desperate for product, but this was obscene— if it wasn't for the 10–point–must system, the sorry bout would have ended up a 0–0 double–draw loss. The crowd booed and hissed at the decision, disgusted that either of the slobs won. Like New York voters, wishing there was a Fuck–All–a–Youse choice on the ballot.
Finally, they announced the main event. Frankie sat up straight in his chair, taking it all in.
The Golden Boy was black. Twenty–one and zip, with seventeen KOs. He was as sleek as an otter— all smooth, rubbery muscle under glistening chocolate skin. He wore royal–purple trunks with a white stripe under an ankle–length robe in matching colors, his name blazing across the back: Cleophus 'Cobra' Carr.
Tonight he
There was a lot of betting in the mid–priced seats just past ringside— betting how long the fight would go before Carr stopped the other guy.
Nobody knew the opponent— he was the last–minute replacement for the guy Carr was supposed to fight. He walked to the ring by himself, wearing a thin white terry–cloth robe. His trunks were black.
The announcer pointed to the opponent's corner first. Manuel Ortiz. Dragging the last name out way past two syllables—
Ortiz was fifty–six and sixteen, with thirty–two KOs. Originally a welterweight, he'd go up or down…wherever there was work. They had him at one fifty–nine tonight.
Maybe he had dreams for this once— now it was a part–time job.
I knew his story like it was printed in a book. He got the call the day before, finished his shift at the car wash, got on the Greyhound and rode until he got to the arena— I could see it in his face, all of that.
Carr was twenty–two. He'd gone all the way to the finals at the Olympic Trials before turning pro two years ago. They said Ortiz was thirty, shading it at least a half–dozen. The guy who managed him worked out of a phone booth in a gym somewhere near the Cal–Mex border. His boxers always gave good value— they wouldn't go down easy, didn't quit, played their role.
The fighters stepped to the center of the ring for their instructions. Carr had three men standing with him, one to each side, the third gently kneading the muscles at the back of the middleweight's neck. Ortiz stood alone— the cornerman they supplied him with stayed outside the ring, bored.
Carr gave Ortiz a gunfighter's stare. Ortiz never met his eyes. That was for younger men— Ortiz was working. I could feel the pachuco cross tattoo under the glove on his right hand….I knew it would be there.
The referee nodded to the fighters. Ortiz held out his gloves the way Frankie had, just doing as he was told. Carr slammed his right fist down against them. The crowd cheered, starting early.
The bell sounded. Carr snake–hipped out of his corner, firing a quick series of jackhammer jabs. Ortiz walked forward like a man in slow motion, catching the jabs on his gloves and forearms, pressing.
Carr danced out of his way, grinning. I dropped my eyes to the canvas, watching parallel as Carr's white leather boxing shoes ice–skated over the ring, purple tassels bouncing as Ortiz's black lace–ups plodded in pursuit.
Deep into the first round, Ortiz hadn't landed more than a half–dozen punches. He kept swarming forward, smothering Carr's crisp shots, his face a mask of patience. Suddenly, Carr stopped backpedaling, stepped to the side, hooked off his jab and followed with a smoking right cross, catching Ortiz on the lower jaw Ortiz shook his head— then he stifled the crowd's cheers with a left hook to Carr's ribs.
The bell sounded. Carr raised his hands, took a quick lap around the ring, like he'd already won. Ortiz walked over and sat on his stool. His cornerman held out his hand to take the mouthpiece, splashed some water in the fighter's face, leaned close to say something. Ortiz didn't change expression, looking straight ahead— maybe the cornerman didn't speak Spanish.
Over in Carr's corner, all three of his people were talking at once. Carr was grinning.
The girl in the gold bikini wiggled around again, holding up the round–number card. The crowd applauded. She blew a kiss.
Carr was off his stool before the bell sounded, already gliding across the ring. Ortiz stepped toward Carr, as nervous as a gardener. Carr drove him against the ropes, firing with both hands, overdosing on the crowd's adrenaline. Ortiz unleashed the left hook to the body again. Carr stepped back, drew a breath, and came on again, working close. Ortiz launched a short uppercut. Carr's head snapped back. Ortiz bulled his way forward, throwing short, clubbing blows. Carr grabbed him, clutching the other fighter close, smothering the punches. The referee broke them.
Carr stepped away, flicking his jab, using his feet. The crowd applauded.
The ring girl put something extra into her wiggle between the rounds, probably figuring it was her last chance to strut her stuff.
Halfway through the next round, the crowd was getting impatient— they came to see Carr extend his KO record, not watch a mismatch crawling to a decision.
'Shoeshine, Cleo!' a caramel–colored woman in a big white hat screamed. As though tuned in to her voice, Carr cranked it up, unleashing a rapid–fire eight–punch combo. The crowd went wild. Carr stepped back to admire his handiwork. And Ortiz walked forward.
By the sixth round, Carr was a mile ahead. He would dance until Ortiz caught him, then use his superior hand speed to flash his way free, scoring all the while. When he went back to his corner at the bell, the crowd roared its displeasure— this wasn't what they had come to see.
A slashing right hand opened a cut over Ortiz's eye to start the next round. An accidental head–butt halfway through turned the cut into a river. The referee brought him over to the ring apron. The house doctor took a look, signaled he could go on. The crowd screamed, finally getting its money's worth.
Carr snapped at the cut like a terrier with a rat. Ortiz kept playing his role.
Between rounds, Carr's handlers yelled into both his ears, urging him to go and get it. Ortiz's cornerman sponged his cut, covered it with Vaseline.
The ring girl was really energized now, hips swinging harder than Carr was hitting.
Carr came out to finish it and drove Ortiz to the ropes, firing a quick burst of unanswered punches. Ortiz came back with his trademark left hook, but Carr was too wired to get off–tracked, smelling the end. A right hand landed flush on Ortiz's nose, a bubble burst of blood. Ortiz spit out his mouthpiece, hauled in a ragged breath and rallied with both hands. A quick look of surprise crossed Carr's face. He stepped back, measuring. Ortiz waved him in. Carr took the challenge, supercharged now, doubling up with each hand, piston–punching. Ortiz's face was all bone and blood.
The referee jumped in and stopped it, wrapping his arms around Ortiz.
Carr took a lap around the ring, waving to the crowd.
Ortiz walked over and sat on his stool.
The announcer grabbed the microphone. 'Ladies and gentlemen! The referee has stopped this contest at two minutes and thirty–three seconds of the eighth round. The winner by TKO, and
The crowd stood and applauded. Carr did a back flip in the center of the ring.
Ortiz's cornerman draped the white robe over the fighter's shoulders.
Ortiz walked back to the dressing room alone.
'That's a real warrior,' Frankie said to me. 'Carr? He's nothing but a— '
'Not him,' Frankie said. 'The Spanish guy.'
That's when I knew for sure that Frankie was a fighter.
We followed Clarence's green Rover sedan to the Bronx, where they'd drop Frankie off near Arthur Avenue. Through their back window I could see Clarence driving, Frankie in the passenger's bucket seat, the Prof's head between them, probably doing all the talking.
'Meet you at the gym, Slim,' the Prof called out his window as the Rover pulled away.
The Prof had a key. Inside, the gym was deserted. Clarence found the light switch. One wall was lined with gym mats. I leaned against one, offering the Prof a smoke before he could snatch one out of my hands.
'You remember that Belinda girl?' I asked him. 'The one who Clarence made for a cop in Central Park?'
'Yeah, his pick was slick— and he got there quick. Pulled your coat in time, too. What now?'
