On the Ropes: A Duffy Dombrowski Mystery (4 page)

Kelley was sitting to the left of TC with a seat in between the two of them, turned in the opposite direction toward the TV, half paying attention to the Yankee game. AJ always had the Yanks on with the TV sound turned down and a radio turned on to catch the play-by-play. I took the stool between him and TC. AJ opened a bottle of Schlitz and slid it in front of me without me asking. They kept Schlitz at AJ’s just for me.

“What’s up, Duff?” Kelley said.

“Ahh, you know,” I said. “Still in the business of saving lives.”

“God bless you, man,” Kelley said.

Kelley was the kind of guy that didn’t make a lot of small talk and, though he was good guy, you kind of got the message when he wanted to get a few beers in him and zone out while watching a game on the TV. Just the same, I needed his help tonight.

“Can I ask you something?” I said.

“You just did,” Kelley said.

“Seriously … ,” I said.

“Go ahead,” Kelley said.

“Walanda left a message on my machine,” I said. “She was hysterical about somebody trying to kill her in jail.”

“Yeah?” he said. Kelley took a pull off his Coors Light and watched Jeter lead off the inning with a single between third and short.

“Well, should I be worried?” I said. “Do you think she’s just being nuts?”

Kelley put his beer down and swung his stool partially around.

“Look, Duff, you and me have different relationships with these people.” Kelley took a sip from his bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I don’t want to see anyone get hurt, so don’t get me wrong, but I can’t spend a lot of time playing these things out in my head. That’s for you guys. She’s in jail because she broke the law, and I helped get her there. The long and the short of it is, jail is often a dangerous place and Walanda is crazy. Just because she’s crazy doesn’t mean she’s not in danger.”

“I think I got ya,” I said.

“Regardless of whether she’s in danger or not, there ain’t nothing you can do about it,” Kelley said.

I decided to leave it alone. I bought Kel his next round and let him get lost in the game. Meanwhile, the Foursome were locked in a heated debate about the important subject of why we have daylight-savings time.

“It’s because the farmers need the sunlight,” said Jerry Number One.

“Tell me one thing,” said Rocco. “How the hell does turning the clocks back give them more sunlight?”

“It’s simple,” said Jerry Number One. “It’s because they get sunlight earlier in the day instead of having to wait.”

“Why don’t they just get up earlier?” asked Jerry Number Two.

“They do,” said TC.

As fascinated as I was with the topic, I decided to get going and headed out the front door toward the Eldorado. From the front of AJ’s, I could see Al sitting up on the passenger seat happily chewing on one of my eight-tracks. It was the soundtrack to
Paradise, Hawaiian Style
, which was going to be hard to replace.

5

“Hey Duff—how can you
tell when a Polack’s been using your computer?” Sam said. I did my best to ignore him.

“There’s Wite-Out all over your screen!” Sam laughed.

“Mornin’ Sam,” I said.

I was trying to catch up on my notes, which was mostly the equivalent to dabbling in fiction. Notes are supposed to be written in D-A-P format, which stands for Data, Assessment, and Plan. The idea is to make each session with a client sound strategic and planned so that if a third party, like an insurance company, picked up your files they could understand the direction your client’s life was going. Unfortunately, the lives of most people, let alone the people who find themselves in need of our services, rarely work out in neat, organized ways.

Take, for example, the session I did with Eli when he came back to treatment following the unfortunate Slurpee machine/public nudity incident. In our session behind closed doors, this is actually how it went:

Eli: “I was so trashed that the towel-headed woman looked like Diana Ross to me. Somehow I convinced myself that Mr. Endou was Barry Gordy and I know Mr. Motown gotta be into some kink.”

Me: “But Eli—they don’t look even slightly black, they work in a Mobil station, and she had on one of those Pakistani outfits. Besides all that, they said ‘no.’”

Eli: “To me it was just one of Diana’s funky outfits and I thought she was playing hard to get.”

Me: “Whatever, Eli—it’s pretty clear you ought to lay off the Olde English.”

Eli: “Fuck yeah—nothin’ but fuckin’ trouble.”

In my notes, that session appears:

D: Client discussed self-defeating behavior patterns related to alcohol use involving poor relationship boundaries.

A: Client struggles with personal relationships and uses alcohol to facilitate social interactions.

P: Client to identify alternative means of making social contact without alcohol.

Notes like this make it seem like Eli is chock full of insight and I am the ultimate conduit to him seeking enlightenment. It’s not easy being a professional in the business of saving lives.

I had seventy-five records with a ton of these notes, a few treatment plans, and treatment plan updates to do. It was boring and, as far as I was concerned, it didn’t really serve a whole lot of purpose, except for the anal retentive of the world. Unfortunately, my boss was captain of the all-anal all-star team. My guess was the Michelin Woman’s sphincter was so tight it would be easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than it would be for a raisin to pass through the entire length of her digestive tract. My apologies to the biblical scholars of the world; I sure wish I didn’t think in such visual terms.

With the crazy phone call I got last night, I thought it would be a good idea to call and set up a session with Walanda in jail. The red tape that you had to go through to set up an in-jail appointment was a nightmare, and it would take two days to get an approved time. I called to get the ball rolling and was told Thursday afternoon about two p.m. would work. There was no point in trying to call her—I wouldn’t reach her, but if I did and she accepted, that would take up one of her two weekly phone calls. I had learned over the years that it was proper jailhouse etiquette to let the inmates call you, and even though Walanda had left a message for me, I should still wait for her to call me again. On Thursday I’d see her and it wouldn’t count against her phone calls.

I got through five or six records and I just couldn’t do it anymore. I know that’s what gets me in trouble, but I can’t bring myself to do shit that doesn’t matter. The threat of getting in trouble will only motivate me so much and fortunately, I had afternoon sessions. I’d rather spend time talking to the clients than writing about them.

One o’clock was Martha Stewart—not the one you’re thinking of. This Martha Stewart was a stack of flapjacks over three hundred pounds and had a history of (surprise!) compulsive behavior. The compulsive behavior included not only eating, but also obsessive sexual activity. In fact, I don’t know if I’ve ever met anyone who had more sex with more people than Martha. Her issue, she told me, is that she just never felt fulfilled. She kept a running classified in the adult section of
MetroCrawford
, the local alternative magazine, letting the folks who were so inclined know that she was a BBW searching for fulfillment. Apparently, there was no shortage of men willing to lend a big, beautiful woman a hand when it came to her pursuit of fulfillment.

At two p.m., I had a session with Clogger McGraw. Clogger got his nickname from an unfortunate bathroom incident at a crowded party. Suffice it to say, Clogger conspicuously interrupted the natural flow of things at this gigantic house bash and was forever stuck with this incredibly visual moniker. Clog at one time was a talented navy pilot who spent his days landing F-something-or-others on aircraft carriers. Unfortunately, this activity was the most fun for the Clogman when he was stoned out of his mind. Amazingly, Clogger made it out of the service with an honorable discharge. The real trouble began when he flew his single engine plane upside down under a Thruway overpass.

Never a detail man, Clogger did it a quarter of a mile from a state police barracks. After the stunt, he noticed he was dangerously low on fuel and landed the plane in the right-hand lane of I-87, just south of the New Paltz exit. Clogs still had a joint going when a trooper pulled his plane over, and they got off on the wrong foot when Clogger refused to turn down the Dead on his custom plane stereo. When the trooper tried to give him a Breathalyzer, Clogger took an exaggerated inhalation on it and thanked the officer for the bong hit. He was laughing so hard when the trooper handcuffed him that he strained an abdominal muscle.

Clogger was a trip, but he rarely showed up for sessions. He recently got his wings back on a provisional basis and he was making his money flying a plane that pulled a message behind it. Most recently he was advertising a car dealership by flying the plane past Yankee Stadium during their big weekend home stands. The Clogmeister had even developed his own following. After a few games of making the pass in his little single engine, he got bored, and boredom often led to trouble for Clog. In this case, it seemed to be harmless or at least mostly harmless.

Instead of just flying by with the sign, Clogger started to do a series of acrobatic rolls through the sky. He planned it so it would occur at the end of the bottom of the fifth inning. It got to be a favorite with the crowd and Steinbrenner, ever the businessman, even got an exemption for Clogger to fly closer to the stadium. Pretty soon after that, the Yankee radio announcers also got into the act. Now, at the end of the fifth, they went to a commercial late so John Sterling, the announcer famous for saying, “Yankees win, thhhhhhhhhhhe Yankees win!” at the end of games could announce Clogger. He would announce Clog’s arrival and then after Clog did his roll, Sterling would say, “Clogger cannnnnnns it!” It got so popular that Steinbrenner had Sterling do it over the PA, in addition to the live radio broadcast. It was pure Clogger. Being a big Yankees fan myself, I had always wanted to see the Stadium from Clogger’s view and the Clogster agreed to let me be his
copilot
someday. I made him promise to stay off the Thruway on the way home.

After Clogger came Larry Kingston, who was chronically depressed and incredibly boring to talk to. During Larry’s sessions I usually pretended to jot notes down on what he said and instead wrote out what I needed at the grocery store.

The very last session of the day was with Emmanuel “Froggy” Bramble. Froggy was another gay guy who hung out in the park and lived pretty much the same life as Mikey. Froggy didn’t have any desire to go the transgendered route, but he was flamboyantly feminine. He accentuated a lisp as if playing to the stereotype and he often said he had no desire to change his lifestyle.

His numerous arrests for park activity and low-level drug possessions forced him into treatment. Like Mikey, he was fun to talk to but he did very little therapeutic “work” in our sessions—whatever that is. Froggy was originally from Jamaica and he had very dark skin and wore his hair in neat cornrows. At six-two and a well-muscled 215 pounds, he didn’t really fit the body type of your basic, central-casting flamer.

He was about ten minutes late, which is actually early by our clinic’s standards. Froggy was wearing knee-length black spandex pants and a white mesh shirt. He kept his wraparound mirrored sunglasses on.

“Hello Mr. Duffy,” Froggy said.

“Hey Froggy,” I said. “Tell me what’s been going on.”

“Oh, you know, just doing my thing.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. You’re talking about your nocturnal park rendezvous?”

“You say it so nice,” Froggy said, exaggerating his lisp.

“C’mon, Frog, you know it’s not safe.”

“That doesn’t seem to bother the steady stream of upstanding businessmen who come visit us,” he said. “’Course when I get through with them, they’re all upstanding.”

“Yeah, but—”

“This week we had a Crawford city council member, a prominent tax attorney, and my new favorite—that TV doctor,” Froggy rolled his eyes like someone who just finished a superb flaming baked Alaska for dessert. “That man gives as good as he gets—just like he says, ‘body and spirit,’” Froggy said.

“Look, Frog, let’s talk about drugs …”

“He’s so cute in his white coat and to think, a TV celebrity, doing me the favors.”

“Frog—the drugs?” I said.

And so it went. Froggy wanted to get off bragging about his sex life and I wanted to talk about anything else. Part of it was because it was a little gross, but mostly because it didn’t help Froggy focus on doing anything to better himself. It was an uphill battle, but toward the end of the hour Froggy halfheartedly agreed to at least look at his addictive tendency.

Such is a day in the business of saving lives. It was a full day and I had had enough. I needed to do something physical and get my heart racing, so I headed to the gym to hopefully get some sparring in. My own rule is to get a sparring session in at least every two weeks if I have no fight scheduled. If I’m training for a specific bout, then I spar three times a week. As a professional opponent, it behooves me to stay in shape in case a decent payday, short-notice fight comes up. There was the possibility of that fight in Kentucky, but I didn’t think I wanted to take it. After that, you just never know when the phone is going to ring.

Smitty was watching a couple of teenage featherweights in the ring. The cool thing about Smitty was he gave everyone the same attention regardless of ability or potential. The determining factor about whether Smitty took time to coach you was whether you sparred with heart. If you avoided fighting, if you got in the ring and pussied it, or if you made a ton of excuses about sparring, then Smitty had little use for you. He wouldn’t be mean; he just wouldn’t take you seriously.

Fighting was a spiritual thing to him. He believed it was an important thing in life to face what you’re scared of and keep on keeping on despite your fears. We met when I was a teenager and I was doing karate. The Y has a karate class and some of the guys from the class come in during the boxing sessions to work out or to add boxing to their skills. I thought I was a badass as a kid because I had a black belt until I decided to box with another kid who had a few amateur fights. The kid punched me in the stomach and I threw up. The next day I asked Smitty if he would train me and I never went back to karate. Real fighting, I’ve learned, involves being hit and dealing with it and in karate classes there just isn’t enough real hitting.

If you looked at Smitty, you’d think he was the quintessential, old-time, gym-rat boxing trainer. He was in his sixties, black, and still all wiry muscle with a close-cropped head of gray hair. He favored Dickies, flannel shirts, and work boots as his fashion statement. Smitty devoted his life to boxing, which made his central casting role authentic, but it was far from all he was. Smitty got out of Korea and with the GI Bill went to Dartmouth where he got a degree in American literature. He reads voraciously and continues to teach literacy courses in the state prison sixty miles away three times a week for nothing. Smitty is independently wealthy, though you’d never guess it from looking at him. He never said how he happened to make his fortune and he never flaunted it, living in one of the city’s old brownstones and driving an Olds Ninety-Eight from the late eighties.

I loosened up and Smitty came over to work me through the mitts. In mitt work, the trainer calls out punch combinations and you have to respond with the right punches. It drills proper technique and reaction time. The way Smitty did it, it worked your defense too, because if he saw you drop your guard, he’d crack you in the face with a mitt.

“Turn the hip over on your hook,” Smitty said. “That’s where your power comes from.”

I threw four or five more hooks in a row, none of which pleased Smitty.

“Do you want to hit like a bitch your whole life?” he growled. “Throw the hip into the hook!” he said.

This has been going on since I was a teenager. I didn’t have much power in my punches and I knew it. Power in boxing comes less from muscle strength and more from the subtle shifting of body weight. Some fighters naturally have the knack of shifting their body weight just right so they maximize their power. If you don’t have it, you can have success by being crafty in the ring and by hitting the other guy more than he hits you. Without the shifting of body weight, it’s tough to get one-punch knockout power.

“Smitty—I’m trying,” I said. “I’ve been fuckin’ trying since I was fourteen.”

“Let it happen, Duff. Let your hip out, then snap it in at the right moment. It’s just like givin’ it to a chick,” Smitty said.