But Not For Me Page 14

  We took a look around. Most of the mobster crowd had already found their seats. They had plopped themselves in good seats near the ring, forming the majority of ringside seats that actually had bodies in them. By design or by some great coincidence, the mobster groups sat across the auditorium from each other. Only the ring held back their animosity. Looking at them I was reminded of that summer my mother immersed me in Shakespeare—and there before me played out a medieval boxing match, Montagues on one side, Capulets on the other.

  I pointed out the seating arrangement to Rusty. “Yeah, I noticed,” he said. “But no Lazzeri or Leary yet.”

  “Nope, and no Palmisano.”

  “Know what they oughta do?”

  “What?”

  “Put the gloves on Lazzeri and Leary and let ’em go after each other for twelve rounds. Loser leaves town.”

  “I’d pay to see that,” I said. While we reflected on such a dream fight, the palooka in the near corner dropped like a logger’s lodge pole pine, the ten-count only a formality.

  The next bout lasted only three rounds. The tall guy with a two-inch reach advantage kept the shorter one at bay, snapping left jabs with an occasional hard right combination. At the end of the third round the balding short guy was bloodied, his left eye almost swollen shut. He couldn’t get inside the big guy’s jab to do any damage. The ring doctor looked at the poor sap’s eye and called the fight.

  The final warm-up bout featured two promising welterweights, a Negro named Casey from KC, and Fletcher, a young southpaw from Omaha. Waiting for that one to begin, we watched the place fill up; the fashionably late procession of those who had survived the depression with wealth intact. Resourceful Rusty produced a flask. We nipped at it as we watched the parade. The upper echelon of the mob made their appearances, as did the police commissioner and two handfuls of cop chiefs and captains. Mike Leary and a classy brunette took their seats on the front row. Chief Myers accompanied the mayor and his wife. Myers’ nose glowed like a crimson lighthouse through the auditorium’s smoky cigarette fog.

  Throughout the last two bouts, I scoured the place for Beverly Cresto, no easy doings considering all we knew was that she was a knockout with long, blond hair. Plenty of blondes, a handful had a shot at being her. I tried to make a mental note of where the handful sat, but my mind wasn’t working so hot.

  Just after the final fight of the undercard began, Tom Holloway arrived, with Colleen and some fella I didn’t recognize. Until they found their seats in the second row amongst the cops and politicos, my eyes saw only her—the way her perfectly muscled legs moved in those night-black heels, the place those legs attached themselves, her silky gown a shade too tight there. Not too tight, perfectly tight. Some kind of fur wrap tossed itself carelessly below her shoulders, held in position solely by bent elbows.

  As they walked by our seats, Colleen spotted me and her haughty expression of privilege chameleoned into a hungry smile before returning to its original pose. Rusty saw it too.

  He gently elbowed me in my bruised ribs. “The black widow has arrived, already casting her net.” Without looking at me, eyes back on the fight, he handed me the flask. I took a long pull of the fiery stuff.

  I concentrated on the fight. Casey moved like a greyhound, landing three punches for every one Fletcher managed. By the fifth round, Fletcher was desperate. If he didn’t take Casey out soon he would go down. He plodded after Casey, trying to pin him on the ropes, but Casey exacted a terrible toll and kept moving. The kid was good.

  In between rounds, I tried to find those few blondes that met our sketchy description but had forgotten where they were. And now the place was full. I kept searching and found one, but my disobedient eyes returned to a different blonde. Several times our gazes met, and like a lovesick thirteen-year-old, I looked away and tried to make it seem as if I wasn’t looking.

  At the bell opening the sixth round, Casey became the aggressor. Fletcher ducked and covered and backpedaled. Casey, aware that Fletcher was protecting his head and offered minimal counter punches, went to work on his body. When Fletcher protected his body Casey downed him with a hard right to the jaw. Wobbly, Fletcher made it to his feet at the eight count, and before Casey could finish him the bell clanged.

  In between rounds, Palmisano and Lazzeri and the requisite bodyguards arrived and took their seats on the Capulet side. A moment later, Rusty nudged me painfully in the ribs. I turned to him ready to encourage him to cut out the rib poking, only to see his pointed finger in my face. I followed the finger’s point. Detectives Patterson and Harmon had arrived and were headed for seats, not in the cop section, but opposite the cops, on the side of the ring between the two warring houses.

  Patterson and Harman took their seats, and as the seventh round bell rang, Flat Face and the chubby goon I met in front of the courthouse walked in. They took seats in the general vicinity of the two detectives. Neither Flat Face nor the detectives looked my way. I turned my attention back to the fight. The seventh round was all Casey, and the only surprise was that Fletcher still stood at the bell.

  Between rounds, I directed Rusty to Flat Face and his pal, six rows back and more than a dozen seats west of Patterson and Harmon.

  “They’re in no man’s land,” Rusty shouted over the crowd noise. “Who do you figure pulls their strings?”

  “Don’t know, Russ. Let’s keep an eye on them between rounds and after the bouts. See if they tip their hand. And how ’bout no more pokes in the ribs? Tap me on the shoulder.”

  Rusty laughed and nodded.

  Casey took care of business in the eighth. Fletcher couldn’t backpedal fast enough. Less than a minute into the round Casey cornered him, and with a flurry, put him down. Fletcher had barely stirred by the time the referee counted him out.

  The referee raised Casey’s gloved hand to a round of applause and cheers. The local KC kid might be only a handful of fights away from a shot at the welterweight title. Casey trotted around the ring in triumph.

  The seated crowd thinned as there was maybe thirty minutes before the main event. Folks made their way out to the concourse to smoke and socialize, or to use the johns. Our pugilistic detectives made for one of the exits and less than a minute later Flat Face and his dim-bulb, slovenly pal stood and left through the same tunnel to the concourse.

  I took another swig of the flask and handed it back to Rusty. “I think I’ll go relieve myself and see who’s hanging out with whom.”

  “I’ll be your chaperone.” Rusty got to his feet. When I stood, I felt that momentary alcohol-fueled woozy feeling. It took only a couple of seconds for the body and the brain to readjust and I side-stepped down the row toward the aisle. Once I reached it, I felt fine and skipped down the stairs. As I did, I took a quick look Colleen’s way. The Holloways remained in their seats, and Colleen’s eyes seemed to point straight at me, though I couldn’t be sure from this distance.

  On the concourse, we looked around. It was so crowded a fella couldn’t see much but the folks close around him. The line for the men’s room wound a dozen guys out the door, so Rusty and I decided to split up, snoop around, and meet again at the men’s room door. I slithered between bodies for three minutes tops when we literally bumped into each other.

  I stood a half head taller, and for a moment he didn’t recognize me. Once he did, the shock of recognition changed swiftly into something darker.

  “If it isn’t the big dick,” Flat Face said.

  “And my wise-ass henchman,” I said. “Not out threatening honest people? Your boss give you the night off?” We stood about twelve inches apart. He looked up at me, his expression one of cold malice.

  “Maybe I’m here watching you, wise guy. Maybe tonight’s the night one of us gets popped.”

  “I was just entertaining that same thought.” I wanted to punch him, to tear into him, to let loose the animus that had built since two pricks like him carved up Sammy. But the place was too crowded and I was also aware the liquor urged me to throw
away the caution I had gained from more than a decade as an investigator.

  He stood there, legs apart daring me to make a move. Somewhere nearby, maybe right behind me with a blade, was his sidekick.

  “Tell you what, friend, I got a fight to watch.” I gave him a three-finger salute. “Another time.” That discretion and valor thing again, I thought. I was getting to be a regular practitioner.

  He sneered in derision. “I knew you were a weak sister, but it won’t save you. Your ass is mine, Morris. Just a matter of time.”

  “Looking forward to it,” I said as I walked away.

  The line at the restroom door had shrunk, and Rusty stood there waiting. We compared notes. Neither of us had seen the detectives. I told him about the gab with my pug-faced shadow.

  “He’s a persistent little hood,” Rusty said. “We may just have to quiet him down.”

  “Yep,” I said.

  Ten minutes later we were back in our seats. The announcer had entered the ring and awaited the boxers. Battler Bryant entered the arena first to a boisterous reception. Bryant was a local boy and had fought a full third of his forty-one bouts in here in town. At one time, six years or so ago, he was a legitimate contender. Age and attrition and questionable management had taken their toll. Battler had lost five of his last eight fights, not because he was washed up, but because he had a name, and all the up and coming heavyweights and light heavies wanted name opponents to grease the wheels to a title shot. Battler battled the best young boxers for a pummeling and a payday.

  In his corner, Mickey pulled off the boxer’s robe and the Battler shadowboxed to warm up his muscles.

  Rusty tapped me on the shoulder, handed me the flask and leaned toward my ear. “Mickey was right. For thirty-something years old he looks in great shape.”

  I nodded and took a short nip from the flask—only an inch or two left.

  The Iceman showed with an entourage twice the size of Bryant’s. Shull was young and blond, and as he moved up the aisle near us, his face had none of the boxer’s trademarks. His nose was clean and straight, no cauliflower ears, his cheeks and lips the same general shape as anybody on the street. He also looked big. His reception from the crowd was noticeably less enthusiastic. A St. Louis kid, Shull trained in Chicago, but had fought and won here twice before.

  In the ring without a robe, Shull looked like one of those Greek gods that sculptors sculpt, a Greek god who worked out a lot. Standing across the ring from each other, it was hard to believe that the two fighters were in the same weight class.

  “Holy shit!” I said.

  “Ditto,” Rusty replied as I returned his flask. Rusty took a long draw. “Looks like those six-to-one sawbucks we laid on Bryant might have been a sucker’s bet.”

  “Yep, still gotta fight the fight, though.”

  Rusty laughed. “Better him than me. Give me four cops with nightsticks in an alley over 12 rounds with that guy.”

  “Amen to that, brother,” I said, as they lowered the microphone for the ring announcer.

  The announcer squawked out his “good evenings” and “ladies and gentlemen’s.” We learned from him that 36-year-old Steve ‘Battler’ Bryant stood at 32 wins, 9 losses with 23 wins by knockout. ‘Iceman’ Larry Shull, ten years younger than Bryant and the number four light-heavyweight contender, came in with a record of 22 – 1 with 20 knockouts. A pretty impressive record.

  According to the ring announcer, Shull, who was taller, wider, bulkier and had a longer reach by two-inches, only weighed three pounds more than Bryant’s 173. Face-to-face receiving the referee’s instructions the difference became even more pronounced.

  I leaned toward Rusty. “No way he’s only three pounds heavier than Bryant.”

  “Maybe Shull’s hollow,” Rusty offered.

  The boxers touched gloves and retreated to their corners, awaiting the bell. The general chatter in the auditorium stilled, anticipating its ring. It seemed more a library crowd than a prize fight’s. When the bell rang, volume increased. Bryant leaped out of his corner and opened up a flurry of body shots culminating with a left hook to Shull’s head. The crowd roared its approval, especially the Irish mob side. Problem was, most of Bryant’s flurry was blocked by Shull’s arms and gloves, and the left hook that landed flush on Shull’s jaw didn’t seem to faze him. That wasn’t Bryant’s only problem.

  As the Battler landed his hook, he left himself open for a straight right hand and Shull accommodated. The right staggered Bryant back into the middle of the ring. He was hurt and Shull should have pressed his advantage. He didn’t. Instead, Shull displayed his footwork, dancing around Bryant, almost playfully sticking jabs in his opponent’s face for the remainder of the round.

  When the bell ended the first round, Rusty and I turned to each other.

  “Trouble,” I said.

  Rusty shook his head. “I’ll say. He might have taken Bryant out right there. Either Shull’s just having some fun or somebody’s laying money on a KO in a certain round.”

  Mickey and Brownie squatted in the corner in front of the seated Battler. Mickey shouted and shook his finger and shouted some more. Battler nodded his head. Whatever Mickey was telling him had better be good, I thought.

  The second round found Bryant more cautious. He still tried to work on Shull’s body with quick flurries and retreats. Shull stalked him, looking for an opening to deliver another haymaker. But it was a half-hearted stalking. Shull seemed more content to defend and counter.

  At the end of the second round, the crowd voiced its disapproval at the lack of action. And when the third round followed form, the crowd grew angry and a chorus of boos reverberated above the sound of the bell ending round three.

  Rusty passed me the flask. It was almost empty so I only pretended to drink. You always want to let a fella empty his own flask. But I was also at a point a guy gets to when he’s had a lot to drink, a point where he doesn’t want to quit, where he needs one more drink. I felt that way then, and my mind stuck on that desire. Rusty brought me out of it with a tap on the shoulder.

  I leaned toward him and he pointed to the Lazzeri mob side. At first, it didn’t register, but then it did. The whole place seemed angry. They hadn’t come to see a dance recital, they came to see head bashing and blood. Everyone voiced their displeasure at the tepid activity inside the ring—everyone except the first four rows of the west side. A subtle distinction. The mobsters displayed an abundance of contentment, a smugness that spoke of inside knowledge.

  I looked at Rusty. He nodded. Either the fix was in and both fighters were involved, or Shull had been instructed to drop Bryant in a certain round so someone could cash in on the long odds of picking a round. And the Irish still held on to the lion’s share of bookmaking in town.

  “The Black Hand boys have laid a load down on one round,” I said.

  Rusty nodded. “And probably through intermediaries on bets placed with Irish bookies,” he said.

  “Yeah, a big score that raises one mob’s boats and beaches the other.”

  I watched Mickey with his fighter in Bryant’s corner. He shouted and waved his arms and again stuck his finger in Bryant’s face. If Bryant was in on the fix, Mickey didn’t know it. Involuntarily my gaze moved to Colleen. She was speaking to her father. As she spoke, her slender, graceful fingers slid her short blond bob behind her ear. An alcohol-fueled desire welled inside me—a desire to touch that hair, her ear, to hold her, devour her. I squelched it by turning toward Flat Face. But he and his chubby pal were gone.

  The fourth round bell rang. Bryant went after Shull with less caution, landing some good body blows and a left uppercut. Shull backed away and defended. Late in the round, Bryant hurt Shull with a combination and Shull went on the attack. Though Shull didn’t land anything, the force of his blows, blocked by Bryant’s gloves and arms, staggered Bryant. As the round ended the crowd sensed that something had changed, that the fight they came to see had begun.

  The fifth round brought boos aga
in. Bryant stalked and Shull danced and produced half-hearted jabs. Rusty and I looked at each other. This wasn’t the round the gamblers bet on. Even Bryant’s stalking seemed insincere. Maybe he was in on it.

  In the sixth round, Bryant cornered Shull and landed some good body blows. But again, a straight right hand from Shull sent Bryant reeling backward. And again Shull did not follow the advantage. At the end of the round, some cups and a half-pint bottle landed on the canvas. The ring announcer pleaded for the crowd to refrain from hurling objects at the ring. The volume of the crowd’s distaste grew. The man to the right of me joined the booing a little too closely to my ear. I nudged him and pointed to my right ear.

  “Sorry, Mac!” he shouted loudly enough to wake sleeping babies six blocks away. Though he continued to boo, he used cupped hands and leaned slightly toward the poor guy to his right, who yelled just as loudly.

  The seventh round began with a subtle change. Bryant still advanced and Shull still avoided and defended, but Shull consistently countered. He looked for openings as Bryant attacked, and began to stick him with his jab and an occasional powerful right hand.

  The crowd roared late in the round when Shull attacked. It all began when Bryant had him against the ropes. Instead of covering up, as he had for six rounds, Shull, head bobbing and swaying, leaned on the ropes and traded punches. Bryant got the worst of it and backed off. This time Shull pursued and he stunned Bryant with quick jabs and a right cross.

  Bryant backpedaled, trying to shake off the effects of Shull’s right. Shull chased him up against the ropes and dropped him. The noise reached a crescendo fed by those screaming for blood and those imploring the Battler to get up. Bryant quickly rose and took the referee’s standing eight-count. The ref wiped his gloves clean and then signaled them to fight on. Shull didn’t go for the knockout; instead, he snapped his jab at Bryant’s face until the bell ended the round.