He hit the heavy bag in lethal combinations. Left, left,
left, right, uppercut. Sweat dripped off of him in a torrent as he banged the
bag into submission. His shoulder ached with all the fires of hell. He couldn’t
talk about it. He couldn’t complain. Nobody would give a damn. He was just
meat. Meat don’t talk. Meat don’t bitch. Meat just got et. Just the same as it
had always been.
“Time” called out one of his corner men. Joey Pollino had
been with him the longest out of them. He trusted him if he trusted anybody in
his corner. He hadn’t been happy ever since he had to drop Joey Pep because the
government and the NAACP came after him. Pep had his best interest at heart. He
thought him how to fight. How to move and stick the jab. When to go in to
finish them off. The official things. Joey Po taught him how to rub his laces
in the eyes or the soft skin to start a cut. How to push his opponents head
into his shoulder where he had put his special ointment so they couldn’t see.
How to stomp on his foot and hook his trunks to get in close to pound the
kidney. Joey Po was the one who taught him what he needed to know.
Still he missed Joe Pep the most. He trusted him. He knew
the real deal. He dealt with Mr. Palermo and Mr. Carbo. He protected him. Now
he was gone and he was adrift.
He stepped down off of the platform and took a ragged towel
off a hook. He rubbed his shoulder without conscious thought and when he
realized it he stopped. He looped the towel around his neck and walked toward
the speed bag. He had dropped the training gloves and would hit the bag with
just his wrapped hands. He could make the bag sing just like the old days in
the joint where he first took up the game.
“Champ take a break for a minute would ya” whispered Joey
from a throat that took many shots in his own time in the ring. “There are a
couple of guys to see you in the office.” That couldn’t be good. Nobody came to
see him. The press hated him. They didn’t want to write about him. When they
did they called him names. Bear. Monkey. Gorilla. He wouldn’t stop training for
some bullshit interview. So it had to be something else.
Sure nuf when he got to the office he could see it was
bad. Joey Pep was there. With another
cracker in a silk suit. Not a guinea. That Jew from Vegas. Ash Resnick. The
boys are sending a message. They always send a jew to do the dirty work.
“Hey Champ how ya doing” shouted the laughing fat man.
Resnick was a good time Charlie. He was the one who invented bringing the High
Rollers to Vegas and fleecing them with a smile. He was as connected as a man
could be without being made. “I wanted to stop by and see how the training is
going.” He chuckled at a joke only he understood. He did that a lot.
“That ain’t the real reason Ash. He deserves to get it
straight” rasped Joe Pep. He looked at him and shook his head sadly. “It ain’t
gonna happen son. The word came down. It’s the other guy.”
His mind reeled. He couldn't believe it. “I can take that nigger. He ain’t nuthun.”
“I know Champ I know” oozed the fat man. “But this was
decided way over our heads. Blinky spoke up for you but they told him to
shaddup. You can make it look good but you still gotta go down. After the
sixth. Don’t worry you are getting a rematch. It can all change. Plus I will
lay some dough down for you. Big bucks for a Big Buck. Ha! You ain’t gonna get
hurt. You gonna see a pretty penny and that’s all that matters right boychick!”
“I think we can leave it be Ash. He has his pride. That’s
pretty much all he got. Let him keep it for a while.” Joey Pep stood up. “We
will see you later with the details.” The laughing fat man got up and reached
into his pocket and peeled off a few bills from a fat roll. “Here you go Champ.
Why not go out and have some fun. Don’t sweat it. It is all gonna work out for
the best.”
He sat for a while after they left. Didn’t say a word. Joey
Po sat with him in an uncomfortable silence.
Then he got up. Went to ice box and took out a bottle of
beer. Popped the cork on the opener on the door. He drank half the bottle down
in one gulp. Reached for another.
“Champ you don’t need that. You still got to fight” pleaded
Joey.
“It don’t matter t’all.” He drank down the rest of the
bottle and then started on the next. Father Murphy was far away in Denver. His
wife was there too. “I want some trim. Send one up to the cabin.”
“That is a terrible idea champ.” Joey shook his head. “I don’t
want any part of it.”
“I don’t matter none. You heard the man. I be going down no
matter what. So I want some trim. Make it a white girl too.”
“Fuck you I ain’t gonna get you killed or me neither.” Joey
slammed his water bottle down on the desk where it overturned and spilled water
all over the flyers and such. He stormed out of the room.
He didn’t sweat it. He would have one of the others handle
it. It didn’t matter now. Nothing mattered. He just needed to ease the pain a
little.
1 comment:
Does the Bear have a George Foreman grill?
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