The Knockout (Fight Card) Read online

  “Cappy?”

  I fought my way to the door of his office and went inside. The ceiling was not as high as it was in the main room of the gym, and I couldn’t see an inch in front of my face. Suddenly I stepped onto something, lost my balance and went down. On the floor I realized I had stepped on someone. I got close enough to see it was Cappy. He was unconscious, his glasses were gone, and he was bleeding from a gash on his head. He must have gotten disoriented in the smoke, fallen and hit his head.

  “Okay, Cappy,” I said. “Let’s go.” I slapped his cheeks, but he was out. I was going to have to carry him.

  I got to my feet, coughing, my throat feeling coarse and hot. I lifted him into a fireman’s carry, then made my way toward the door. I bumped into the desk, then the wall before I finally found the doorway.

  I was walking through the main room when suddenly the ceiling above the ring gave way. Flames, plaster, wood and more smoke came down and the ring was in burning. I looked up and saw the fire was now traveling across the ceiling. Pretty soon the entire thing would come down.

  FIGHT CARD: THE KNOCKOUT

  ANOTHER TWO-FISTED FIGHT CARD TALE

  JACK TUNNEY

  FIGHT CARD

  CREATED BY PAUL BISHOP AND MEL ODOM

  OTHER TITLES IN THE FIGHT CARD SERIES

  FIGHT CARD: FELONY FISTS

  FIGHT CARD: THE CUTMAN

  FIGHT CARD: SPLIT DECISION

  FIGHT CARD: COUNTERPUNCH

  FIGHT CARD: HARD ROAD

  FIGHT CARD: KING OF THE OUTBACK

  FIGHT CARD: A MOUTH FULL OF BLOOD

  FIGHT CARD: TOMATO CAN COMEBACK

  FIGHT CARD: BLUFF CITY BRAWLER

  FIGHT CARD: GOLDEN GATE GLOVES

  FIGHT CARD: IRISH DUKES

  FIGHT CARD: THE KNOCKOUT

  FIGHT CARD: THE KNOCKOUT

  e-Book Edition – first published December 2012

  Copyright © 2012 Robert J. Randisi

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, corporations, institutions and organizations mentioned in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously without any intent to describe actual conduct.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission from the publisher.

  Cover by Keith Birdsong

  ROUND ONE

  BROOKLYN, N.Y. 1954

  The right came at me much too fast for me to duck. The head gear absorbed a good portion of the blow’s power, but it still rattled my brains. I backed off, hoping to take a moment to get my senses back.

  Father Tim always told his boys never to be afraid to take a step back and look for a breather. A lot of times an opponent will be afraid you’re trying to entice them to come in and they’ll give you that extra breathing space. That was just one of the lessons I’d taken away with me from Our Lady of the Glass Jaw, which was what we called St. Vincent’s Orphanage while we were growing up there.

  My head cleared and I moved back in. I threw a couple of jabs and then a right that glanced off a glove. My opponent had defensive skills, there was no doubt. And he could hit. All he needed was a little more seasoning and he’d be ready.

  Light Heavyweight Champ Joey Maxim had just handed Floyd Paterson the first KO of his career by outlasting him in the oppressive heat of the Eastern Parkway Arena in Brooklyn. This just four months after losing a brutal fifteen rounder to Archie Moore who still had a long career ahead of him. The feeling was, he might be prime to topple for a young contender.

  Candy Marquez, a dusky skinned brute, hit me with a straight right that crossed my eyes, and Cappy O'Brien jumped up onto the apron and yelled, “Time!”

  Cappy and I went back a long way as friends. He was small, about five-five and a hundred and twenty pounds with his wallet and keys. I was almost six feet and still weighed one-seventy five, years after I was last in a ring, competitively. These days all I did was spar to stay in shape.

  We went to our corners. Instead of tending to his contender, though, Cappy came over to me.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “That last one rang your bell.”

  “I’ve had my bell rung before.”

  “One more round? My boy needs the work.”

  “Yeah, yeah, one more round.” Cappy was my friend. I didn’t like to make him beg, and I had my pride.

  He leaned in and said, “Crowd ‘im. He don’t like it.”

  I nodded. Cappy went across the ring to talk to his boy, then stepped out and called, “Time!”

  We came back to the center of the ring and touched gloves. He jabbed and I slipped it and stepped inside. I hit him in the ribs and he backed away. I stayed with him, crowding him. Cappy was right, he didn’t like it. I could see the concern on his face.

  Candy was twenty-five, seven years younger than me. And he was a better fighter than I ever was. But he didn’t like being crowded, and he’d go no further if he couldn’t deal with it.

  I followed him to the ropes, where he covered up instead of punching his way out, like he should have. Candy had all the tools. All he needed was experience. But he sure as hell wasn’t ready for Joey Maxim.

  I pounded away at his ribs while he helplessly tried to cover up.

  “Time! Time!” Cappy shouted.

  I stopped punching and took a step back. That’s when Candy sucker punched me into the middle of next week . . .

  ROUND TWO

  Father Tim held his hand up in front of me and asked, “Frankie, how many fingers?”

  It looked like six to me, but since he was holding up only one hand I said, “Three.”

  He slapped my cheek lightly.

  “You want to keep goin’? He hit you pretty hard.”

  “Lucky punch,” I said, although in my head it sounded like, “Lugg pun.”

  He gave me some water, which I swished around and spit into a bucket. It came out clear. That was good. No blood.

  “ . . .Frankie, are you listenin’ to me?” Father Tim asked. The priest was a big man, his face seamed by life. “He’s bigger than you, and stronger, but you can take this guy. But you gotta stick and move, understand?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “sick and moo.”

  I was seeing double and either my speech or my hearing was off, but I went out and did what he said. In the end the ref held my hand up after the decision and said, “The winner, representing St. Vincent’s Asylum for Boys . . . Frankie “the Piston” Corleone . . .”

  ***

  “. . . Frankie, snap out of it.”

  I shook my head, trying to get away from whatever it was they were holding beneath my nose. It stung and made my eyes water. When I opened my eyes it wasn’t Father Vincent, though, it was Cappy O’Brien. And I wasn’t winning the Chicago Golden Gloves, I had been knocked on my butt in a ring in Brooklyn during a sparring session.

  “You okay, Kid?” he asked.

  “That punk,” I said. “He sucker punched me.”

  “Yeah, he did,” Cappy said.

  “Where the hell is he?” I started to get up, but then my vision narrowed and I sat back down on my butt.

  “Take it easy, Frankie,” the old trainer said. “You got knocked out. I know you ain’t used ta that.”

  He was right. I had never been knocked out in over forty amateur fights and five pro bouts. This was a new experience, one I never wanted to repeat.

  “Look,” Cappy said, “I told Candy he was wrong and he asked me to apologize.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “He was mad,” Cappy said. �
��You made him look bad.”

  “Heck, Cappy, you told me to crowd him.”

  “And you did,” Cappy said. “You exposed his weakness and now I know what to work on before I put him in the ring with a contender.”

  “Can I get up now?” I asked.

  “I dunno,” he said. “Can ya?”

  Between us, we got me to my feet, and I took off my headgear.

  Cappy released me and backed away. I stayed on my feet.

  “You know,” he said, “you’re still in pretty good shape. It ain’t too late for you to turn pro. I could get you some fights. What are you, thirty?”

  “Thirty-two.”

  “Oh,” he said, “well, maybe it is too late to go pro. But you spar pretty good.”

  “Get these the hell off me,” I said, sticking out my hands.

  He untied the gloves and pulled them off.

  “Get a shower,” he said. “And get dressed. I’ll be in the office. We can talk there.”

  I’d almost forgotten that Cappy had asked me to come by for a talk. The sparring session had been spur of the moment because Candy’s regular sparring partner hadn’t shown up.

  “Okay,” I said, “I’ll see you there.”

  ***

  I dried off after the shower, looked at myself in the mirror. Candy’s uppercut had left a welt on my chin, but other than that I was no worse for wear. I studied myself critically. I was still at my fighting weight, though not in fighting shape. Behind me Candy came into the room, wearing a plaid shirt and jeans. He stopped short when he saw me. I turned to face him.

  “Um,” he said, “I’m really sorry, man. I dunno why I deed eet.”

  “That’s okay, Candy,” I said, because I’d calmed down. “Heat of the moment, and all.”

  “Jeah, I guess,” he said. “I jus’ don’ like bein’ crowded, joo know?”

  “You’re gonna have to learn how to handle it, Candy,” I told him. “Just listen to what Cappy says. He won’t steer you wrong.”

  “Jes, okay,” he said. “I leesin.” He stuck his hand out. “No hard feelin’s?”

  I shook his hand. “No hard feelin’s.”

  He smiled then, showing painfully white teeth. He was a good looking kid, big and strong. If he listened to Cappy he’d be fine.

  I knew for a fact he could punch.

  ***

  Father Tim Brophy had nicknamed me The Piston because I could throw a jab faster than anyone he’d ever seen, no matter what the weight class was. He wanted me to fight middleweight, but I outgrew the class and had to go light heavy. I’d never been knocked out, and the only guy who’d ever rung my bell was my friend, Mickey Flynn. Mickey was in the Merchant Marines now, throwing punches somewhere in the Pacific, I guess. His brother Patrick was a cop in L.A. Me, I found my way from Chicago to Brooklyn, where I made a living peeking through keyholes.

  I was working my jaw as I walked into Cappy’s office. There were framed photos on the wall of him and other fighters he’d trained. Nobody famous, but some of them had some success. Cappy was a good trainer, he’d just never been able to find that top contender. He had a pretty good heavyweight a few years back, thought he was going to take him to the top, but Archie Moore had destroyed the kid in two rounds to end that dream. The fighter was never the same, afterward.

  “Siddown,” he said, from behind his desk. “I got a pot of coffee goin’—“

  “That’s okay,” I said. The room already smelled of burnt coffee. “I’m good.”

  “Okay, okay,” Cappy said, “I’ll get to the point.”

  “Hopefully, without me gettin’ anymore bruises.”

  “Look, you did me a favor,” Cappy said. “I needed somebody I knew could handle themselves with the kid.”

  “Ah, I get it,” I said. “Nobody else wants to work with him.”

  “He hits hard,” Cappy said. “Sent two sparrin’ partners to the hospital earlier this week.”

  “You coulda told me that before I got in the ring with him, Cap.”

  “I’m sorry, Frankie. You know me a long time, though. I wouldn’ta put you in with him if I didn’t know you could handle him. You did fine. Why don’t I pay you for the session?”

  “Regular rate?”

  “Sure,” he said. “An’ you could come back, work with him, and maybe one or two others.”

  “You want me to be a regular sparrin’ partner?”

  “You makin’ too much as a private dick?” he asked.

  Actually, I was just getting by on the money I made as a private investigator. Lately, I’d been trying to think of a way to make some extra money. It never occurred to me to get back in the ring at my age.

  “Well,” I said, “you’re right, I am in good shape. I still work out, and I run three times a week.”

  “Good,” he said. “Then we have a deal?”

  “I’ll work your boy, Cappy,” I said, “but I need to be available for cases.”

  “That’s okay with me,” he said. “Come back tomorrow and you can work him again. Crowd him again. I’ll talk to him so he don’t lose his temper.”

  “I had a little talk with him myself, in the locker room,” I said. “But if he tries to clock me again, we’re gonna go to war.”

  “I gotcha,” he said. “Between us we can fix him. Believe me, Frank, he’s got what it takes to be a good one. He’s just a little impatient to be able to stop working at Pier forty-one.”

  “So?” I said, staring at him.

  “So what?”

  “That’s what you wanted me for?” I asked. “To spar with the kid?”

  “What did ya think?”

  “I dunno,” I said, “I thought maybe you needed a private dick.”

  “No way, Frankie,” Cappy said, “I ain’t got the dough to hire a private dick.”

  “But I am gonna get paid for sparrin’, right?”

  “Of course.” He took a white envelope out of the top drawer of his worn, scarred desk and tossed it over to my side of the desk. “There ya go.”

  I took the envelope and stuffed it into my jacket pocket, stood up.

  “Okay, Cappy,” I said. “I’ll see you in the mornin’.”

  “Bright and early, Frankie.”

  “If nothin’ else comes up,” I warned him.

  “Like what?”

  “Hey,” I said, backing my way to the door with my arms spread, “ya never know when a beautiful blonde is gonna come through the door . . .”

  ROUND THREE

  Cappy’s Gym was located just blocks from my apartment in a brownstone on Sackett Street in the Park Slope section of Brooklyn. Home to the Brooklyn Dodgers in 1912, when they moved to Ebbett’s Field in Flatbush, the area used to house mid to upper class families. These days the area was in decline, home to mostly working class Italian and Irish families. If you were walking these streets as the day moved toward dusk and darkness, it helped if you were recognized as being part of the neighborhood.

  I was born in Park Slope, but when my parents were killed in a car accident on my sixth birthday, it was too much trouble for my mother’s sister, or my father’s brother, to take me in. They had families of their own, children of their own to raise and feed. So, they shipped me off to St. Vincent’s Asylum for Boys in Chicago. I think they shipped me out of state so they’d have a built in reason not to visit me. I lived there under the watchful eye of Father Tim, along with the nuns and priests of St. Vincent’s Parish.

  Boxing was Father Tim’s passion, and he used it to mold the young men in his charge. He was not trying to churn out future pros but, in fact, a few of the graduates did turn pro. I did, but only briefly. Early on, I broke my left hand and it became too fragile to stand up to the kind of beating it would have taken in the pro rings.

  I had to recover from that disappointment, but I did when I met Harry Mannion. Harry was taking a beating from three guys in a Manhattan alley one night. I happened to be walking by and stepped in to cold-cock two of them and send the other one
running.

  Harry didn’t want to go to the hospital, but he asked me to help him get home. I did, and it turned out he was a private eye working a case. I told him I thought it was a case he should give up, but he felt that with my help—just backing him up—he’d be able to make it through.

  So I became his bodyguard on that job. He took me on afterward and taught me the ropes. Harry was in his sixties, and three years later he died of a heart attack. I took over his agency, kept the name—The Mannion Agency—but moved it from Manhattan to Brooklyn.

  When I reached my building, I climbed the stone steps, momentarily interrupting a game of stoopball three of the neighborhood kids were playing, unlocked the door, and walked up to the second floor. I let myself into my office and flopped down on the leather sofa that served as my bed. That’s right. I lived in my office. I have a bathroom, a hot plate, a toaster, a desk and office chair, and a visitor’s chair. Cappy was right, I wasn’t making enough as a P. I. Picking up some extra cash as a sparring partner would be a big help.

  And other thing. My left hand was feeling pretty good after pounding on Candy’s ribs for a couple of rounds. As a sparring partner, it wouldn’t ever have to stand up to ten, twelve, even six rounds. Thanks to Cappy, I’d found my way back into the ring in a way my damaged hand wouldn’t put me at risk.

  I Love Lucy, The Jackie Gleason Show and Dragnet were the top three TV. shows that year, but I didn’t own a set, so I turned on the radio instead and listened to a little of the Bing Crosby Show before calling for my messages.

  I couldn’t afford a secretary, but I also couldn’t afford to miss calls while I was out. So, I managed the money to pay for an answering service—a girl named Bev—who took all my messages.

  “Hey, Bev, it’s Frank Corleone,” I said when I called in.

  “Frankie,” she said, her voice low and sultry. “How are you, honey?”

  “Pretty good. Anybody lookin’ to give me money?”

  “No calls, sweetie,” she said. “Sorry.”