Footsteps of the Hawk (8 page)

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—
Orrrr–Teeese!
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
still
undefeated…Cleophus…Cobra…
Caaaarrrr!
"

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.

W
e 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?"

"She's been calling. For a long time now."

"So?"

"So she calls Mama's direct, not to the bounce number. Letting me know she knows where to find me."

"What's she want?"

"I don't know. But whatever it is, she's been after it for a while. Anyway, Mojo Mary gave me the word—some street stroller had a job for me. I go to meet her. What she wants me to do is drop her pimp."

"Total him?"

"Oh yeah."

"Damn, man. That old rep died a natural death. Long time ago. Even the players don't be saying it. The street's got its own wire…Some little girl might knock on the wrong door, hear some bullshit rumor, but Mojo Mary…fuck! The ho' is a pro, she knows you don't do contracts."

"Yeah. Anyway, I meet this girl. And she makes her pitch. I blow her off—tell her I don't do work on people. So she throws in some tripe about how her man is doing some kids."

"She read the book, knows the hook. They can call, but you won't fall. What's so strange?"

"Couple of things, Prof. When I go to drop her off, I see another hooker close by. Chunky girl, blonde. I figure, maybe the two are hooked up. You know pimps—that girl–girl stuff really spooks them. Maybe the guy they wanted me to do is really macking them both. Anyway, next, I brace Mojo Mary. She comes across like Little Miss Innocence—she's just trying to toss a job my way, looking out for the commission, okay? Tells me this little girl makes a date, meets her in Logan's. And the blonde hooker is with her. They don't say Word One about me icing her man, just want Mary to pass the message."

"It don't take no rocket scientist to be a ho', bro—all you need is the lips and the hips. Her story's weak, but it don't sound freak."

"How about this? I pay Mary for her time, right? Toss another yard at her for a tip before she even opens her mouth, okay? Then,
after
she gives up the information, she offers me a free ride. And when I talk to Mama about Belinda, turns out she was there. In the restaurant. In person. And she's wearing a blond wig."

"Bitch wanted you on tape," the Prof said quietly.

"Sure. She has a tape like that, I have to dance to her tune. Especially because that fucking Morales, he's still on my case."

"That last clue is true, brother. Morales, he's got a memory like a damn
herd
of elephants. Bad business, you get on the bad side of that roller. And he ain't got no good side."

"How does it scan to you?"

"Got to be this, schoolboy: this Belinda bitch, she's working with Morales, setting you up on a conspiracy rap, leverage you into dimeing everybody on that old stuff. You go back a long way with that blue coat…Hard to see him working with a woman, though. He's an old East Harlem head–breaker, that's more his style."

"His partner's gone now. So maybe he's—"

"No way to tell," the Prof mused. "Hell, maybe it's just the broad. Maybe she's got something she wants you to do. Something off the books."

"I'm gonna meet her," I said.

The Prof just nodded, covering it all.

I
t was 5:05 am. when I punched Belinda's number into a pay phone on Canal Street. She answered on the third ring.

"Hello?"

"You wanted to talk to me?" I said, gentle–voiced.

"I sure do," she said, recognizing my voice too quickly for someone who hadn't heard it in years…and never over the phone. "I've been trying for—"

"Tomorrow night okay with you?"

"I don't get off work until after two in the morning."

"How about if I pick you up there?" I asked, like I didn't know what she did for a living.

"Uh…no, that wouldn't work. I need to take a shower, change my clothes, put on some perfume….

Or a body mike,
I thought. But I told her, "Whatever you say. How about five in the morning, that suit you?"

"That would be great. I'll meet you at—"

"I can come to your place," I said innocently.

"No, that's okay. I could meet you at the restaurant. You know, the one where I—"

"It's closed by then," I lied smoothly. "How about the corner of Canal and Mulberry?"

"It's a date," she replied.

I hung up the phone, putting the lies on Pause until we could do it again in person.

I
had almost twenty–four hours to set things up—I wouldn't need them all. I stopped in an all–night deli on Broadway and cruised the aisles like a lunatic in a gun shop, looking for something to catch my eye and speak to me.

A slightly built kid with an olive complexion and a long ponytail was restocking shelves—he was already on the last aisle. The kid's ears were covered with stereo headphones plugged into a tape recorder hooked onto his belt, his lips moving in silent–sync to the lyrics pumping through his head. On a low deep shelf I spotted a flat tray of dark–chocolate–covered coconut bars. I reached in and took three of them from the front. A young woman dressed in head–to–toe
I'm Serious
black gave me a pitying look before she reached all the way to the back of the shelf to take some for herself. Her glance said it all—any idiot knows they stock the shelves with the freshest goods at the back so they can move the stale stuff first.

Maybe in Iowa. In this city, the hipper you think you are, the easier you are.

I picked out an assortment of cold cuts, a loaf of rye bread, and a half–dozen bottles of Ginseng–Up, then walked it all over to the register. Behind the counter was a whole wall of glass, designed to display the refrigerated collection of .40–caliber malt liquors. The oversized bottles are best–sellers. The kids take one of the baby cigars—Philly Blunts are the favorite—razor it open, load it with marijuana, and mix tokes with sips. The big booze brand is called Crazy Horse. Real classy, like naming a vodka after Chernobyl.

W
hen I got back to my office, I shared the food with Pansy. All except the soda—she hates the bubbles.

For dessert, I cracked one of the coconut bars—it was as fresh as a just–burst rosebud. I hoped the hipster chick didn't crack one of her expensive caps on the ones she bought.

After supper, me and Pansy each got a handful of Dismutase tablets. One tab's the equivalent of about a quart of wheat sprouts. Vets give them to dogs who've had broken bones—they say it's the best thing for arthritis. Pansy's a long way from being a pup—sometimes her bones give her trouble, especially in the winter. I tried some on her—in a few weeks, she was moving a lot easier. No way a dog reacts to a placebo, so I figured the stuff had to be doing the job. I have trouble with my hands—the right one's been broken too many times and I can feel cold weather right through it. Since I've been taking the Dismutase along with Pansy, they don't hurt as bad.