'In that case, my man,' he said, 'I drink to glue.'
Rocky DiNucci slipped his hand into the pocket of his tattered, oil-stained chinos and assured himself that nothing had happened to the sixteen dollars he had been paid for sweeping out two warehouses and emptying barrels along the East Boston docks. He was headed for Stella's Package Store, where he planned to treat himself.to some decent zinfandel, a couple of hard-boiled eggs, and maybe even his favorite, a prosciutto and genoa sub with the works. Rocky was being especially careful, knowing that as often as not his money seemed to find a way to disappear before he could spend it.
Once a promising middleweight, DiNucci had absorbed far too many punches over the years, and had done further damage to his nervous system with cheap wine. Still, he Prided himself on being a 'good Joe who never done nobody no harm,' and he delighted in showing anyone who would look the cracked photographic proof that he had once been a sparring Partner of middleweight champ Carmen Basflio.
Rocky spent the cold months in any of a number of shelters around the city, but for most of the year he lived in a makeshift shanty of wood, cardboard, and sheet metal, tucked beneath an elevated stretch of Route 15, half a mile from the waterfront.
He could read decently and even write some, and he still knew the fight game well enough to help out at Cardarello's Gymn when they asked him to. And from time to time over the years, he had tried to pull his life together to get detoxed and put together enough money to get a year-round place. But always, within a short time, he was back at the bottle and back under Route 15.
Rocky left Stella's with two packs of Cornels, half a dozen boiled eggs, two half-gallons of Cribram zinfandel, and nearly six dollars in cash.
He gave all of his change-seven — eight cents to the small boy who asked to see his photograph. Then he headed home, thinking about how he would spend what remained of his pay, and where he could safely hide it until he did.
The artem day had gone from sunny to gray. Rocky was sure a storm was on the way. He stopped at a vacant lot near the crossover to the highway and poked around until he had picked up several pieces of scrap metal to patch his roof.
Then he crossed the road to his hut. That the plywood door was partly open didn't bother him too much. Older kids were always Playing war and u his place for a fort. And since he kept the thingssgagt mattered to him in the canvas shoulder sack he carried everywhere, getting robbed was never a worry.
'Hello,' Rocky called out as he approached. 'Anybody in there?'
There was no response.
He set his package aside and inched open the door with his foot.
There, lying face-up on the pile of old blankets he used as a bed, was the body of a man.
It wasn't until Rocky knelt beside the motionless form that he realized it wasn't a corpse. The man was merely asleep.
Rocky poured himself a glass of wine, settled down on a wooden carton, and studied his guest.
Through the dim light he could just make out the details of the man's face. It was a face he felt certain he had seen before-a face he knew.
But from where?
After nearly an hour and two more glasses of zinfandel, Rocky cleared his throat. Then he cleared it more loudly. Finally he reached out with his foot and nudged the intruder on the thigh. The man sighed, then woke. With great effort he pushed himself to a sitting position.
With the first good look at the man's pale, thin face-his cracked lips caked with dry blood; his glazed, empty eyes-the name of a fighter flashed into Rocky's mind. It wasn't that this man and Jesse Kidd looked alike, but that they had the same look. It was the look of death-the look on Jesse Kidd's face as he struggled to get up from the canvas during a sixround prelim against Rocky one Friday night in a smoky Newark arena. Kidd never did make it to his feet, and ten minutes after the knockdown he was dead.
'Hi, pal, don't be afraid. My name's Rocky. This here's my place. You okay?'
Scott Enders stared at him for a time and then shook his head.
'I think I have some broken ribs,' he said. 'It hurts to breathe.'
'You from around here?'
'No, from Cleveland.'
'Cleveland, huh? I could swear I seen you before.
What's your name?' Scott pointed at the tag sewh on his shirt.
'Bob, huh. ' Pocky sniffed. 'X' assat, some kind of prison shirt or something?'
'I don't know,' Scott said.
'You want a drink?'
'Yes.'
Rocky started to hand him the bottle, but then changed his mind and passed over the half-filled glass, keeping the bottle for himself.
'YOu got any money?' he asked.
'Some.'
Scott pulled out what remained of the bills Eddie Garcia had given him, crying out softly at the pain that exploded from where the hijacker had kicked him in the chest. Several times during the trip from Ohio he had coughed up blood in the bathroom of the bus. Now, every breath was an agonizing effort. After he arrived at the terminal in Boston, a cab driver had taken twenty dollars of his money and had dropped him off somewhere in East Boston. The next thing Scott remembered was being nudged awake.
Rocky DiNucci eyed the money.
'Well Bob,' he said, ',if You want to pay me a few bucks rent, I'll be happy to share this place with you.'
'I've got to find Mrs. Gideon's horse.'
'Right, sure you do.'
Scott knew he was making no sense to the man.
He wanted very much just to head off-to try to find whatever it was Mrs.
Gideon's horse represented; to try to find himself. But the long journey and the unremitting pain in his chest had sapped him dry.
He felt at once hot and terribly cold, and all he could think about was sleep. He handed the bills over and then lay back on the blankets.
'Hey, thirty-five bucks is too much,' he heard Rocky Say. 'Here, I'll keep ten and you keep the rest.
YOu sure you're okay? Maybe you should go to the hospital…
Well, suit yourself. Maybe you'll feel better after a little sleep…
You sure you haven't been in these parts before? I could swear I seen you…
Well, no matter. If I seen you before, I'll figure out where..
.. People make fun of me sometimes, but they don't know that ol'
Rocky DiNucci has the memlory of an elephant. If I seen you before I'll figure out where. Yessir, Bob, ol' Rocky the elephant'fl figure out where.'
The odometer on Felix Connolly's lime-green Beetle had been frozen at 99,000 miles when he bought the car in 1980, and at 99,000 it remained.
Still, during their drive through the chaotic late afternoon traffic, Eric was impressed with the bug's Clan. He was also relieved that the attorney had returned his flask to his suit-coat pocket after a single drought, and had shown no inclination toward another toast. There was too much at stake at this point to have to question the man's judgment If Connolly was concerned about being followed, he showed no sign of it, staying essentially in one lane and seldom, if ever, checking the rearview mirror. or did he offer Eric any explanation as to why they were headed into the Roxbury section of the city, directly away from Bernard Nelson's Boylston Street office.
I'mist the bug,' was all he would say.
Before leaving his apartment, Eric had called Joe Silver at White Memorial. The E.R. director coolly suggested that it would be in everyone's best interest if Eric voluntarily removed himself from the staff until the whole matter of his arrest on drug charges was resolved.
Eric intimated, without giving any details, that there were some illegal and dangerous practices going on at White Memorial which he would be in a much better position to ferret out on the active staff. If Silver was part of
