Fight Card: CAN'T MISS CONTENDER Read online

  Look me up when you get out.

  Your pal, Donny Wayne

  P.S. Becky said don’t write no more. She don’t want to see you. I guess you understand if I didn’t tell her the whole story of why you are in jail.

  I kept that letter in a small metal box on a shelf above my prison bed. It stayed there, alongside a couple of letters I got from friends from Chicago and the worn-out copy of the Odyssey that had been tucked inside my baby carriage when they found me on a Chicago street corner. It was the only link to my past – the only book I ever bothered reading cover to cover before I got to prison. I should have written Father Tim, but I couldn’t face his disappointment.

  Anyway, nothing I could say would change anything.

  For a long time inside The Walls, I hoped things might be different when I got out. I thought Becky would forgive me, that I could get another shot at the life I had thrown away. I kept hoping her anger would fade. I imagined showing up at the diner, like I did that first time, and her running around the counter and jumping in my arms. Then we would take off in my Mercury for parts unknown. Blowing down the highway with the windows open, music on the AM radio, and the sun in our faces. Holding hands and talking about our future – daydreaming about what we could have together.

  After a while I gave up that dream. I did my time inside The Walls, kept to myself, and started boxing again.

  I thought about Becky from time to time, but I knew no matter how much I wished for it, those dreams were never coming true.

  Now my only dream was getting back in the ring. Any other dreams were gone. I watched the Missouri landscape rush past my bus window. All I wanted to do was get my car, hit the road, and put the past three years behind me.

  ROUND FIVE

  I got off the bus at the 15th Street Terminal and walked through downtown St. Louis. It was a sunny day. I had nothing but time on my hands and I knew where I was going.

  Johnny Diamond was still a top ten fighter – that hadn’t changed in three years. He had been up and down the middleweight ladder, but he was a recognizable name. You could look him up in Ring Magazine and find him listed with other contenders. A fight against him would give my comeback legitimacy in a heartbeat.

  And I had a contract, even if it had collected dust for three years.

  The problem was Big Mike McCoy. While I was away, he’d stuck his finger in the fight game. He spent a couple of bucks to buy himself a promoter’s license, then spent a couple more and tied up the rights to the local venues, as well as most of the fighters who passed through Missouri. One of those guys in Big Mike’s pocket was Johnny Diamond.

  If I wanted that fight, I had to go through Big Mike.

  While I was locked up, I had wasted twenty dollars’ worth of nickels and dimes trying to get him on the phone. I’d been trying to line up that fight so I had something waiting when I got out. I got through once, but the goon who answered wouldn’t put me through, although I heard Big Mike’s voice in the background.

  “Tell the kid his fight will be waiting when he gets out,” I heard. “He ain’t got nothing to worry about.”

  “Go have a seltzer and relax,” the goon told me. “Ain’t no big deal.”

  That was fifteen months ago. Since then I had pumped fistfuls of change into the pay phones without another conversation.

  Big Mike’s office was in the back of a small liquor store on Jefferson, not far from Sportsman’s Park. The Cardinals were out of town in Cincinnati ; , so the neighborhood was quiet. The neon sign flickered in the sun, although most of the letters in LIQUORS were dark. The old guy at the counter barely looked up from his Post-Dispatch. I walked down the aisle, past beer kegs stacked against one wall and empty boxes lining the other side. Around a corner, behind the walk-in freezer, there was a door marked Office.

  I knocked and a heavy voice said, “Come in.”

  Inside it was dark and musty-smelling. Sunlight filtered in through metal blinds in the window. Big Mike sat behind a large desk with papers scattered and stacked in piles. He hadn’t changed. A tie was knotted loosely at his collar, shirt sleeves shoved up his forearms, and an unlit cigar clamped between his teeth. A small fan blew air back and forth but Big Mike’s face and brow were damp with sweat.

  His thinning black hair was combed over his scalp and just as wet as his face.

  He was a big, bulky guy squeezed into a suit two sizes too small.

  He pushed himself out of the chair and extended a beefy hand. “Look who it is,” he said, with a smile stretched across his face. “I got the Champion of A Hall right here in my office.”

  I shook his hand and smiled.

  “When did you get out, kid?”

  “This morning,” I said. “Got into town a little while ago.”

  Big Mike beamed and looked back and forth at the two goons on either side of him. “And you came down here to say hello,” he said, nudging one guy. “Must be important, huh? What you got on your mind?”

  I slid into the chair in front of his desk. “Came to see you about that fight.”

  “What fight?”

  “The one you promised me.”

  Big Mike sat back and iced me with his stare. His smile never wavered or changed. “Listen to this guy,” he said. “Got some stones while he was away. No dancing around with formalities, huh? Just comes right out with it after three years.”

  “Learned how to be direct inside,” I said.

  He leaned forward, elbows on the desk and fingers pressed together. “Remind me again. What fight are we talking about?”

  “I want the one you told me would be waiting when I got out,” I said. “The one against Johnny Diamond.”

  “Johnny Diamond?”

  I nodded.

  “Kid, that ship has sailed,” he said. The goons flanking him cracked grins.

  “What’s that mean?” I asked.

  “It means things don’t work that way,” he said. “You can’t just show up and expect something like that handed to you. That was three years ago.”

  “You owe me that fight,” I said.

  His stare hardened and his shoulders stiffened. The smiles also disappeared from the goons’ expressions. “I don’t owe you nothing,” Big Mike said. “That paper with your signature on it don’t guarantee you a fight against Johnny Diamond. That’s old news.”

  “Didn’t you once tell me your handshake was as good as a contract?”

  Big Mike cracked his knuckles and leaned forward. Whatever warmth he had was gone. “Let me tell you how it is, kid,” he said. “That contract with your signature says you owe me a fight. Don’t matter who it’s against. Don’t say when. Just that you owe me.”

  “I want Johnny Diamond,” I said.

  “Don’t matter what you want. You’re gonna get what you get,” he said. “What you’re gonna do is get in shape and get some fights under your belt. Hit the comeback trail. But you want to find your way back to the big time against Johnny Diamond, or any other contender, it ain’t gonna happen until I say so. You owe me a fight. Nothing happens without me,” he said.

  I returned his stare.

  Big Mike’s voice lost some of its edge and he found a smile again. “You play your cards right, and you’ll get your shot,” he said. “When it’s time. But you gotta play your cards right.”

  ROUND SIX

  Downtown Clayton still looked the same and Gleason’s Gas and Auto Repair was the way I remembered it. The red brick building was a little dirtier – the front window had a layer of grime and the ribbons and flags hanging off the overhang looked tattered. Empty oil cans had been tossed in piles against the building. The two gas pumps on the center island were also dirtier than I remembered, but gas was still twenty-four cents a gallon.

  The bay door to the garage was open and an old Caddie was on the lift, and I could hear the Cardinals game coming from the Emerson radio Old Man Gleason kept on a shelf inside the shop. A high school kid filled a Packard with gas and stared down South Central Av
enue. The car’s windshield was spotted with dirt , but the kid didn’t lift a finger to clean it.

  Old Man Gleason liked things neat, clean, and done a certain way. I never would have gotten away with leaving a windshield dirty.

  The asphalt was stained from gas and oil that had pooled in puddles. There were a couple of sedans parked on the side, waiting for somebody to get under the hood. A tow truck was angled in front of those cars. There were more empty oil cans littering the lot, along with parts of an engine and some old whitewall tires scattered around the yard.

  I made my way toward the back of the garage and found my Mercury parked in the same place I’d left it. The car’s red paint was covered with three years’ worth of dust and dirt and the chrome barely held its showroom shine. I opened the door, slid into the seat, and rolled down the window.

  I pulled down the visor and my keys dropped into my lap. With my hands on the steering wheel , I leaned back and closed my eyes, imagining myself out on the Interstate, doing sixty with the windows down and no other cars on the road.

  It was the same dream I had every day inside – the only dream that kept me going from the time I got up until I fell asleep.

  For the first time since I went away, I felt good.

  Like I had something that was all mine.

  A hand clamped down hard on my shoulder. I sat up straight and pushed the hand away.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” a tough voice asked.

  I looked up, squinting into the sun and shading my eyes.

  “Just taking what belongs to me,” I said. “Left this here for safe-keeping.”

  “I don’t know nothing about that.”

  I shook my head. “I just told you,” I said. “It’s my car. I’m here to pick it up.”

  “Got to check first,” the guy said.

  I let out a breath and opened the door slowly. I uncoiled my legs beneath the dash and stood up, facing the kid who had been pumping gas only minutes earlier. Three years inside had taught me patience – the hot-headed guy who was always spoiling for a fight had learned to stay calm, instead of solving problems with his fists.

  I pointed at the Ford parked behind my car. “While you’re checking, think you can get somebody to move that car, too?”

  The kid took a step back. He had red hair that swooped down across his face, pimples dotting both cheeks, and a mouthful of metal braces. His grease-stained work shirt had a name patch that read John. He eyed me with the kind of cool most high school punks wore – like he was as tough as Lee Marvin and Robert Mitchum combined. He spit out a glob of phlegm and glared.

  “Don’t know who you think you are,” he said, “but I know you can’t come around here and take a car without asking.”

  I took a breath and said, “Why don’t you get Mr. Gleason? Tell him Billy Flood is here to pick up his car. He knows all about it.” Leaning back against my car, I added, “I’ll wait.”

  “See, that’s a problem,” he said in a slow drawl. “Old Man Gleason ain’t around. You might be waiting a long time.”

  I was about to tell him I was done waiting, but the words never got out.

  Before I could speak, I was wrapped up in a huge bear hug from behind and lifted in the air. Both arms were pinned tight against my body. My feet dangled a foot off the ground, and I was helpless as I hung there.

  Just as quickly, I was dropped hard to the dirt. As I picked myself up I heard a familiar laugh.

  “You think you’re gonna show up here and sneak around without me noticing?” Donny Wayne said. “Boy has been gone a long time. Think he needs to remember how to be polite.”

  I turned around and came face to face with that same toothy grin stretching from ear to ear. Broad shoulders, blond hair, and cold, blue eyes. He had on the same kind of grease covered work shirt John did and a pair of dirty jeans. He wiped his hands on his pants and extended one towards me.

  “How you been, pard?”

  I shook his hand and returned the smile. “Good to see you.”

  “When did you get out?”

  “Just released this morning,” I said.

  “And you had to come back to Clayton to see the love of your life, huh?”

  I shook my head. “You told me Becky didn’t want to see me no more.”

  Donny Wayne laughed. “Talking about the Mercury,” he said. “Know how much you love this car. Probably love it more than my sister.”

  I wasn’t so sure, but I didn’t answer back.

  Donny Wayne turned to John and jerked a thumb towards the front of the garage. “Those cars ain’t gassing up themselves,” he said. “You’re standing here watching us like it’s Leave It To Beaver, and I got a line of cars around the corner to the First Bank. Ain’t paying you to be the audience.”

  The kid started away while Donny Wayne wrapped an arm around my shoulder. “Let’s you and me take a load off,” he said. “Lots to catch up on.”

  We pulled up a couple of chairs inside the office, and Donny Wayne grabbed bottles out of the Coke machine. He popped off the caps with his church key and settled down behind the desk, putting his dirty shoes on top while he tipped back in the chair, same way as Old Man Gleason.

  “Good to see you,” he said, raising the pop in a salute. “Looks like the last three years have been okay for you. You look the same. No worse for the wear.”

  “If you don’t mind being locked up and giving up your freedom, then it was okay,” I said.

  “Appreciate how you kept your mouth shut,” he said. “Meant a lot that you didn’t say nothing.”

  I shrugged and took a long, cool swig. It was my first swallow of pop in three years. The Coke burned my throat on the way down , but it felt like the best thing I ever tasted. I drained the bottle in one more gulp.

  “Wasn’t going to rat,” I said. “Wouldn’t have done any good. Would have just created more questions. More questions means more problems.”

  “It was still a stand-up thing to do,” Donny Wayne said.

  “Thanks,” I said. I took a look around. The office was a mess. Papers and receipts scattered across the desk. Piles of trash on the floor. Empty glasses and dirty takeout containers from the diner on the shelves behind the desk. A pinup calendar that hadn’t been changed in five months.”

  “Where’s Old Man Gleason?” I asked.

  Donny Wayne’s smile faded and he shook his head slowly from side to side. “Real sad , ” he said. “He was working late one night and had some kind of seizure. Didn’t find him until the next morning. Now all he does is sit in a chair and stare out the window all day.” He shook his head and added, “Can’t manage more than a couple of words, and the ones he says, you can’t understand.”

  “So who runs the garage?”

  The grin returned. “Old Man’s daughter asked me to keep an eye on things.”

  “That’s like a cat watching a canary,” I said.

  “It’s a good deal,” Donny Wayne said. “She leaves me alone and doesn’t check the register receipts too often. And I get the chance to push a little bit of that car action we used to do. Nothing big time that cuts into Big Mike’s action. But I chop a couple of cars, sell the parts, and kick back a piece to him.”

  “You’re not afraid of getting pinched?”

  “Nope,” Donny Wayne said. “I got Big Mike looking out for me.”

  I could have told him a thing or two about how well Big Mike looked after people and honored his promises, but I kept quiet.

  Donny Wayne leaned forward and lowered his voice. “You know, I can always use a good man around here.”

  I shook my head.

  “It ain’t just stealing cars no more,” he said. “We got other things going on, too. Big stuff that can pay off.”

  “I don’t want to get mixed up in nothing like that,” I said. “I want to stay straight. Maybe get back in the ring and see what I can do. Start my comeback.”

  “Big Mike can help you with that, too,” he said. “He knows some g
uys. Guys who know other guys. I hear him talking about a piece of the action on Sonny Liston’s fights. Might be able to do something for you.”

  “I just want to get my feet on the ground.”

  “Ain’t no better place to do that than here,” Donny Wayne said.

  “No thanks,” I said. “Been away a long time. Right now, I just want to get out on the road and take it day by day. Find a place to get a steak and a room where the windows don’t have bars.”

  Donny Wayne nodded like he understood.

  “Been keeping the Mercury gassed and charged,” he said. “Knew you’d be back for it.”

  “Appreciate it,” I said.

  I got to my feet and started towards the door, then turned. “Guess I’ve got to ask,” I said.

  Donny Wayne shook his head.

  “She met someone else. Got married last year,” he said quietly. “She wasn’t waiting. Said you broke her heart more ways than could be fixed.”

  ROUND SEVEN

  It was mid-afternoon by the time I got out on Interstate 55 and steered south. I changed in the gas station restroom. I stuffed my suit and tie in the duffel bag on the back seat. Figured I wouldn’t be wearing it for a long time. I said good-bye to Donny Wayne and promised to stay in touch, even though I knew I wouldn’t. I had half a tank of gas. It would be enough to get out of Clayton and put that part of my life in the rearview mirror. For a moment I thought about looking in on Becky, but I kept going. I knew it was a bad idea. No way seeing her would turn out the way I wanted.

  I slid on a pair of Wayfarer sunglasses I found under the seat and cranked up the radio as loud as it would go.

  The Mercury chewed up the highway with Jerry Lee Lewis rattling from the speakers.

  I55 took me past the Ozarks, deep into the heart of the Lead Belt. About ninety miles south of St. Louis, I steered off the road and pulled into a little town called Flat River. There were dozens of little towns just like it up and down the highway, places built around lead mines and lumber yards, and each looked the same as the last one. Nothing special about any of them. Flat River had a long main street filled with cars angled at the curb. A downtown with a Woolworth’s and Ben Franklin’s 5 & 10, pharmacies, family run clothing stores, banks, and a savings and loan.