dropped Lola at the office then headed for Luigi’s Barber Shop on South Broadway by Getty Square. There weren’t any other customers in the joint, so I picked up the newspaper, and piled into the chair. Luigi had his Italian music blasting out of a small radio in the corner. I showed him my teeth, and he shuffled to the squawk box to lower the volume. I leaned back in the chair, and looked at the headlines. The war in Viet-Nam covered most of the front page. Luigi began clipping my locks, as I flipped to the next page.

  On page two, I saw the headline, Dennis Chiulli, fight promoter… MURDERED.

  I had to re-read the headline four times to make sure that I had read it correctly. The column went on to state that he was shot twice in the heart with a .44 magnum in his own home. I looked at the date at the top of the page, which showed this was yesterday’s paper. This meant that he was dead when I got the fight tickets in the mail. He must have sent them out just before he died. The article went on to mention that he was the promoter of the heavyweight championship fight being held tonight, and that the police were underway with a full-scale investigation.

  Dennis was the kind of guy who would give his shirt away to anyone who needed it. I knew he had a wife and kid who loved him very much.

  I heard a “Datsa finisho,” peeked into the mirror, flipped Luigi a fiver, and walked out the door into the sunshine.

  The story I read about Dennis was on my mind while I drove further uptown to the tailor shop.

  When I reached Lockwood Avenue, I hooked a right, and pulled to the curb. Across the street, in a shabby run down building, was a tailor that fitted suits better than those thieves did on Fifth Avenue. You know what they say, “You can’t judge a book by its cover.”

  I jumped out of my heap, and trudged to the shop. This tailor could rig a jacket so well that a couple of Feds couldn’t tell if I was packing a rod. He sized me up, and said he’d have it ready in a couple of days, which was good, but I felt worse when he told me I had put another inch on my gut. It was time to cut down on the chow again, which was harder for me than knocking off a Mafia Don.

  I walked out the door, piled into the car, and headed for home mulling over various diet plans.

  The first thing I did when I got to the apartment was to phone Lola telling her to taxi her sweet ass home, and prepare for tonight. She was one of those dames who take half an hour to put on her earrings.

  I took my clothes off, and hit the shower. I knew that if Lola got in it before me, I wouldn’t have the time to take one. By the time I got out, my sweetie had just come in the door, gave me a big kiss, then headed to the bedroom to get undressed, and shower while I cooked up some chow.

  Twenty minutes later supper was ready, and I yelled for her. The doll came out to the table with a bright pink towel wrapped around her. What a dame! She teased me every minute she could. I sat across from her munching on something, and not taking my eyes off the flesh that was squeezed out of that skimpy towel. She looked luscious and ripe, but if we were going to the fights, we had to get moving. After supper, she slipped back into the bedroom to dress. I pulled another Bud out of the refrigerator, lit up a smoke, and took it easy on the couch. When she came out an hour later, my eyes must have popped out about six inches because she started laughing at the way I looked at her. I stared at the short, tight baby blue suit she wore, licked my lips, and wished the fight was tomorrow night.

  An hour after that, we finally walked out the door, hit the elevator, and made it across the lobby where I could see the “Wish I were you” on the doorman’s face as he eyeballed Lola.

  As we walked down the block to where I left the car yesterday, I chuckled to myself when we passed the alley where the lovers were.

  We hopped into the heap, started up the powerhouse, and headed downtown through the thick traffic. It seemed like everybody and their brothers were going to Manhattan tonight. At least twenty two thousand of them were headed for “The Garden.”

  Driving toward the world-renowned arena, I saw seven or eight posters promoting the fight reading:

  Rocky Ragino vs. “KO” Krasinski

  Madison Square Garden 10 p.m.

  Seats: $8, $15, $40, $100

  Rocky was the champion, and an excellent boxer. However, the challenger Krasinski was my pick all the way. They didn’t call him “KO” because he kissed his mother Goodnight. The big Pole won thirty-six out of thirty-seven pro bouts with thirty of them by knockouts. This guy had “cement block” fists with a brick jaw to boot. Krasinski stood six three, two hundred and thirty pounds, which was one inch and ten pounds over Ragino…and me!

  I parked the car three blocks past “The Garden,” and fought the crowd all the way back. Lola was pretty excited as I had only taken her to one fight before, and that one looked like a ballet. I showed the gatekeeper our tickets, and forged on into the huge arena with Lola’s arm tight under mine. The crowd was packed like sardines waiting for the fight to start. We gulped down a couple of dogs, and headed for our seats.

  The usher laid the seats down, dusted them with his rag mitten, and took off when I handed him a buck. We were sitting about fifteen rows back from the ring in the champion’s corner.

  I felt a streak of anger run through me as I thought of Dennis’ murder. Here I was, about to watch the fight he had promoted, with the tickets he had sent me, and he was lying in a coffin with a couple of holes in him.

  The lights over the ring brightened to an intense glow, and the announcer strutted to the middle of the ring as the pre-fight ceremonies began. Some of the greats walked up to the stage…Joe Diaz, Jay “The Singer” Dawson, “Big Fist” Goma, and many other greats of the boxing world. The crowd started to become restless, and so did I as the ex-champions exited the ring. There were cheers from far behind us, and everybody in the section stood to get a look at what the cheering was about. Coming down the aisle near us was the champ. His face looked like it had gone through a meat grinder, and put back together not too carefully. He was uglier than me and probably tougher as well. I don’t say that lightly!

  Cheers now came from the other side of the arena. A few seconds later, the crowd parted, and down the aisle came “KO.” He jutted through the ropes, and faced the man he was
going to fight.

  The seats we had were good, but not the best. I took a pin from Lola, squeezed out my little orange press card, pinned it to my canary yellow blazer, and dragged her up to a couple of vacant ringside seats. I guess they were the seats reserved for Dennis and his wife. As soon as we moved out, a couple of kids moved into ours.

  It was a lot better with the ring no more than ten feet away from us. The boxers looked in A-1 condition as they shook hands in the middle of the ring. Light reflected off of “KO’s” glistening body. Ragino bounced in place. They listened to the ref as he gave the last minute instructions that they had heard so many times before.

  The cigarette smoke was already filling the arena so that you couldn’t even see the opposite wall. The fighters returned to their corners, and received their final orders from their trainers. The bell rang, and the fans jumped into the air. “KO” came out of his corner strong and fast, and landed a couple of quick beauties that momentarily staggered the champ. A few more blows were exchanged and “KO” had the first round chalked up for him when the bell finally rang.

  In the second round, Ragino connected with several hard left jabs. Krasinski landed a hard left cross, and a blistering right uppercut to send Rocky onto his back for an eight count. It stunned the champ, and he spent a few seconds on “Weird Street.” By the time round two ended, Ragino had a mouse over his right eye, and appeared slower.

  As the bell rang to begin the third round, “KO” suddenly appeared weak, and staggered out of his corner. His face revealed he was experiencing some kind of torturous pain. He stood in the middle of the ring with his hands at his sides. “KO” stood there totally defenseless. Ragino threw a powerful left, and the challenger looked up to the ring lights, opening his mouth as if to scream, but no sound came out. The referee realized that something was seriously wrong, yelled a few words over to the ring doctor, but before the doc could respond “KO” keeled over, and hit the canvas like a rock. The sardines in the seats yelled and booed as they stood waiting and watching. “KO” was carried out of the ring on a stretcher. The crowd continued their mumbling and grumbling.

  After a few minutes, the announcer pulled down the microphone from the ceiling, and darted some words into it. As if to hear God speak, the crowd suddenly dropped to their seats. Silence fell over the arena. The announcer repeated what he had said. It was hard to believe. KRASINSKI WAS DEAD! After that, I don’t recall what else was said through the sound system. I looked around me at the women sobbing, the men with sorrowful faces, and the abundance of blank looks and stares. Next to me, Lola was crying, and trying to hide it. I found it difficult to understand what had just happened.

  A couple of seconds later, a loud booming explosion erupted behind me. A bomb had detonated, and two rows of seats were spread over the section with at least six bloody bodies as well. Through the smoke and debris, I saw an arm without a body, blood spewing from the neck of a man standing motionless…a blank stare on his face, and the remains of a woman’s head. Her blond hair was now a burnt crisp. People ran, crawled, and limped away from the scene. The smell of burning flesh, and ignited explosives filled the air. The concussion blast deafened my right ear. I could barely hear the screams of the crowd. Dust rained over the arena seats, spectators clothing, and the bodies of the unfortunate victims. Lola was knocked to the floor, a trickle of blood from her cheek caused by flying shrapnel. She was OK though. I picked her up, and helped her to a seat a section away.

  The center of the blast came from approximately fifteen rows back on the champ’s corner, which coincidentally was where Lola and I were supposed to be sitting.

  People were scrambling around in a panic thinking that the “Mad Bomber” had returned to New York City. Moments later the police moved in, and were doing a poor job of doing whatever they were supposed to be doing.

  Was somebody out to kill me here? I had too many enemies to pinpoint any one person or group. They numbered over a hundred. Why didn’t they come out and fight me like men? No, they had to take out six or more innocent people who came here tonight to enjoy themselves. Only I, and whoever was trying to kill me, knew who that bomb was meant for, if that was the case.

  First, the promoter of the fight was killed. Then the thug with the .38 tries to nail me. “KO” dies in the ring with barely getting hit. Then somebody blows up half a section where I was supposed to be sitting. It might have been a coincidence, but things smelled very fishy to me.

  Medics, firemen, and the N.Y.P.D. Bomb Squad were filing in.

  I dropped Lola a “ten spot,” told her to beat it out of here, and take a cab home.

  MIKE MURDOCK was going to look into this.

  * * *

  CH 4 “Putting on the Squeeze” in the Locker Room.