Footsteps of the Hawk

'It's a mug's game,' I told him. 'It's all who you know, who you blow.'

'Joe Pesci never kissed ass,' the Prof announced, defending his man with vehemence.

'How the hell would you know?' I challenged.

'It's in his face, ace,' the Prof said. 'Kissing ass, it marks you, bro— easy to read as a true ho's greed.'

'Yeah, sure…'

'Hey, schoolboy…you ever see Casino? How about Goodfellas? You ever see My Cousin Vinnie? You ever see Raging Bull?'

'I seen that one,' Frankie put in. 'De Niro, he was awesome. He…I dunno…he feels it, I guess.'

'De Niro?' the Prof snorted. 'He ain't no turkey, I'll give you that. The dude is strange, but he ain't got no range.'

'De Niro could play anyone,' I said. 'He's a genius.'

'Who could he play?' the Prof challenged. 'A priest, a gangster, a crazy man? Sure. But he's always De Niro, see? No matter what, he's always himself. Joe Pesci, that's the real deal. Listen up, bro, my man Pesci, he gets to be whatever you see. He could be playing Malcolm fucking X if he wanted to.'

'Yeah. Okay, you win,' I surrendered. I looked around the table. 'What's going on?'

'Investment,' Mama said.

Max balled his fists, rolled his shoulders like a fighter coming in, shook his head No, tapped his left shoulder.

I nodded agreement, said, 'Okay, Frankie can't fight for a while, right? What's to talk about?'

'We got an offer,' the Prof said. 'For Frankie's contract.'

'From who?' I asked him.

'Rocco Ristone,' the little man said. Saying it all with those two words. Ristone was a major player, just a cut below the big boys in the promotion racket and pushing them hard from behind.

'He came to you?' I asked.

'No, he came to Frankie. Tell him, kid.'

'After the last fight, couple of days later, he came to the gym,' Frankie said. 'Asked me if I was under contract. I told him I was. Told him to who, when he asked. He asked me, what was I getting? I told him I got a hundred–grand signing bonus, all expenses, and the Prof cuts my purses one–third across.'

'Damn,' I said admiringly. 'That's a whole string of lies.'

'Ain't it, though?' The Prof smiled, extending his hand, palm up. I slapped it, but I wasn't satisfied.

'How'd you know how to play it?' I asked Frankie.

'From reading the papers. And the fight magazines. I figured, if he knew I was under a contract, he'd have to buy it out.'

'You want to be bought out?' I asked quietly.

'No. I just thought I would put some protection on the Prof. On all you guys. Make them think there was real coin around.'

'So what's to discuss?'

'Frankie,' the Prof said. 'We got Frankie to discuss. He stays with us, keeps knocking motherfuckers out, we maybe— maybe — get him a shot at one of them plastic belts in a couple of years. Maybe not. With us, you know he ain't never gonna get a real title bout unless he loses a few times, right? No way one of those punks is gonna have a fight when they can get millions just for showing up.'

'With all respect, my father,' Clarence said. 'There are no guarantees, yes? Even if Frankie were to go with this Ristone man, he might not…'

'Well, we could still train him and all…' The Prof's voice trailed away as he caught the look on Frankie's face. It added up— no way Ristone was going to let us stay in the game if he bought us out.

I looked over at Max to see if he was following this. His face is a mask to most people, but I can read it. Max hears the same way a blind man sees. He was with it— staying inside himself, waiting.

'How much we got in this?' I asked the Prof.

'Well, you, me, Clarence, Max…and Mama now, we each put in five. We got those two dinky purses on the up side, got some expenses on the downs— call it a wash. I figure the whole dive cost about twenty–five.'

'Frankie was sharp,' I said. 'He knew how to play it as good as if we schooled him ourselves. Most of these promoters, they take fifty percent, then stick the fighter with all the expenses off what's left. But Ristone, he thinks Frankie got himself a better deal, right? He gets his purses cut one–third, and got fronted a hundred grand, the way Frankie told it.' I looked around the table at my family, hell–bound to do the right thing. About this, anyway.

'I say we cut the pie, and cut Frankie loose,' I told them. 'Ristone has to buy the contract back. Okay, there is no contract, but he can't know that. He pays us back our hundred grand, lets us keep five points— off the top, not off the bullshit 'net'— and takes it over. We split the loot, okay? Fifty–fifty on the hundred grand. That way, we each double our money, and Frankie scores fifty large right away. Then we get Davidson to represent the kid. We give him one point of our five points instead of cash. He'll go for it.'

'Davidson's a righteous shyster,' the Prof said. Meaning: he's a land shark, but for his clients, not for himself. For a lawyer, that's what you want.

'It plays perfect,' I urged. 'We score, Frankie scores…and Frankie stays in the hunt. What do you say?' I finished, looking around.

'One hundred percent on money, very fast. Very, very good,' Mama responded, voting Yes.

Max nodded his head in assent.

'You will keep your colors, mahn?' Clarence asked. 'I designed them myself, to honor our family.'

'Forever,' Frankie promised.

'When you get the belt, we all get some gelt,' the Prof said, looking hard at Frankie. 'Don't forget, boy… whatever you get to be, you learned all them moves from me.'

Frankie had tears running down his face. He wasn't ashamed of them, played it like a man. 'I love you guys,' he said.

'Shut the fuck up, fool!' the Prof barked at him.

I was the last one to leave the restaurant. I'd called Davidson from the phone in the back, ran it down to him. He was game to play, said he'd represent Frankie on the contract 'and at any and all subsequent proceedings,' talking the way he talks, more vocabulary than content. But his word was good— straight–arrow, dead–serious, stand–up, go–to–the–wall good. Frankie was covered.

I smoked in silence, alone in my booth in the back. Frankie had been my shot to go legit. My chance to make a living on the straight side of the law. I know all about stealing. All about stinging, scamming, swivel–hipping my way through a mine field. I have great ideas, but I can never figure out how to sell them. Like Phone Sex on Hold, that was my best. You know how they put you on hold when you call most companies…you have to sit there and listen to some disgusting Muzak crap, getting madder by the second? I bet, if you could listen to some heavy– breathing bimbo tell you how hot you were making her, you'd sit there patiently for days. The only problem I had was how to know what kind of sex the caller wanted. Maybe I could use that voice–mail thing: press 1 for heterosexual, press 2 for homosexual, press 3 for bondage, press 4 for foot fetishes…Ah, fuck it— it was like all my citizen–ideas— good for a laugh and not much else.

This wasn't the time, anyway. Something was coming down. Something too heavy for me to lift. I was finally hearing the footsteps of the hawk, and I didn't have the firepower to shoot it down. The only thing I could do was not be around when it landed.

'I'm calling from a pay phone,' the woman's voice said. 'I don't have long. Do you know who this is?'

I knew, all right. Helene. Silver's wife. She'd left a message late last night, saying what time she'd be calling today. 'Yes,' I told her.

'He said it was a contract,' Helene said, her voice as calm as if she were quoting stock prices. 'But with the…new information, the contract is canceled until further notice.'

'I got it,' I told her.