
I turned to amble back to the boardwalk because I had things to do and I knew the cap'n wasn't one for tolerating goldbrickers. The cap'n had taken me on because I was a war veteran, but he kept me on because I was a hard worker.
"Nobody said you could leave." One of them dropped his hand on my shoulder and pulled to turn me around.
I went with the pull, came around, and stepped inside the tall guy's reach. I gripped his left wrist in my right hand, then closed my left hand around his throat. I squeezed hard enough to make his bloodshot eyes bulge and I saw the surprise and fear dawn on his sallow face.
I put my face into his, almost nose to nose. "I don't know who you think you are, mister, but you'd better keep your meat hooks off me or you're gonna draw back a nub."
That was when Shorty reached under his jacket and pulled out a pistol.
Fight Card #1
By
Jack Tunney
FIGHT CARD: THE CUTMAN
e-Book edition © 2011 Mel Odom
Cover: Keith Birdsong
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part
by any means without permission
ROUND 1
Havana, Cuba 1954
I was tying Wide Bertha to the mooring cleats when the two mooks swaggered toward me like they owned the dock. I wasn't in no mood for a scrap, but things didn't turn out that way.
The last three days at sea before we made portage at Havana, we'd fought hurricane weather, and I felt like I was about stove in. All I wanted was a hot meal, a bellyful of beer, and a nice, soft rack to sleep it off. Someplace where I could wash the stink of the ship off me and not have to worry about a dog watch.
'Course, since we'd sailed into port in early afternoon, Cap'n Slidell figured we still had four or five hours of daylight left and he'd make sure he got every minute of those before he cut us loose. He was a fair man, but he liked getting his money's worth.
Them mooks was trouble and I knew it. I could read trouble the way a con man on Halsted Street hustling three-card Monte in my old Bridgeport, Chicago, neighborhood could read a mark. I ignored them, though, figuring I'd let them make their play and see what was what.
It was easy to see them two was known along the docks 'cause sailors and fishermen got out of their way as they came over. The docks was busy then. I supposed a lot of ships must have come in or put in while the squall churned the ocean white and deadly. The smell of fish and the salt of the sea blew over me and dragged some of the teeth out of the hot sun burning down on me. Lines popped against masts as the wind clawed at the furled sails. Men's voices -- shouting orders or yelling at each other, or singing -- rolled over the port.
Them two looked like they was about my age, and I'd turned twenty-seven back in December. They wore suits, but they didn't look like no port authority I'd ever laid eyes on. Both of them was American, judging from their color and their clothing.
I'd almost got to Havana before I signed on with the Marines for the Korean War in 1950. I'd put in three hard years there, saw a lot of friends get killed or shot up, or freeze to death in the winter along the Chosin Reservoir after the Chinese joined up. I'd spent my twenty-third birthday fighting on bloody ground too frozen to dig proper graves in.
Major General Oliver P. Smith had led us through that battle, and we'd been outnumbered more than two to one by the Chinese. I'd landed with the Big Red One, the 1st Marine Division, and stayed through the thick of it. I'd never been one to walk away from a fight, which was why I usually ended up in trouble when I was a kid, and why I'd ended up with the Marines for that nasty bit of business.
Major General Smith wasn't a man to quit on a fight neither. Even in the worst of it, when we was fighting for our lives with bayonets and rifle butts 'cause we was outta ammo, when we was chewing boot leather 'cause we was outta rations, we remembered what he said there at that battle when someone asked him if we was gonna retreat.
"Retreat, hell! We're not retreating, we're just advancing in a different direction."
We'd been surrounded and there wasn't no way to get out of it. Just had to go through it.
I respected that. Getting through something, not running away from it, had been one of the first things Father Tim had taught us at St. Vincent's Asylum for Boys. 'Course, most of us boys called the church Our Lady of the Glass Jaw. The nuns hated us for it, and they didn't care for Father Tim much neither 'cause he let us get away with it.
While I continued straightening the rope like I had nothing better to do, them two mooks stood there and tried to stare holes in my back. I ignored them, but I noticed that nearby local fishermen, cargo handlers, and sailors fought shy of us when they'd been coming around for gossip only minutes ago. I just concentrated on making sure that hawser was knotted right to the mooring cleat. The rope had clean lines and was wound tight. Wide Bertha was settled in snug against the dock.
Eventually, them two got bored. I would have too. I didn't like standing around while other people was working. Always made me feel like I had to do something too.
"Hey."
I stood and turned around, and them boys took a big step back. I was six feet tall, and both of them was taller than me. But I worked off-the-books as a longshoreman down at the Chicago River bridges from the time I was fourteen. The bridges was too low for cargo ships to get through and cargo got unloaded and disbursed at the bridges. Times was hard then, and I worked long days. I got broad shoulders and a build like an ape out of it.
Some of that was my old man's fault, though. He'd been built the same way. My younger brother Patrick looks better in a suit than I do. As best I could remember, Pat favored Mom, in her looks and in her book smarts, but she wasn't with us long enough for me to remember much of her.
I was shirtless because of the heat. I wore stained dungarees I'd patched myself. I kept my hair short so it wouldn't get infested with vermin sharing rack space on Wide Bertha with us, and I hadn't shaved in about a week. So I probably looked like I was worth about two cents. Maybe less.
I looked at the two men. "Something I can do for you gents?"
The shorter one was the mouthpiece of the pair. He gave me the hairy eyeball like that was supposed to make me curl up in a dead faint right there on the dock. I figured he didn't know I'd been fighting wind and water for the last three days during a storm that had seemed determined to kill ever' man of us.
Even if he'd looked like something I didn't want to tangle with, I was just plumb worn out and didn't have it in me to be afraid of nothing. Yes sir, I was tuckered and there wasn't nothing I was gonna let get between me and the evening I had planned.
So the short guy yanked his thumb at Wide Bertha and sneered. "Yeah, mac, you can do something for us. You can move your boat."
I looked at him for about a minute, then shook my head. "That ain't no boat. She's a ship."
"Don't matter." The look on his face got harder and I guessed I was supposed to be impressed.
I wasn't. I grew up around nuns at St. Vincent's who could glare paint off a wall and raise welts the size and color of strawberries with a ruler.
The taller man spoke up then. "Maybe you should go check it out with your boss. Let him know Mr. Falcone says he should move this scow."
Okay, I knew then that the tall guy knew more about sailing, but he didn't know me. Scow was a hurtful term, and any sailor worth his salt was proud of his ship. I was proud of Wide Bertha. She'd just braved everything the Atlantic and the Caribbean could throw at her to make sure I got to sleep in a bed tonight.
"You don't talk bad about a man's ship. Especially not to his face." I spoke in a low, soft voice, not trying to rile anybody yet. But them two took another step back and that was fine with me.
Around us, several sailors, fishermen, and folks walking through the market area at the docks had stopped to watch. I didn't know what all the interest was and didn't particularly care for all the stares. It wasn't good to draw attention while you was in a port. Sailors ain't always real welcome in most places. Locals wanted to shake a ship's crew loose of every nickel they got, then kick them right back into the sea.
The tall man tried throwing his weight around again. "This here's private parking, swabbie. Mr. Falcone does his business here."
I put my fists on my hands and took a deep breath. I run short on patience on good days, and there hadn't been any good days for over a week. "This is a public portage. First come, first serve. Cap'n Slidell already checked with the harbor master."
"The harbor master's wrong."
"Then you take that up with the harbor master. Not me."
"Maybe we should take it up with your captain."
"It's a free country, bud." I laughed at the thought of them two mooks bracing Cap'n Slidell.
The cap'n was sixty years old, was meaner than a gutshot alligator, and had a wooden leg he picked up after losing the real one in World War II. I'd already seen him take that leg off in a bar fight in Singapore and whale the tar out of three German sailors that thought they was gonna buffalo an old man. That evening the cap'n cleaned house with that leg and them beat-up Germans carried each other outta that bar. Me and the rest of the crew just watched because the cap'n would have had our heads if we'd tried to interfere.
"Hey, Mick."
I looked up and Sandbag Pete was hanging over Wide Bertha's rail. Sandbag was a skinny redhead with a head that looked too big on him and arms and legs that looked like pipe cleaners. He was older than me, gray bearded, but he could climb a ship's rigging faster than any monkey I'd ever heard tell of. He wore dungarees too, and a sleeveless shirt, but his skin had already pinked up something fierce from the sun.
Sandbag nodded at the two mooks. "You having trouble down there?"
I waved him off. "No trouble."
"Mick?" The big one squinted at me.
"Mickey Flynn." I didn't see any harm in them knowing my name.
"You Irish?"
"Irish as St. Paddy's Day." A lot of people still didn't care for us Irish. I'd grown up with that dislike all my life in the old neighborhood where we fought with the Italians and the Poles.
Maybe that was another reason I didn't care for them two men. I'd figured them for Italian, especially with the mob moving into Havana and buddying up with Fulgenico Batista the way they was. I guess probably I liked the Italians about as much as the Italians liked the Irish. Hearing the name Falcone had just sealed the deal.
I turned to amble back to the boardwalk because I had things to do and I knew the cap'n wasn't one for tolerating goldbrickers. The cap'n had taken me on because I was a war veteran, but he kept me on because I was a hard worker.
"Nobody said you could leave." One of them dropped his hand on my shoulder and pulled to turn me around.
I went with the pull, came around, and stepped inside the tall guy's reach. I gripped his left wrist in my right hand, then closed my left hand around his throat. I squeezed hard enough to make his bloodshot eyes bulge and I saw the surprise and fear dawn on his sallow face.
I put my face into his, almost nose to nose. "I don't know who you think you are, mister, but you'd better keep your meat hooks off me or you're gonna draw back a nub."
That was when Shorty reached under his jacket and pulled out a pistol.
ROUND 2
The pistol caught my eye at once because it was a Colt Model 1911 .45 capable of blowing a fist-sized hole in a man. I'd used pistols like it when I'd been on security details in Chosin Reservoir. The .45 was a fine weapon, but I'd preferred the M1 Garand .30 cal I'd been issued. 'Course you couldn't stick an M1 in a shoulder holster under your jacket, so I could see why Shorty carried that Colt.
I didn't say nothing. You talk to a man shoving a gun in your face, you're probably wasting the last breath you ever drew. Even if that man didn't plan to kill you outright, he might pull the trigger by accident and kill you anyway. One of the guys in the old neighborhood died just that way, and nobody thought it was gonna happen till it was done.
So, while I was saying nothing, I was also taking that pistol away from Shorty. I flicked my right hand out quick as quick can be, closed my hand on the butt of it so the webbing between my thumb and forefinger slid down against the hammer, closed my hand over the barrel and slide, and yanked and twisted. Hard.
Shorty pulled the trigger, either because he was going to or because I'd startled him. The hammer dropped on that webbing between my thumb and forefinger and pinched like the Devil hisownself, but it didn't touch the firing pin. I'd made sure to turn the barrel away from me anyway, because I didn't want to patch no holes in Wide Bertha neither.
Shorty's finger broke like dry kindling and he bellowed like a stuck hog. He still hung onto that pistol, though, so I had to give him some credit. I also had to shove that .45 back into his face hard enough to shatter his teeth and split his cheek. Then I pulled again and got the pistol free. Before he could step back or raise his hands to his busted mouth, I slapped him in the face with the pistol.
Well, that played hob with my hand. I felt the hammer bite into my hand and hot blood streamed across my palm and fingers. With a curse, I threw the pistol into the water between the dock and Wide Bertha and focused on the tall guy 'cause High Pockets had come alive by then. I only had him by the throat at that point and he busted himself free by dropping his arm on my elbow.
I surrendered the hold. Wasn't no way I was gonna hang onto it no how. He must have expected me to back up to get away from him, but instead of backing up, I took a step toward him and raised my hands to block the way Father Tim taught me at Our Lady of the Glass Jaw.
My right fist was bloody as all heck and throbbing to beat the band, but I loaded it up while I jabbed High Pockets in the snoot. Twice. Both times his head rocked back like it was on a swivel. He was quick to tuck his chin back into his chest and not leave it out there for target practice, though.
I circled to his left, staying away from his power, while I figured out what he had. Somebody had taught him a little bit about fisticuffs, but it wasn't enough to handle me. I batted away a couple of his jabs, staying light on my feet and moving. I also had to keep an eye on Shorty in case he decided to wade back in.
High Pockets figured to paste me with a haymaker, gambling he could drive a punch through my defense. I slipped the punch, let his fist sail past my left ear, then stepped in again and drove a hard right deep into his ribs. The wind whooshed out of him and blew hot against my left shoulder.
Stumbling back, fighting to get his breath back and stay on his feet, High Pockets looked like he was gonna be sick. I didn't give him a chance. I jabbed him in the face again, knocking his head back, and he was slower tucking his chin. I planted my feet, twisted my hips to get my weight into it, and connected with a hook to his jaw just below his ear that came up from my toes.
Something popped and sounded pretty bad. Then High Pockets stood a little straighter and tried to hold up his hands. His eyes glazed and his legs turned to rubber. He sank to the ground and landed on his knees before falling forward onto his face.
Shorty swore at me, lisping a little on account of his battered mouth. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a switchblade. The business end of the knife came open in a twinkle of reflected sunlight. He waved the switchblade easily, and I surmised he was maybe a better knifeman than he was a pistoleer. Or maybe he was just past hesitating about how far to take the fracas.
I grinned at him in spite of the fact that guys with knives that know how to use them have always give me the willies. Blocking a knifeman with your arms would just get you cut to pieces. I'd seen men gutted and left to die, and that was before I got to Chosin and saw what bayonets could do in the hands of a trained soldier.
"I'm gonna kill you, Irish." The knife danced in his hand and I gave him a step as he moved toward me. Blood dripped from his chin and soaked into his shirt. "Gonna carve my name in your chest and watch you bleed out."
"You sure you know how to spell it?"
I just waited a bit, getting his stride and his timing. Fist fighting was all about getting the measure of the other guy. And knowing what you was ready and able to give and take. If I was gonna get cut, I was gonna take him down in one shot so that was all the cutting that would be done.
A shot blasted and split the air over the docks.
"Hold it right there or I'm gonna cut you in half!"
I recognized the cap'n's voice right off so I knew he'd be standing there at Wide Bertha's rail and didn't need to look. Shorty, though, he looked. And after he did, he stepped back and snarled an oath.
"You're making a mistake, old man." Shorty tried to remain fierce, but I could see he was shaking.
Cap'n Slidell was a tough old bird by any count. He was wide and hard, looking like he ran to fat, but it was all hard muscle meant to lift and tote. A black cap'n's hat slouched over his gray head. His face was seamed from fighting the sea and battling men. A knife scar bisected one of the wooly gray eyebrows that looked like caterpillars hanging from his thick forehead. He wore dungarees and a blue denim shirt with the sleeves hacked off. Smoke trailed from the stubby cigar clenched in the corner of his mouth.
Nobody knew the cap'n's parentage exactly. Some said his mother was a New Orleans octoroon wooed away from a cathouse by a Spanish sea captain. Others said he was the son of a Haitian pirate who'd taken an Englishwoman to ransom and they fell in love. He was dark and broad and powerful, the kind of man no one wanted to corner.
He held a Tommy gun pointed at Shorty, and that big, greasy snout made him look even more scary. Of course, knowing that Thompson sub machine gun could actually cut a man in half would have been scary enough without taking in the man holding it.
"Call me old one more time and they're gonna have to mop what's left of you offa this dock."
I smiled and thought maybe I'd better let Shorty know what he was up again. "That man up there means what he says. He'll drop you in your tracks."
Shorty cowered immediately. He dropped the switchblade and shoved his hands high into the air. "Don't shoot!"
The cap'n looked like he gave that suggestion a thought or two, then he shifted his cigar to the other corner of his jaw. "What's going on down there, Flynn?"
"These two mooks want us to weigh anchor, cap'n."
"Why?"
"Says there's a man named Falcone that's claiming rights to this spot."
"You see the name Falcone down there anywhere?"
"No sir."
"Harbor master cleared this berth for us, didn't he?"
"Yes sir."
The cap'n nodded and shifted his attention back to Shorty. He glared at Shorty and the man withered in the heat. The Tommy gun never wavered.
"Did you start this fight, Flynn?"
I didn't take no hurt feelings over the question. I been one to start fights every now and again, usually when I know there can't be no help for it, but it was fair to ask. "No sir."
The cap'n nodded again. "Good enough for me. Flynn, he ain't always the brightest bulb in the box, but he ain't one to lie." He gestured with the Tommy gun. "You pick up your friend there and vamoose. And I don't wanna see you around my ship again."
Shorty cursed under his breath, but he was careful none of that swill reached the cap'n's ears. He picked up his buddy, got him to his feet, and pulled an arm across his shoulders. High Pockets still wasn't sure where he was, and he staggered like a man three sheets to the wind. Together, they lurched away through the milling dock people.
"Flynn."
At the cap'n's irritated roar, I turned round and faced the old buzzard. "I ain't goldbricking."
"Well, you ain't working neither."
So I got to it, but I figured we hadn't seen the last of Shorty and High Pockets. Turned out I was right, but I had no way of knowing how much trouble I was gonna get myself into.
ROUND 3
Shortly after the sun set, Cap'n Slidell didn't want to burn diesel fuel to keep the generator running for working light, so we called it quits for the day. You'd have thought after all the hard work the crew had put in, they would have called it a night and hit the rack. That didn't happen because we was in portage for the first time in weeks and the cap'n always let us draw some pay. Every manjack aboard Wide Bertha caught a second wind and was ready to hit the beaches.
A sailor spends all them days at sea, he's ready for shore leave when he gets a chance at it.
So at seven-thirty on the dot, after we had one of the fastest messes we'd ever seen, Cap'n Slidell came down to that small galley with his cashbox and his notebook. He set down the box and the galley got quiet as the courtroom of a hanging judge.
The cap'n always made a production out of letting men draw pay. There wasn't no pushing or shoving because we knew we wasn't going to sail into that harbor without being in a group. A sailor traveling alone down the streets of a port city was a man just asking for trouble. The unlucky ones ended up robbed of whatever they had on them. The really unlucky ones ended up robbed and dead in a gutter or back alley. Cap'n Slidell gave that speech to every new hand he took onboard. I'd given that same speech myself dozens of times since signing on with Wide Bertha.
Despite our impatience, we all sat there and watched the money being handed out in well-worn dollar bills, none of them larger than a sawbuck, and the cap'n would make a neat notation in his notebook. The cap'n had terrible handwriting, but I ain't one to talk. My brother Patrick was the one of us with all the book smarts. Me, I just had a hard head and a strong back, and I wasn't afraid of work or any man I ever met.
But when it came to toting down each man's draw, which was the same on nights like tonight, the cap'n's handwriting was as neat as any typewriter's would be. The columns lined up like he'd laid them in with a ruler. Each man signed his name beside the draw.
Except for Sandbag Pete and Owney Tillman. They just made their X and the cap'n wrote their names in beside them. They could read their names, but that was about all. Sandbag was old enough that he hadn't been taught writing. He'd grown up in North Carolina and hadn't ever got no schooling. He'd worked tobacco with his pa until he'd quit the fields at age fifteen to go to sea and work on a tramp steamer.
Owney was a Texan and had worked as an oiler for a drilling operation. He preferred that kind of work to handling cargo on a ship, but he'd got into a fight with the wrong man in a bar one night and ended up sideways with the law. That had nothing to do with why he couldn't read. He said he never saw the letters the same way twice and they seemed to move around while he was looking at them.
I could make my way through letters and such. The nuns at the orphanage made sure of that. I even read a book every now and again, if it caught my interest. I swapped for the pulps that circulated through Wide Bertha, and liked science fiction and Western stories best. In a lot of them pulp stories, science fiction and Westerns wasn't too far from each other. Kissing cousins for sure.
Back at the orphanage where me and Patrick grew up, he always favored crime stories. Private eyes and tough guy cops. I always guessed that was one of the reasons he went out to Los Angeles and became a cop himself. I know he didn't want to be like our old man, who was always working some angle, and the old man took down crooks as well as straights with his cons. He made plenty of people sore before he finally got cashed out at the end of a smoking pistol.
One of those angles was what had got our ma killed when me and Patrick was small kids. And why our old man couldn't be there for us while we was growing up. Our Lady of the Glass Jaw, the name we hung on the church where Father Tim started teaching us boxing, had kept us until we aged out.
Patrick had himself a career. Me, I just wanted to see as much of the world as I could.
I was at the tail end of the draw line, turning pages in the latest Doc Savage Magazine. I usually was the last one, and I didn't put up no fuss. Nobody was going anywhere without me. The cap'n liked me going last that way because he knew most of the crew would wait on me. Sometimes there was fights in the bars and taverns and the cap'n and them men knew I would stand by them.
No matter who it was.
I didn't like all the hands aboard Wide Bertha. For instance, I didn't care for Stan Higgins at all. The man was a lush, fell into a bottle of rotgut whenever we got into port. What we knew of him was that he left his wife and three kids back in Baltimore. The cap'n saw to it Higgins sent money home to them every trip, but Higgins didn't much care to go home. Nobody else much liked him either, but he was a good sailor when he was sober, and a bad drunk when he was not. 'Course, him being a drunk that passed out, he didn't start many fights. But you had to carry him back to the ship after a night out, and that got old.
We put him to bed in a dress one night, thinking that would cure him, but he just got up the next morning like it was nothing and even came down to breakfast in that dress. Didn't bother him none, but none of the crew wanted to have another breakfast with Higgins sitting there in a dress, so that never happened again.
Cap'n Slidell would hand me my pay every time, look me square in the eye, and tell me to look after the crew. That evening, he put twenty dollars in my paw and looked at me. "Bring 'em back safe, Mick."
"Aye, cap'n." I'd learned not to salute him sarcastically at those times because he'd clouted me in the ear for it the first time I did it. Some things, I don't need a repeat dose of. The cap'n had fast hands for a big man of his years.
All of us had pay in our pockets, and we headed out toward shore. We heard the music coming from the bars, the honks of cars passing in the streets, and the yells of people already celebrating another evening of entertainment.
Cap'n Slidell stayed behind and watched the ship. He didn't much care for carousing and claimed to have sowed every wild oat he had. Story was that some woman had broke his heart in the past and he'd just never got over her. He stayed aboard ship, drank quietly, and did whatever it was he did that none of us knew about. We'd spent some time trying to figure out what that was, but we'd never had much luck. After a while, looking got tiresome.
Sandbag Pete had one story that never got old: that the cap'n had him a treasure map that showed where a Spanish ship filled with gold had gone down in the Caribbean. All them years, the cap'n was spending his time working out the tides so he could figure out where that ship had finally come to rest.
I didn't believe it, mostly, but it was a good story and Sandbag could tell it well. Still, most of us figured that would be really something if it was true.
We went down the gangplank, feeling the unaccustomed steady land under our feet, and was hopeful of a good time because we knew the cap'n would work us like dogs again tomorrow.
Morrie Wilson, a sandy haired kid who was barely seventeen and had the sharpest eyes in the whole crew, gamboled loosely at my side. He was from Maine, a small town kid with an awkward accent and a cocky attitude he was seriously understocked for.
"Where we goin', Mick? What do you feel like? Havana's got it all." Morrie grinned lopsidedly. "Wine. Women. And Song. What's your pleasure?"
I shook my head and resettled my watch cap, straightening it out. "I don't much care. Some place with beautiful women and fair beer prices."
Sandbag glared gloomily at the city spreading out around us. Neon lights from nearby nightclubs tinted his cheeks pink and then blue as we passed them. "You ain't gonna find fair prices here. Not with them Italian mob boys moving in lock, stock, and barrel. You can expect to pay a pretty penny for your drinking in Havana these days."
I scowled at that. I'd heard the stories of how Meyer Lansky and his mobbed up buddies had struck a deal with Batista and moved in to take over the gambling joints after the G-Men in the states had started squeezing the mob pretty hard. Havana was wide open territory. I'd never been there before, and Havana wasn't generally on Cap'n Slidell's agenda.
"We'll find something, Sandbag." I made myself smile as I clapped the old man on his bony shoulder. "This has gotta be better than what Singapore has become." I'd barely got out of Singapore alive a few months ago, and I was pretty sure some of them Chinese Tong would still be hunting me if we wandered back that way.
ROUND 4
As it turned out, we'd tied up near the Marianao neighborhood, where the Tropicana Club stood out against the night and the other clubs with a big show of neon lights and a long line of traffic out front. The nightclub was a monster venting a roar of samba music that carried out into the streets. Even the people waiting outside to get in was having a good time.
I wanted to go in, but I knew the prices would be steep. The cap'n was a fair man, but our wages was too measly for that place. But we all gazed at that glitzy building and swallowed our real interest and longing.
Morrie, though, he was downright intrigued and made no bones about it. "We should go over there."
"Naw." Sandbag shook his gray head. "Even if we could get into that joint, we'd be broke in less time than it took us to get in. What we need is a quiet little spot with pretty senoritas and good old American beer. I heard them mob boys done brought in truckloads of it."
"You know what I heard about that place?" Hank Plaster, the mechanic who kept our diesel engines up and running, ran a hand through his dark brown hair. He talked with a Brooklyn accent and didn't take guff from no man. With his big forearms and broad shoulders, he looked like a fireplug.
"What?" Morrie always liked to hear stories.
"There was this mobbed-up guy named Martin Fox who made his way as a gambler. Guy never even learned to read or write, but he could read pasteboards pretty good. Rented him a table in the Tropicana, then settled in and started making him a fortune playing cards. Within a few years, he bought out the club with his profits."
"Are you kidding me?" Morrie liked the stories, but knew that sometimes the hands made up stuff to tell him just to wind him up.
Solemnly, Hank raised a hand. "On my ma's grave, may she rest in peace. 'Course, it wasn't just the gambling Fox did. He also had a numbers racket too."
"So, he still owns that place?" Morrie gawped at the Tropicana and the sharp dressed guys parking cars for guests.
"Him and a few others, including Santo Trafficante, the son, not the father."
"Must be making himself a fortune."
"That place is making all of them a fortune. They got one-armed bandits that pay out now and again, not very often, and bust-out dice that guarantee you ain't gonna be a big winner at craps." Hank scowled. "That place is just a machine designed to fleece the pockets of guys like us."
I grinned at them. "Well, let's just be smarter than that." We walked on by and ignored the loud-mouthed shill standing out at the curb wheedling and taunting everybody passing by.
\*\*\*
We finally settled on a small bar called the Mermaid's Pearl a few blocks farther on. A small sign with blue neon tubing showed a mermaid holding up a fishhook in one hand and giving everyone a big wink. The sign would light up, then flicker, and the mermaid would wink. Then the sign would grow dark and start all over again.
I pushed through the door and went inside. This bar didn't have salsa music. What it had was a big band sound that filled the room and warmed the heart. A guy in his sixties with a voice that was partially shot hung onto the mic and belted out "All or Nothing at All." Even though he didn't sound anything like Frank Sinatra, the song brought a smile to my face. Give me music like that and I feel at home no matter where I was.
The band was small but it crowded the stage with instruments and musicians. Most of the crowd that filled the place looked like they was regulars, not passengers visiting from one of the big pleasure ships lying at anchorage. Smoke sculled the ceiling like dark gray clouds, but not everything I smelled was from cigarettes or those thick Havana cigars. I'd been around the world a few times and I knew the score. There was a lot of contraband in that joint.
Sandbag slid through the crowd, flagged down a waitress, and had us set up at a corner table in about a minute flat. When it came to charting a course, I'd never seen anybody plot straighter than Sandbag once it came to reading wind and water. The cap'n swore by him.
The young woman waitress who came to take our order was a looker, tall, brunette, and curvy. Her green eyes belonged on an alleycat, and she didn't hesitate about sizing a guy up. She turned heads throughout the bar, but didn't give a man more than a second glance.
"What'll it be, boys?" She blew a curl back from one green eye and gave us the onceover. Her attitude seemed American, but the accent was pure Cuban. Her pencil paused over her pad.
"Draft all around." Sandbag twirled his forefinger in the air. "First round's on him." He pointed at me.
The brunette cocked an eyebrow at me. I gave her the nod. Everybody would be buying before we was through. We always made sure of that, but it made us feel like big spenders all the same.
A guy at one of the other tables turned around and hollered at her. "Are we gonna be all night getting service?" He was a plug-ugly, and I figured him for one of the dockworkers or cargo handlers. Rough and strong, and impatient as all get-out.
I looked over at him and gave him the eye. "Pipe down and be polite."
He looked like he was gonna get riled for about a minute, then gave it up when he got a better look at me. Patrick always told me I got this intimidating look about me when I got irritated. The nuns hadn't liked the way I looked sometimes neither. He swiveled his head around and looked back at his buddies.
The waitress gave me a small smile. "Thanks, sailor."
"Yes, ma'am."
"I'll be right back with your drinks." She turned and went and I watched her go.
Morrie slapped me on the shoulder. "Hey, Mick. I think she likes you."
My ears burned a little and I glared at Morrie. I didn't like nobody poking fun at me. Women made me nervous, even gals that worked in bars because I never knew for sure what to say to them. Didn't stop them from hanging around occasionally, though, and I did okay when it came to keeping company with women. I might be nervous, but I didn't let that stop me none, and women was usually involved in the fracases I had in different ports. Just couldn't seem to stay away from them.
I tried to think of something smart to say, something to keep me from being mean to the kid, but we got interrupted by a guy in a cheap suit trailing cigar fumes in his wake. He was about thirty-five, hard-eyed and forceful. I didn't like him right off the bat because he walked over like he owned the joint.
"Hello, boys. You look like you're new in town." He smiled but his eyes still looked like hard marbles set deep in his hard-boned face. I noticed the scar tissue around them then. "Tell me...do you like fights?"
ROUND 5
"Why?" I might have been a little harsh because the man backed up and started to reach under his jacket. Then he stopped himself and smiled.
"Me? I'm not looking for a fight." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "But they're about to have one in the back. One of the local guys is pairing off against a boxer that come into town to make himself a rep and a little do-ra-mi. Thought maybe you fellas could use some excitement."
I liked fights. Ever since Father Tim taught us how to scuffle and punch down in that church basement, I've had a healthy respect for any man that knew how to use his fists and could think on his feet. That combination didn't come along as often as you thought it might in back rooms of bars. The illegal fights was called smokers, on account they was usually held in small, windowless rooms that filled up quick with cigarette and cigar smoke.
Sandbag stretched and yawned. "How much is this entertainment gonna cost us?"
The man shrugged. "Four bits a head gets you into the room. You can still get drinks back there, and if you're interested in gambling, there's guys in there that will do that too."
I wasn't interested. Not really. The idea of seeing a couple of palookas pound on each other in a drunken haze wasn't my idea of a good time. And four bits was expensive for something like that.
Before I could say anything, though, a tall man in a suit entered the bar. He had blond hair and looked German, which didn't make him any too popular with any of the local crowd. He had a jaw that looked like it had belonged on a bulldozer, and bright blue eyes that was as steely as gunsights. He would be a threat in the ring. He carried a black duffel in one hand.
I nodded at the guy. "That your local hero?"
The man looked over his shoulder and shook his head. "Naw. That's the challenger."
Well, I was interested then, because the blond guy didn't look like anyone that would go down easy. A mousey little guy walked along in the big guy's shadow and I figured he was the big guy's cutman, the guy that worked the corner and kept a fighter from bleeding too much. They talked German like they'd been speaking it all their lives. The mousey guy flagged down our waitress as she returned with a platter carrying our beer.
"Which way to boxing match?" His words was heavily accented.
The waitress frowned and I figured maybe she wasn't a fight fan. A lot of women claimed not to like boxing, but a lot of them went nuts once the leather went to flying. "In the back." She nodded toward a door on the other side of the room.
The mousey guy thanked her, then talked briefly to the big guy. Still stony faced, the big guy turned and went through the crowd like a tank, jostling people that didn't get out of his way fast enough.
Sandbag shook his head and looked at the plug-ugly guy talking to us. "Don't know who your local hero is, but he ain't gonna make it outta that room alive."
The man grinned and took his stinking cigar out of his mouth. "You wanna put some money on that?"
"Yeah." Sandbag didn't hesitate. He liked betting on stuff, and I'd seen him bet on everything from fights to horse races to fruit falling off a tree. He wasn't really good at it, but he believed if he stayed at it he'd do all right. "Gimme two dollars' worth."
The fireplug grimaced and ran a big hand over his face. "Two dollars? Pal, I sure didn't figure you for no piker."
"Piker?" Sandbag got all swole up at that and sat up a little straighter. "I ain't no piker."
"I got fifty dollars what says the local boy puts down that German down on his back."
That meant the local guy had to win by a knockout. I'll admit, that made me interested at that point, but I wasn't gonna jump on nothing. I hadn't seen the other horse in the race.
Sandbag, though, he wasn't so cautious. He looked around at the other boys. "Anybody wanna help me take this guy's money?"
Well, that started a brief convention that was still going on when the waitress come over to our table with the beers. I paid the freight and tossed in a dollar tip.
"Thanks, sailor." She didn't warm up none, but she gave me another look, sizing me up like she was trying to decide if I was gonna be trouble. She turned to go, but Sandbag hollered at her.
"You want to bring us another round in about fifteen minutes? We'll take 'em in the back room."
She didn't look happy about that, but she nodded and went away.
I was still mooning after her, watching her hips sway under that skirt, when Sandbag flogged me on the arm.
"Get up, you big galoot. We got a fight to watch. And why didn't you kick in any money?"
I rubbed my arm, sipped my beer, and stood to follow Sandbag and the rest of the crew into the back room. The pretty waitress watched us, but she caught me watching her back and she turned away again real fast.
Then I stepped through the door after the boys, followed them down a rickety set of stairs into a dimly lit room, and saw High Pockets and Shorty again. I figured the night might not turn out so swell after all.
ROUND 6
Them boys was evidently working security for the fight, but as stove up as they was, they wasn't none too impressive. I grinned to myself before I could stop it when I saw Shorty's mangled face and High Pockets standing there with one of his eyes swelled nearly shut. Them that didn't know what happened might think whoever they'd been in a fight with had gotten the worst of it.
I kept my head down and was thankful of the shadows filling the room. I figured none of us needed round two, and them boys might have been embarrassed enough over things to feel like they at least needed to even the score.
And if they come at me again, I knew they wouldn't do it with their fists. I was lucky the fireplug headed us to the other side of the room. I leaned back against the wall in the shadows and sipped my beer.
The room was bigger than I'd thought it would be. Maybe once upon a time it had been a storage room, but somebody had widened it out till it mirrored the dimensions of the club. I was surprised to see that there was more people gathered downstairs than upstairs.
There wasn't no ring, no canvas floor. All they had was four steel posts and some ropes to mark off the area, which was considerably smaller than a ring. I took that in as I sipped more beer and realized that this arena wasn't built for no showcase of fighting skills. This was down and dirty, designed to keep two men close to each other and pounding on each other's skulls.
That ring was a butcher's shop, not a field of competition.
Outside the ring, a couple rows of chairs was filled with what looked to be a bunch of swells in expensive suits. They talked to each other and I saw money changing hands. Their conversations was a dull roar trapped in the room, and the smoke was so thick and burning that I wanted to go back upstairs. Or -- better yet -- outside to grab a fresh breath of air.
Instead, I breathed shallow and sipped my beer. I knew that a fight couldn't go on very long when a fighter started sucking air. There wasn't enough clean air in that whole room to fill a deep breath.
The fireplug kept razzing Sandbag and the boys, and I knew he was trying to hoist his action and goad them into more foolish betting. I ignored them. I told the cap'n I'd bring 'em back alive. Them getting back broke was their own lookout. I hoped they kept enough back at least for a decent drunk. They deserved it.
Things happened pretty quickly because the room was packed. The bookies working the crowd was even laying off action back in the bar. I guessed we was lucky to get wall space crowded in with all them other mooks.
The German stepped back to a small room in the rear with the mousey guy, then come back a few minutes later dressed in black trunks and wearing gloves. He ducked under the ropes and got into the ring, then started loosening up by throwing punches and dancing around the ring. The naked bulb above him lifted him out of the shadows and made him seem larger than life.
As they watched, the crowd seemed evenly split over the German. A few snarled oaths and name-calling of "kraut" and "Nazi" punctuated the noise, and those men seemed only too ready to watch the German get beat down. But about half the crowd seemed hopeful that the German could take the local hero. From what I overheard in all the noise, the local guy hadn't ever been beaten, and he'd been fighting for almost three years.
That was impressive. I'd lost my share of fights in the ring along the way because I wasn't much on beating a man by points. Patrick could do that because he knew more about technical fighting. Me, I was a brawler. All guts and hard head and strength. Father Tim had told me so, and that I'd never be a great boxer the way Patrick could be. But a guy meeting me in an alley wasn't gonna be playing by the rules. Neither was I.
I was okay with that. I knew what I could do, and I knew that if I had something to fight for that I believed in, they'd have to scrape me off the canvas to get shut of me.
A few minutes later, the local guy come down the stairs dressed in a suit and wearing a confident grin. I figured he'd lose that when he saw the German, but he didn't. He just looked at the big guy in the ring and rolled his head, loosening up.
Sandbag poked me in the ribs. "That's the local guy."
"Had that one figured out all by myself."
He ignored me. "His name's Marcell Simbari. Marcell's supposed to mean hammer in Italian."
Simbari was at least three inches over six feet, but he was about that many inches shorter than the German. Thick black hair was swept back in oily waves and he was as handsome as Dean Martin. Martin had been a boxer, too, but he'd only won one of his twelve fights and had a broken nose and scarred lip to prove it.
This guy was handsome, and if anybody had ever put a mitt on his face, it didn't show. You see a boxer that's got a pretty face, you better pay attention. That's a guy that knows how to bob and weave and slip a punch. And he's hard to knock out.
I had a bad feeling about Sandbag and the boys' money. I didn't think they'd be seeing it again.
Simbari made a show of giving the German a onceover, then went back to the little room and changed clothes. He came back just a few minutes later wearing red trunks and gloves. He chewed gum like he was going out for a drink with the guys instead of stepping into a boxing ring.
The two fighters met in the middle of the ring and just stared at each other. I didn't know if the German even spoke English. Maybe his mousey friend did. Anyway, if you climb in the ring enough, you know what the ref is gonna tell you.
The ref for this fight was a balding white guy who stuck out in the sea of Cuban and Italian faces. I thought maybe he'd been brought down special, like the baseballs players from the States sometimes came down. He was direct and to the point, an unemotional guy.
After that, the two fighters returned to their corner and waited for the bell. It rang and the fight was on.
ROUND 7
Neither fighter came out strong. They wasn't there to put on a show. Both of them showed savvy in the way they fenced with each other, getting a feel for how the other guy covered up, how he spaced his feet, which way he liked to circle when he had a choice and which way he circled when he didn't.
The crowd grew quiet, waiting expectantly. Most people in an audience wouldn't admit to it, but they was there waiting on the blood to spill. They wanted to see the pain delivered and taken. Kinda the same way a circus audience thinks about a trapeze artist taking the long fall, not wishing the guy bad, but hoping to see it if it did happen.
About halfway through the first three-minute round, the German threw a couple jabs and then tried to follow up with a big haymaker. Simbari deflected the jabs, faded the haymaker, and swiveled and stepped around just enough to unleash a fully loaded right hand into the center of the German's stomach.
All the air went out of the German in a rush. He tried to suck it back in, but Simbari didn't give him a chance. Leather popped and splatted as Simbari drove a dozen heavy blows into his opponent. The German staggered back from the onslaught as Simbari lived up to his name as the Hammer.
Then the German locked down against the ropes, covering his face with his forearms and giving up his mid-section. Simbari went to work on the German's breadbasket like he was chopping wood, and I swear I could hear ribs turning into kindling. The German's pale skin pinked up right quick, and the crowd went crazy with bloodlust.
"Hammer! Hammer! Hammer!"
It got so loud in the room that you couldn't hear anything else. I watched and sipped the dregs of my beer, admiring how Simbari looked, like some kind of big cat playing with a mouse. By the time the bell rang to end the round, the German was stove up pretty good.
Simbari turned around and winked at the crowd, playing to them and listening to them chant for him. I had to admit it, I admired the guy. Seeing him work was like listening to a singer croon a favorite tune.
Sandbag cursed, telling the boys they'd all been hoodwinked by the fireplug, whose name was Tony. Yep, they'd figured out their money was in the wind, and they was feeling pretty sore about it.
While he was sitting in his corner, Simbari leaned through the ropes and talked to a well-dressed guy sitting next to a pretty dame. The swell looked like a happy guy, and that seemed to make Simbari pretty happy too.
About that time, the waitress came over to us with our second rounds. She didn't look none too happy about making the trip through that packed basement, and I didn't blame her. There wasn't very many guys down in that room that any real manners. Sandbag paid her and tipped her two-bits on account he knew he was losing his money, and she was unhappy about that too.
As she started to leave, I touched her shoulder. She swung around with fire in her eyes and a fist all knuckled up. "Keep your hands to yourself, sailor."
"Sorry." I held my hands up to show her I didn't mean no harm. I had a dollar between my fingers. "Didn't mean nothing. My friend's on the cheap 'cause he bet on the wrong fighter. I wanted to make it right." I flicked the dollar with a finger.
Her face softened a little then and she lowered her fist. She looked embarrassed. "I apologize."
I shrugged. "No foul." I looked around. "It's a rough crowd." I handed her the dollar.
"Yeah, and a hard way to make a living. The fighters take a beating once, but I'm here dodging perverts all night." She looked at me with more interest then. "I haven't seen you before."
"Haven't been to Havana before."
"Are you going to be here long?"
"A few days. Cap'n's looking to take on some more cargo."
She looked around. "You'll want to be careful in the streets. Havana's not the way it used to be with all these...businessmen."
I smiled at her to let her know I understood her drift. I nodded toward the well-dressed guy Simbari had been talking to. "Who's the swell?"
She followed my gaze and frowned. "That's Victor Falcone. One of the businessmen."
Well, I recognized the name right off from the conversation I'd had earlier with Shorty and High Pockets. I wasn't crazy about the guy to begin with, and to know he was hooked up with an animal like Simbari was just the icing on the cake.
The waitress looked back at me. "Look, I have to get back to work. I'll be back around in fifteen or twenty minutes and see if you need something."
"Thanks." I watched her walk away, but the crowd closed up around her too quick for me to really appreciate the view. I looked back at Falcone and rubbed the stubble on my jaw, only realizing then that I shoulda shaved. Might have made a better impression on the waitress.
The bell rang and Simbari went back to work, taking up pretty much where he let off. Only this time the German was a little more careful. He got down to business and the fight changed. The German started giving as good as he got, but Simbari could take the damage to his mid-section, and he kept his head moving too fast or too covered up for his opponent to score more than glancing blows at best.
The second round ended, and I wondered how much Simbari had in the tank, whether or not he had the wind and the heart and the legs to go the distance. I was guessing he probably did, but I wanted to see it because I wanted to see that pretty boy face get mussed.
That wasn't gonna happen, though. Simbari stalked his prey through the third and fourth rounds, then clocked the German with a teeth-chattering uppercut followed by a cross that was right on the button. The German's legs turned to rubber. He tried to stay on his feet, but that just made him a wandering punching bag for Simbari, and the Italian fighter mercilessly pounded the German, turning him into bloody hamburger.
I figured the ref would call the fight or the mousey guy would throw in the towel, but neither one did. The crowd wanted the blood, and everybody was gonna give it to them.
I've seen some hard things in my life, seen things in the war I'd rather forget, and seen bad accidents happen to men at sea where there ain't no doctors and hospitals, but that fight was gonna stick with me for a while. I'd have quit beating on the poor palooka because I knew he didn't know where he was at the end. The German's whole world musta just been one big haze of pain.
Simbari didn't quit throwing punches, though. He just leaned into them harder and picked vulnerable spots. Cuts had opened up above both of the German's eyes and his nose and mouth was running rivers. The only good thing about all that blood was that it made Simbari's punches harder to land because the gloves kept sliding off the slick flesh. The crowd was quiet, like it was holding its breath. I had to make myself breathe.
Finally, though, the big man gave up the ghost and dropped to the stone floor. He didn't try to catch himself, and I knew he was out on his feet. The man was stubborn and prideful, and I knew them attitudes would get him killed.
Simbari towered over the German, and for a minute I thought he was gonna start kicking the guy while he was down. I started forward before I knew what I was doing, but Sandbag hooked an arm through mine and held me back.
"You wanna stay here, Mickey." Sandbag spoke quietly into my ear, having to tiptoe to get the job done. "Just let it go. This ain't none of our lookout. The cap'n needs us back at the ship, not mixed up in something like this."
The ref musta been thinking the same thing about Simbari, because he caught hold of the fighter and pulled him back, waving him to his corner. Simbari didn't go at first, then finally spat on his victim -- and that was how I was thinking of the poor guy at that moment, a victim -- and walked away.
Well, the crowd went nuts. I didn't know how many winners was out there, probably most of the locals and the bookies, but everybody seemed pretty happy at the mauling they'd just seen.
I was disgusted, couldn't get shut of the place fast enough. I turned from Sandbag and started making my way through the crowd. About that time, I spotted the waitress serving drinks a short distance ahead of me. While I was watching her, a hard guy said something to her, whispering in her ear, and she turned around and smacked him one in the kisser with that little fist.
ROUND 8
Things went south pretty quick after that. The waitress laid into the sailor with Spanish talk that was too rapid for me to follow, but I had me a pretty good idea of what she was saying. The guy she'd punched shook his head like he couldn't believe it, then wiped his bloody nose with the back of his hand. He growled curses at her, but she stood up to him and yelled right back at him.
I didn't know if she figured she could go toe-to-toe with the brute in a yelling contest, or if she was just too angry to let it go. Either way, the bruiser wasn't interested in losing a swearing contest. He knuckled up a big, callused hand and drew it back to hit her.
By that time, I'd made my way through the crowd. I reached out, caught the man's elbow, and spun him around to face me. He hesitated a beat once he got there, then fired a punch at my head, but I slapped it away before it got close. He had plenty of muscle behind the punch, so I knew he felt pretty good about his chances.
I gave him that cold look that Patrick used to say I could do so well, the one that would make a guy realize he was taking his own life in his hands if he decided to cross me. But that guy was pretty confident in himself, or maybe he was just drunk enough to be feeling his oats. Or -- in the darkness -- maybe he didn't get a good look at me.
"You really don't wanna do this." I gave him the warning. Figured I owed it to him 'cause he'd been drinking.
The waitress backed off and didn't look too happy about me interfering, like maybe I was cutting in on her action. She folded her arms and glared at me.
I was so busy watching her, trying to figure out what I'd done that was so bad, that I didn't see the guy in front of me pull up a big left hand and punch me square in the side of the jaw. My cheek split on the inside of my mouth and I tasted a rush of blood. He clipped me another couple times while I regrouped, and I was thinking maybe he wasn't as drunk as he'd acted.
The crowd around us thinned, spreading out and giving us our space. By that time, I had my head back on straight and was feeling embarrassed at getting coldcocked so easy.
He tried that left hand again, but I blocked it away with my right forearm, stepped toward him and punched him in the stomach, twisting my hips to make sure I had plenty behind it. He bellowed like a bull, but I cut that off short with another punch to his face. He was strong, no question about that, and he could take a punch. His head went out and came back just as quick, like a yoyo. I stepped in again and smashed a hook into the side of his jaw that blew out his candle.
Unconscious, the guy toppled backward and got caught by three of his buddies. For a minute they talked tough, like they was gonna pick up where their buddy left off, but in the end it was all glares and curses. When they realized they really didn't want a piece of me and stepped back with their sleeping playmate, I lowered my hands but I stayed ready.
A harsh voice cracked across the basement. "Get those bums outta here."
Some of the security guys in the basement snapped to attention and
I spared a glance at the ring and saw Simbari hanging onto the ropes, glaring at me.
"You heard me." Simbari waved a glove at the security guys, egging them on. "Get those bums outta here."
I didn't let it get under my skin. I was headed out the door anyway, but I figured Simbari didn't like nobody upstaging his glory. Still, I didn't like being sent away like no mutt either. I turned around to face him to let him know I wasn't scared of him.
That was when the waitress took me by the hand and pulled. "If you stand there, he will have his men take you out into the alley and break your legs."
The threat didn't scare me none neither. I knew Sandbag and the boys would have my back, just like I'd have theirs, but I didn't need no grief my first night out on the town neither. The cap'n would blow a gasket.
Besides, the waitress was pulling me along and I thought I owed her that since I'd stepped into her problem. I went, but I gave Simbari a smile all the same.
He glared at me as the waitress guided me through the crowd and up the stairs. I told Sandbag and the boys I'd see them back at the ship. Sandbag nodded and grinned.
Topside, the waitress kept me moving and I let her. I liked the way her hand fit in mine and I didn't wanna end that anytime soon. She kept muttering through her breath as she pulled us through the crowd. The guys upstairs gave ground easily.
She spoke to the bartender in Spanish, which I spoke well enough to follow since she wasn't in as much of a hurry as she'd been downstairs. "Filiberto. I am leaving."
Filiberto was a husky guy with a cigar in the corner of his mouth and a bar towel over one shoulder. He filled beers from the tap and nodded. "You are walking away from money, Estefania."
I perked up at the name. Estefania was pretty and different. And she hadn't let go of my hand.
"The money will be here again tomorrow." Estefania waved at him. She stopped near the door and took a jacket from a wall rack.
Filiberto nodded and put beers on the bar, then scooped in the dollars that was waiting on him. "Be careful. You know the streets are not safe at this time of night."
Estefania said nothing as she pulled me through the door after her.
ROUND 9
Outside, Estefania let go of my hand and I missed the warmth and the strength of her grip. Swinging the jacket around her shoulders, she pulled it on. She walked down the block and I followed, trailing her like a lost puppy.
She snapped a glance at me. "What are you doing?"
I shrugged and felt sheepish. "I dunno. I wasn't the one that decided to leave."
Estefania blew out a quick breath that sent a lock of hair flying and sounded as frustrated as all get out. "Men. You are all so stupid."
"You wanna talk stupid?" I admit, I was a little miffed because I didn't know what was what at the moment, and I didn't like being confused. "Punching that guy in the mouth back there, that was pretty stupid."
"Yet I was not the one he punched."
She had a point. I still tasted blood.
"I would have ducked his punch and kicked him in his cojones." Estefania frowned at me. "This is something I have done many times before."
I stepped a little to the side and gave her more room, in case she felt like doing it again. "I didn't think he would hit me."
"Hah! Then you are a fool. Men in bars, they always hit you."
I shook my head. "Not me. Some of them show good sense. Like his buddies."
She looked at me again. This time she smiled, and I thought it was in spite of herself. "I suppose this is true. You are quite large."
I shrugged as we threaded through the sidewalk crowded with looky-loos and window shoppers that hadn't decided on a club for the night. Havana got a lot of action from the locals and the tourists.
"But so is a bull, and it is not very smart either." Estefania pulled her attention back to the sidewalk traffic. I had to step lively to keep up. "A bull usually ends up on a plate somewhere."
I got a little peeved at that. Maybe she figured she'd saved me from a pounding down in the basement, but I was beginning to feel like I'd rather go ten rounds against a dozen guys than trail after her and get insulted.
"Maybe we'd be better off not talking."
Estefania shot me an unpleasant look. "You should find someone else to follow."
"I'm not following you."
"Yet, there you are."
"I'm walking you home."
"No, you're not." She laughed at me like I was an idiot.
I put a little more force into my voice. "Yes, I am. Filiberto back there told you the streets wasn't safe."
"I walk myself home every night."
"No you don't."
"How would you know?"
"The way Filiberto made it sound, you don't."
She didn't say anything to that.
"So how much farther is your home, 'cause I'm telling you now that I'm getting tired of the company." That wasn't true, but I was feeling a little raw.
"Then you should find better company."
"I will. Soon as I get you home."
"Do not exhaust yourself over me."
"I'm not. I don't mind stretching my legs. Night air can be good for you."
Cars whistled by out on the street and I couldn't help noticing that a lot of them was new American models. That meant some ship somewhere was bringing them in from the mainland. I figured I'd tell the cap'n about the shipping possibilities, but I also figured he probably already knew. The Italians was making big changes in the city. The cars matched up with the glitz and glamor of the casinos and hotels, shoving aside the Old World pirate town that Havana had been.
Then I realized that the pirates hadn't left. They'd just put on flashy suits and imported American cars. Things hadn't improved, just changed, and not necessarily for the better of the people that lived here.
Estefania jammed her hands in the pockets of her jacket and ignored me for a while. That was okay because I liked my own company and there was plenty to see.
She sighed and stopped, wheeling to face me. "If you keep following me, I am going to call the police."
Over her shoulder, I spotted a police cruiser easing down the street. I shrugged. "Long as the cop will take you home, that's fine by me." I nodded. "There's one now. Want me to flag him down?" I stepped toward the curb and started to raise my arm.
"Idiot." Estefania seized my arm in hers and pulled me back along the sidewalk. The police car slowed down just a moment to check us out, then passed on. "The police here are just as dangerous as the Italians. Many of them work for Meyer Lansky and the others."
"If you say so." I happily matched my gait to hers.
"I do. This is a dangerous town."
"All the more reason to walk you home."
Frowning, she looked up at me. "Do you make a habit out of rescuing women?"
"I try not to. It gets me into a lot of trouble sometimes." I shrugged. "But I can't walk away from it either."
She considered me for a moment. "Do you have a name?"
"Yes."
She looked at me.
I made her wait.
Frustrated, she gave in. "What is your name?"
"Michael Flynn. My friends call me Mick."
"I will call you Mr. Flynn."
Ouch. She gave as good as she took. But she tightened her grip on my arm and leaned into me for warmth when the wind picked up.
"Have you eaten, Mr. Flynn?"
I had, but I'm a big guy. I knew I could eat again, no problem.
ROUND 10
Estefania took me to a little hole-in-the-wall place back off the main drag. The restaurant was small, a mom and pop joint that didn't waste any money on the frills and extras, but was filled with the scent of heaven. Even though it had only been a short time since I'd eaten, when we tucked into a corner table and Estefania ordered for us, I ate like a starved hound.
At first, I was embarrassed by my manners, but then I noticed that Estefania wasn't shy about putting away the grub either. We didn't talk while we demolished our plates and drank beer. I liked that she was a beer drinker.
Afterward, we had coffee and I enjoyed the company. Estefania was more pleasant now, and I wondered if I'd just caught her off her feed earlier. She was a talker when she got started, too, but I wasn't no slouch when it came to spinning a tale or two.
She told me about Havana, and I told her about some of the places I'd been. She wanted to go to the United States, not to Miami because she figured that wasn't much different than Havana. I didn't correct her. Her dream was going to Los Angeles, to Hollywood.
"I have seen some of the movie stars, you know." She held her coffee cup in her hands and peered at me over it. "I have seen them here in Havana. Errol Flynn. Ava Gardner. William Holden." She smiled at the memory, and I noticed she had a nice smile.
I sipped my coffee and didn't say anything. Movie stars didn't mean much to me, but I liked Lauren Bacall. Sometimes overseas, I'd catch a radio broadcast of her and Humphrey Bogart doing Bold Venture, a series supposedly set in Havana. I loved her voice. And I liked Bogart because Father Tim liked Bogart and had taken the boys to a few matinees where his pictures was showing.
"I think I would like very much to see Hollywood."
"Then you should."
Estefania shook her head. "It is a big dream."
"Dreams are what keep us going."
She looked at me in surprise, and truth to tell, I was kinda surprised I'd said that too. I blamed it on the beer and the mood set by the candle-lit restaurant.
"So what are your dreams, Mr. Flynn?"
I shrugged. "Don't have any."
"No?" She arched an eyebrow and I liked the way she did that.
"No." I thought a minute because I knew she wasn't gonna let it go. "I was overseas in Korea. I fought in the war."
She sobered up at that and leaned back a little.
"Once I got out of there, I just wanted to see as much of the world as I could. So I'm sailing with Wide Bertha and seeing what I can see."
"You do not have a family?"
"A brother. Patrick. He lives in Los Angeles. He's seen plenty of movie stars, and I got to tell you, he ain't that impressed."
She smiled. "No parents?"
I shook my head. "Me and Patrick lost them when we was young. Grew up in an orphanage."
"I am sorry. I did not mean to bring up bad memories."
I grinned at her. "Except for the nuns, the memories ain't so bad. Me and Patrick was close. Father Tim taught us to box. We grew up and got on with our lives. I can't kick about that."
"Still, it is a terrible thing to grow up without parents."
"You still have yours?"
She nodded. "My father." She sipped her coffee. "He was a fisherman, but there was an accident that crushed his legs. He is crippled and I take care of him."
"Must be tough."
"Some days, yes. Some days, no." Estefania looked at me. "I love him very much. That makes a difference."
"Yeah, I guess it would."
"That's why I work at the bar. To provide for my father and me."
"What about your mother?"
"She left my father -- and me -- after the accident. I was twelve. Those years...were very hard. We barely got by, but we did. Then I started working as a maid in the hotels when I turned fifteen and things got better." She smiled proudly. "Now, we don't have much, but we have each other, you know?"
I nodded. "Family's important."
"It is most important." Estefania glanced at a clock on the wall. "And I should be getting home soon. My father will be worried about me."
"Sure. Now, just so we're clear, may I walk you home?"
She smiled at me. "Wouldn't you do that anyway?"
"Yes, but it's better to ask."
Her cheeks dimpled and she looked very pretty. "Then, since you are a gentleman, I will allow it."
It had been a long time since I had met anyone like Estefania.
\*\*\*
Before we left, Estefania got a dinner to go for her father. Then I walked her home, her arm through mine as she leaned on me.
We reached a small apartment building a few blocks away in a neighborhood that reminded me of where I grew up in Chicago in St. Vincent's. There wasn't as much hope in that neighborhood as there was desperation.
Estefania stopped me at the door to the building. She smiled up at me. "This is as far as you go."
I was disappointed, but I nodded. "Thanks for having dinner with me."
"Thank you for dinner. And for walking me home. That was most kind."
"It was my pleasure." I hesitated. "Look, we're gonna be in port for a few days while the cap'n squares things away. Maybe I could take you to dinner again? Maybe a movie where you could look at some of them Hollywood stars?"
"I would like that." Estefania stood on tiptoe and kissed my cheek. Then she told me good night and went into the building.
I turned my steps back toward Wide Bertha and touched my tongue to the split in my cheek. The night hadn't been bad at all.
ROUND 11
The morning, though, turned lousy.
Me and the crew was shifting cargo, offloading the stuff we'd brung and making room for new cargo the cap'n would be taking on, when Falcone and his boys showed up. The early afternoon sun beat down on me like a hammer to an anvil, and the breeze coming in off the Caribbean wasn't hardly enough to help cool me even though I was stripped to the waist.
"Hey, Mick." Sandbag stood at the ship's railing and peered down dockside with an agitated look on his long face. "We got company."
I walked over and watched Falcone get out of one of them fancy American cars. He wore a nice suit and dark sunglasses, and the three gorillas with him wore nice suits too. All of them was heeled and I saw that immediately because nice suits ain't always tailored to cover shoulder holsters. Marcell Simbari was there too, also dressed in a suit, but he didn't look to be carrying no iron.
I leaned on the railing and felt the sweat running down my face. I wiped my stubbled jaw against my shoulder. This couldn't be good.
Sandbag hollered at Hank Plaster, who was tying off a shipment in cargo netting to be lowered by boom arm later. "Go get the cap'n."
Hank took a look over the side, then lit out at once.
Me and Sandbag, we'd been in rough ports before, and the cap'n had prepared for sticky situations. Pirates operated in the South China Sea and other places. We retreated to the wheelhouse and opened up the hidey-holes under the radio equipment where we kept the guns. I took out an M-1 Garand and a .45, shoved the pistol into my waistband, and headed back to the railing with the rifle in my fist. Sandbag carried a combat shotgun equipped with a sling.
By the time we got back to the railing, the cap'n was already limping out with the Tommy gun in hand. He glared at me and Sandbag and shifted his cigar to the other side of his mouth. "Something you swabs wanna tell me about?"
Sandbag shook his head. I kept my mouth shut.
"You don't know what this is about?" The cap'n's wooden leg thumped against the deck.
"No, sir." I fell into step beside the cap'n. "We saw Falcone last night, but we didn't have nothing to do with him."
The cap'n cursed, stepped up to the railing, and peered down. I held the M-1 at the ready beside him.
Below, Falcone spotted us and our hardware and stopped dead in his tracks. His boys started to reach under their jackets, but Falcone waved them off. "I'm looking for the ship's captain."
The cap'n didn't hesitate. "You're looking at him."
"We need to talk."
"You're doing that too."
"I thought maybe we could talk aboard your boat."
"She's a ship, and that ain't gonna happen. We ain't entertaining right now."
One of the men stepped forward, bristling like an old boar. "Hey, old man, maybe you don't know who you're talking to."
Easylike, the cap'n dropped that Tommy gun into position and covered the man. "Maybe you want to step back and let the adults talk. While you're still able to step. And breathe."
Immediately, the man moved backward, but he cursed and looked embarrassed.
Falcone just stood there. "My name's Falcone. Maybe you heard of me."
"I heard of you. State your piece and get on your way. These men work for a living and I'm a busy man."
"There was an incident last night."
The cap'n didn't say anything.
"Your men there," Falcone pointed at me, "disrespected my boxer."
The cap'n spoke to me, but he never took his eyes from Falcone and his boys. "That true?"
"No sir. I never spoke to his boxer." I kept my voice low so only the cap'n could hear.
The cap'n raised his voice again. "My man says he didn't talk to your boxer."
Simbari stepped forward. "Your man disrespected my fight by starting a brawl."
I spoke quietly again. "I didn't start that brawl."
The cap'n nodded and spoke softly. "But you finished it."
"Yes sir. A drunk was manhandling a waitress."
The cap'n sighed.
Falcone shot his cuffs. "So you see how it is, captain. There's an issue of disrespect. My boxer got his moment of glory taken from him because of your man's bad manners. There needs to be some restitution."
"Restitution?" The cap'n's voice rose, and that was never a good sign.
"Yeah, it means -- "
A frown shadowed the cap'n's dark face. "I know what it means. I'm just surprised you can string together so many syllables."
"What?" Falcone started to reach under his jacket.
I fired a round into his fancy car and shattered the passenger window in the back so that Falcone would have an airy ride back to wherever it was he was gonna go when we was done.
If he lived.
Glass spilled out onto the dock and people scattered all around us.
Coolly, Falcone took his hand back from his jacket. Message received. "You're making a big mistake here."
"No, I ain't. The day I start letting myself -- or my crew -- get shoved around by the likes of you is the day I take this ship out in deep water and go down with her." The cap'n nodded at the car. "You boys had best just pack up and go before this turns into something you can't walk away from."
For a moment, Falcone held his ground and I thought things was about to turn bloody. He was a stubborn man, but I knew the cap'n would kill him in an eyeblink. I'd seen him shoot men before.
Then Falcone waved to his boys and they all piled back into the car, but they all made a show of that retreat being the last thing they wanted to do. Glass crunched under the tires as they drove away.
Cap'n Slidell stood there a while longer and watched over the dock. I knew what he was looking for. I was looking for it too. Falcone might have left some of his boys behind in hiding that might try something. If they did, they was gonna find out how good I could shoot. The Marines trained me good.
Finally, though, the cap'n perched the Tommy gun over his shoulder and looked at me and Sandbag. "We're gonna be in port here for about a week while I get things settled. You boys are gonna want to be careful while you're out gallivanting around."
"Yes sir."
"It would be better if you boys stayed aboard the ship. You know that, right? But I guess that would be too much to ask."
Me and Sandbag didn't say nothing. We liked our liberty, and I wouldn't one to tuck my tail when the going got rough.
"At least stay outta that man's place of business." The cap'n struck a match and set new fire to his cigar. "Them boys might have backed off today, but if they get the upper hand, they're gonna take their pound of flesh."
I nodded.
The cap'n headed back to his cabin where he was setting up the load. "You ain't drawing pay to stand around, are you?"
"No sir." I headed back to the wheelhouse to put the weapons away.
ROUND 12
Over the next three nights, we fought shy of the Mermaid's Pearl when we got liberty, but I dropped by long enough to ask Estefania out to dinner. She agreed. She was curious about why me and the crew didn't bring our business there, but when I explained about Falcone, she understood.
She'd looked at me with concern. "Stay away from Falcone. He's a bad man. He's not as big as some of the other bosses, but he's part of Luciano's group."
I said I understood and we agreed to meet up after her shift ended. We had a good time that night, and there was plenty of things to do even that late at night. Afterward, we took to meeting a block down from the bar.
On Tuesday, the third time we went out together, she got off before eight and we took in a movie. It was called Blood Alley and starred John Wayne and Lauren Bacall. The fact that it was about a merchant marine captain fighting his way clear of Shanghai made it even better.
After the movie, Estefania asked me if Shanghai was really like that, and I told her it was worse. Them movie folks, they couldn't show how bad the world really was. Then again, things in Havana was pretty bad too, so Estefania already pretty much knew the score and I wasn't telling her something she didn't know.
We got along great, me and her. I met her father, and he was a polite old geezer who really knew how to spin a tale. We knocked back a few beers over dinners during the next couple days. Estefania made dinner one night, and I bought Chinese takeout the next. There was a lotta Chinese living in Havana, brought over to help out with all the construction, and they had restaurants too.
Overall, I was happy, happier than I'd been in a while, but I knew it was gonna end pretty soon. Cap'n Slidell would have his cargo together and we'd be pulling up anchor. I didn't kid myself, and neither did Estefania. Both of us knew we was gonna get pulled in different directions. I had a ship to get back to, and Estefania had her father.
But what we had, we enjoyed as much as we could.
That Friday night, though, things got sideways.
\*\*\*
I was sitting on the steps outside the apartment building, just knocking back a beer and spinning stories for Estefania. It was about two in the morning and she'd only got off shift a couple hours ago. Cap'n Slidell was wanting to weigh anchor by Monday night or Tuesday morning, depending on a couple deals he had hanging in the balance.
We was gonna be shipping farm equipment, picking up a load from a ship that was laid up in anchorage. I wasn't looking forward to leaving or to handling the load. Freight that big got dangerous out on the open sea when a storm blew up outta nowhere. A tractor got loose on us once and killed Mitch Miller while we was headed to Singapore.
I'd nearly got to the bottom of the bottle, Estefania was holding my hand, and things was feeling about as right as they could be. Then Morrie Wilson came running up the alley in front of Estefania's apartment. I'd made sure all of the crew knew where to find me if something went wrong.
Morrie was about stove up when he got to me. I had to flag him down out of the darkness when he headed into the building.
"Hey."
He froze in the doorway, then turned around to face me with a look of panic. "Mick! You gotta come quick!" He ran over and grabbed my arm as I got to my feet.
"What's going on?"
"It's Lou."
"What about him?" Lou Hendricks was a Virginian, a young guy about my age. He told his war stories from the Army's point of view, but they came outta Korea too. I had a lot of respect for him.
"He's about to get himself killed over a woman."
That wasn't no surprise. Lou had an easy way with the women, part of the Southern charm of his, and he was a good looking man. The biggest problem Lou had was that he never asked if a woman was married.
Morrie pulled on my arm again. I excused myself from Estefania and took off like a shot. The sound of our running footsteps echoed through the alley as we splashed through the puddles left by the evening's rain.
ROUND 13
Sandbag and the crew had dropped anchor in a dive called The Blue Light, and I could tell straightaway that it was a place built for trouble. There was dancing girls in the place, and most of 'em hardly had a stitch on. I ain't a saint and I got me an eyeful as I looked around for the crew. I been in a lot of places like that bar, and I ain't proud to tell it, but men are gonna be men, and strange ports mean you ain't gonna have to hang around long to explain yourself or apologize in a confessional.
Everybody inside the club was jumping around and trying to get a good look at the fight going on in the middle of the floor. Lou and Sandbag was tied up with a couple toughs and going at it pretty hot and heavy. Punches was flying and curses was hot on their heels.
I shoved my watch cap into my jacket pocket and stripped out of the jacket while I looked at Morrie. "You wanna tell me what started this?" Sometimes it helped to know what the stakes was.
"One of those guys claimed Lou was sweet talking his girl."
"Was he?"
Morrie looked at me, then at the nearly naked dancers on the stage in the center of the room. "I haven't seen labels on any of these girls."
Well, I didn't have an argument for that. About that time, them boys Lou and Sandbag was fighting had about a dozen friends join in the fracas. I waded in then, and Wide Bertha's crew waded in after me.
Things got real confusing real fast. I grabbed hold of guys I didn't know, hauled them off of Lou and Sandbag, and elbowed and kneed everybody that got in the way. There wasn't much room for boxing in all that. Things turned into a brawl. Tables and chairs got broke. One of the poles the dancers hung onto while performing got knocked down. Girls squealed. Guys standing outside the fight threw beer bottles and glasses at everybody throwing punches.
I think we had a shot at regrouping. Me and Sandbag was bellowing at the top of our voice, getting our boys together and getting ready to make a run for the door when we had the chance. Before we could make that happen, though, Cuban soldiers sprinted into the room and brought out their billys. They didn't care who they hit, and those hardwood clubs smacked pretty good.
I coulda got loose, but I wasn't one to desert my shipmates. I got down on my knees and put my hands behind my back when one of them soldiers told me to. Then his buddy that I didn't see until it was too late cracked me upside the head with his billy and things went dark awful quick.
\*\*\*
When I regained conscious, I had a throbbing headache. I also knew I was in jail without opening my eyes. The smell told me that. You get that much body odor and urine and alcohol fumes together in one place, jail was the only place you could be this side of Hell.
I was lying on my back on a stone floor. I had my arm slung over my face to block out the light. A bunch of voices kept at each other all around me. Most of 'em was whining and cursing, and a few of 'em was accusing each other of starting the fight. Other people was telling them to shut up.
Wearily, knowing I was gonna regret it, I pulled my arm off my face and sat up. A dizzy spell spun through my head, swift as a spider throwing a web. I lifted my hand to my head and traced my fingertips over the goose egg that sprouted up from my skull. I tested my sight in the dim light, but didn't think I was seeing double vision. That was a good sign.
The headache, though, screamed at me something fierce.
"Mick? Mick, you okay?" Sandbag sat on a bed bolted into the wall just above me. I supposed he'd been looking over me. My watch was missing, but the soldiers musta taken that because I knew Sandbag wouldn't have let one of our fellow prisoners take it while he was there.
"Yeah." I put a hand against the wall and made my way to my feet. My head spun like a whirligig, but it stayed on my shoulder and I figured that was a pretty good thing.
The small jail cell held over thirty men. All of our crew looked to be there, some of the other guys we'd been fighting, and a lot of drunks that was a mix of Cubans and Americans.
I looked over at Sandbag. "How long we been in here?"
He shrugged and leaned back on the bed. "A few hours. It's almost morning, I think."
I gave the cell the onceover and realized there was no windows in the room outside the cell. I guessed we was locked up in a basement facility somewhere. "The Army has us?"
"Said they was military police."
"You see any difference in that?"
"Nope." Sandbag scooted over on the bed and I sat down beside him.
"They mention any charges?"
Sandbag smiled at me sourly. "They wasn't in a talkative mood when they brung us in." He had some bumps and bruises of his own, and I figured that some of them was from the Cuban soldiers. My ribs and back told me they musta been spiteful when they had us down. I been kicked enough when I was down to know what it felt like.
I leaned back against the wall and some of the dizziness left, but it was only making room for more pain. "I don't suppose there's any chance of breakfast?"
Sandbag threw me a crooked grin.
\*\*\*
Cap'n Slidell came for us around noon. He wasn't happy. His wooden leg clomped through the hallway leading down to the cell and announced his presence. Every one of us stood like we was at inspection, and it kinda reminded me of when Father Tim called us on the carpet back at Our Lady of the Glass Jaw.
The cap'n didn't say nothing, just waved at the door, then pointed out his crew. The Cuban soldiers routed us outta there pretty quick, and we followed the cap'n like ducklings, all in a row.
Out in front of the building, the cap'n pointed to an old cargo truck parked at the curb. He clambered up into the cab while me and the crew hauled ourselves into the back. We looked at each other while we was back there, and we was a sorry lot. About half the crew was hungover and plumb wore out from sitting in jail all night.
Nobody felt like talking, so we didn't.
\*\*\*
A few minutes later, we climbed outta the truck on the dock in front of Wide Bertha. The cap'n paid the driver, then walked over to us where we stood gathered at the foot of the gangplank. He squinted at me and Sandbag. "Somebody wanna tell me why I had to go bail out my crew?"
I started to say something, but I really didn't know how to tell it because I hadn't been there. Sandbag put up a hand like a kid in grade school and I let him tell it.
"Mick wasn't there when the fight broke out, Cap'n. He come up to lend a hand. What it was, was this. Lou was talking to one of the dancers where we was. That's all, just talking."
Lou, his pomade knocked loose from the fight and untended all night, nodded vigorously. "That's right. It was just talk. Then this big goon -- "
Sandbag held up a hand. "This big goon came outta nowhere and coldcocked Lou. I think he was out on a feet."
Lou grimaced. "Aww, I was doing all right."
Everybody took in his black eyes and bloody nose, and nobody believed that bilge. Oney blew a raspberry, but he didn't blow it very loud.
Sandbag went on with his story. "This guy says the girl belongs to him, and that Lou was trying to make time with his girl. Personally, I think the girl was just turning Lou into a poor man, one dollar at a time, fleecing him like a sheep."
"Hey." Lou looked embarrassed. "She's helping support her family."
"I went over to pull the guy off Lou, and the next thing I know, there's another guy jumps into the mix."
The cap'n frowned at that. "To defend his buddy's honor or something?"
"Don't know." Sandbag lifted his shoulders and let them drop. "He took a slice outta the middle. Caught me in the ear before I knew he was there."
"You get this guy's name?" The cap'n tugged at one ear and squinted a bit, and I knew he was thinking pretty hard.
I was too. A fella that let his girl dance in one of them places like The Blue Light ain't got no kick coming on how she made her money. Or who gave it to her. The girls I knew that worked in those places knew that. If they had a fella, they kept business and pleasure separate.
"No, cap'n. There wasn't no business card in his fist, and we never got around to properly introducing ourselves."
The cap'n looked at me. "You get a look at these guys?"
"Yeah." And as I stood there I got to thinking about them men. "They wasn't your usual riff-raff. They come at us like they knew what they was doing. And there was plenty of them."
A curse ripped from the cap'n's lips. He pulled his cap down on his head and clomped up the gangplank to Wide Bertha. We followed, but I suspicioned I knew what he had on his mind. And my guts was turned cold by it.
When we reached the top of the gangplank, me and the cap'n saw Eddie Doughtry lying on the deck with blood pooling under his head.
ROUND 14
The cap'n stomped over to Eddie fast as he could go, but me having two good feet instead of one, I beat him by plenty. Gently, I rolled Eddie over and checked him. He looked like he was breathing okay, but somebody had rapped him pretty good on the forehead. He had a gash there that was gonna need stitches. That was where all the blood was coming from.
Eddie was one of the ship's favorites, a redheaded Irishman from Galway who had him a temper, but also a singing voice that was an amazing thing. He didn't like singing in front of nobody, but when you worked a dogwatch with him, sometimes you could hear him singing. He could break your heart. Nobody knew why he'd signed on with us, but we all suspected it was from some kind of trouble. He went back to see his wife and three kids on leave whenever he could, and we all knew he missed them.
Gingerly, the cap'n got down on one knee and inspected Eddie alongside me. "He hurt anywhere besides his head?" he asked.
"Not that I can see. Mouth's cut up and his cheeks are bruised. Looks like he got slapped around some."
Leaning down, the cap'n slapped Eddie gently on the cheek. "Hey. Hey. Can you hear me, Irish?"
"Aye, cap'n." Eddie answered while blinking his eyes like he was doing Morse code. But even though he was speaking, I knew he wasn't all together yet. He'd had his bell rung pretty good.
"What happened?"
With some effort, Eddie focused on the cap'n. Flailing an arm out, Eddie tried to sit up but couldn't manage on his own. I helped him sit up, so he could tell it.
"I was watching the ship like you told me, Cap'n. Keeping an eye on things. Wasn't long after you left, these guys got aboard and surprised me."
"Got aboard how?"
Eddie shook his head and regretted it. His eyeballs swam in their sockets for a second. "Don't know. All I know is they were there. Couldn't have been more'n a couple minutes after you left."
Well, I got me a bad feeling then, and I was rarely wrong when it came to bad feelings. The cap'n did too. I saw it in the way he grimaced a little.
About that time, Sandbag stuck his head out of the wheelhouse. "Cap'n, we been robbed. The petty cash we keep on hand for harbor fees is missing."
And that wasn't all.
\*\*\*
Finding out how bad things was only took a matter of minutes. The crew went belowdecks to their quarters and found the rooms had been tossed. Since Wide Bertha was a cargo ship, every square inch of her was space we could sell, so we didn't take much of that space up. Not even the cap'n.
That meant whoever come aboard hadn't had to do much searching. They just had to be crafty and know what they was doing. The boys who cracked Eddie on the noggin evidently knew that because we was cleaned out.
"Wharf rats. That has to be who done it." Sandbag tossed his hammock against the wall. Whoever had taken our stuff had cut the hammocks free too, causing as much damage as they could.
Every port had its version of wharf rats, kids and men who lived off what they could steal from untended ships lying at anchorage. While we was in town, we laid off hands in shifts, always keeping somebody back at the ship. That was usually the cap'n because he didn't go ashore much. Eddie had been took sick yesterday, hungover from the night before.
I didn't buy the wharf rats answer. Not completely. "Them boys got awful lucky coming when they did in daylight."
Sandbag caught my tack then. Port thieves usually worked at night, when ships was mostly vacant of hands and all they had to outwit was security people. He folded his arms and cussed. "You're saying it wasn't luck. They planned on being here."
"Yeah. They knew we was in jail, and they just waited for the cap'n to come fetch us." I felt like the world's biggest fool, and I didn't like that feeling one bit.
\*\*\*
As it turned out, things was worse than I thought. In steerage, I knocked on the door of the cap'n's private quarters. I was plenty riled up and fit to be tied.
"Come in." The cap'n sounded like a bear in a cave, and he didn't sound like himself.
Me and Sandbag crowded the door when I opened it.
The cap'n sat on his bed and held a whiskey bottle in one hand. He had a bleak look on his face. "Well, we got problems, boys."
Slowly, me and Sandbag entered the room. The cap'n lived simple, had a few knickknacks he'd picked up from all around the world, each one of 'em with a special story if you ever got him to tell you about it. He kept that space clean and neat. His logbook lay on a small desk along one wall and shelf of pigeonholes was filled with bills of lading, contracts, and permits.
I hunkered down and let my hands hang, waiting because I knew the cap'n wasn't gonna tell it till he was ready.
He took a big swig off that whiskey bottle and looked at me and Sandbag. "They found my stash, boys. Plumb cleaned me out. Took every nickel I had stashed back to see us outta port."
ROUND 15
When the Havana police arrived, I was still trying to wrap my head around being broke. Not me personally. I been broke plenty of times. Me and cash money always seemed to find each other, then we'd hang out for a while and end up going our separate ways.
But ever since I come away from Korea, Wide Bertha had been there for me, as sturdy and as sure as anything I'd ever known in my life. Maybe she was sitting fine at anchorage, but I swear I felt her spinning and uneasy beneath my boots. For the first time, I heard how hollow she sounded as I walked across her deck. Like she was as brittle as early morning frost.
The cap'n dealt with them police. Me and the crew had had a bellyful of them after last night. We occupied ourselves with shifting cargo, but our hearts wasn't in it. We was all waiting for the other shoe to drop, and all of knew what was going on because the cap'n wasn't one to hide things from us. That was what made us as tight as we was.
\*\*\*
We was down in the hold, sweating like all the devils in Hell, when the cap'n finished up with the police and came down to speak to us. He stood on the ladder so we could all see him, and he looked under the weather.
"Boys, I ain't gonna lie to you. We're in a hard spot." The cap'n jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "I talked to them coppers till I was blue, and they ain't got much sympathy for us. If they find whoever done this, it's gonna be a miracle. And I ain't never been no big believer in miracles."
"We know who done it." Sandbag's words was hot, and ever' manjack in that cargo hold agreed with him. "It was Falcone and his buddies. What we ought to do is grab our guns and go after him."
A lot of the men agreed with Sandbag, but I didn't. I'd learned my fighting in Korea. If I decided to punch Falcone's ticket, and the verdict was out on that at the moment, I'd do it where I could get it done instead of just dying confronting some of them lowlifes that followed him like clownfish around a jellyfish.
"Well, that'd do a lot of good, wouldn't it?" The cap's sounded all snarly and nasty, and I couldn't blame him. "Just jump up and go charging after Falcone, so we can get mowed down?"
The crew thought about that for a moment, and I figured some of them had seen the error of their ways. Them boys was brave in their own way, taking on whatever the sea and storms would throw at them, but they wasn't in the same weight class as Falcone's torpedoes.
The cap'n waved at them. "Meaning no disrespect, boys, but I think I can come up with a better play than that."
Sandbag shook his head. "Then what are we gonna do?"
"We're gonna prepare to ship outta here just like we planned."
"Port authority ain't gonna let us sail until we settle up with the harbormaster."
"So, we'll have to come up with a little scratch before we do." The cap'n stroked his beard. "We can do it. We done it before when times got hard and we lost cargoes or ended up eating a shipment of perishables."
That was how the shipping business was at times. Always risky. But I never knew nothing in my life that wasn't.
"I want you boys to continue your work here."
Hank Plaster groaned. "C'mon, cap'n. Ain't none of us got no sleep last night."
"You can sleep tonight, and not till then. I pay you a day's wages, I expect a day's work. And I'm docking you for them fines I paid this morning."
Hank hung his head, and all of us knew that was how it was gonna be.
The cap'n turned to me. "Mick, me and you got some business to tend to. Go grab a quick shower and a change of clothes, then meet me up on deck."
\*\*\*
Less than ten minutes later, I was up on deck. Truth to tell, the shower and change of clothes had done wonders for my mood, and I was almighty curious about what the cap'n had in mind. I found him in the wheelhouse, putting the last few stitches in Eddie Doughtry's forehead.
I leaned over the cap'n's shoulder and watched him tying off a knot. Cap'n Slidell made fishing lures in his spare time, and he had a steady hand with knots. Eddie's forehead looked like it had been run through a sewing machine, all the stitches neat and close-set.
"How do I look?" Eddie grinned up at him. His eyes was glassy from the cap'n's hootch.
"Like you're drunk."
Eddie grinned bigger. "Almost there. Cap'n's giving me the rest of the day off. I'll get the rest of the way drunk before I'm done."
"I reckon you will. Stitches look good."
"The cap'n always sews us up nice."
Stepping back, the cap'n eyed his handiwork, then took the bottle back from Eddie and took a sip of his own. He handed me the bottle and I took a drink as well.
The cap'n took the bottle back when I offered it. "You ready to go?"
I nodded.
After another swig, the cap'n handed the bottle back to Eddie and told him to hit the rack. Eddie stumbled off like he was in a gale force wind.
Without a word, the cap'n went to our hidey-hole and removed two pistols, a .45 semi-auto and a .38 Chiefs. He handed me the .45 and kept the wheel gun for himself.
I looked at him. "I thought you said guns was a bad idea."
"No, going after Falcone with a gun is a bad idea. We ain't doing that." The cap'n shoved the .38 in front pocket of his khakis.
I tucked the .45 in the back of my waistband. "You wanna tell me what we're gonna do?"
"Yeah, stay alive. Go see what we can do about rectifying this situation." The cap'n tugged at his beard. "Guys like Falcone that stoop to something like this, they ain't nearly as smart as they think they are. We're gonna figure out a way to let him know that, and get us a payday outta this bad bit of business at the same time."
He headed for the deck and I followed, mighty curious.
ROUND 16
We went to four bars, all of 'em dives, before we found one the cap'n seemed happy with. He looked around, sniffed the air, then headed toward a table in the back where he took a chair that allowed him to look out over the bar.
I sat to his right at nine o'clock, covering the rest of the bar and everything behind the cap'n. I shifted around so I knew I could get to the .45 quick if I needed to.
A waitress came by and the cap'n ordered two beers and two ham sandwiches with chips. When the food and drinks came at the same time, the cap'n blew the foam off his beer and pushed his sandwich over to me. "I already ate."
I didn't hesitate. I hadn't had anything to eat since last night, and I hadn't had a chance to grab any grub on Wide Bertha. I hadn't said anything about it because I knew the cap'n had his mind full. But he hadn't forgotten about me.
I wolfed down the sandwiches and chips and made the beer last the same as the cap'n did. After an hour or so of sitting there, a man came in that the cap'n recognized.
The guy, a little Chinese man, recognized the cap'n at about the same time. They swapped looks, then the cap'n waved him over. Looking a little cautious, the Chinese man wandered over to us.
Then the cap'n surprised me, speaking Mandarin like he was a native. I had a few words of the lingo myself, but I couldn't speak it like the cap'n could. Words flew between the two of them, then the man joined us at our table and knocked an unfiltered cigarette out of a pack and lit up. A blue-gray fog eddied around his head.
The Chinese man looked older than the cap'n, but that didn't mean anything, because I knew them people was always older than most people thought. Which mean this guy had to have been ancient. His face was thin and narrow like a cat's, and his eyes was cold and hard.
I couldn't say that I warmed up to him too much. I'd killed plenty of men who looked like him over in Korea. Some guys I knew said they could see the difference between Koreans, Chinese, and Japanese, but I never could.
"Mick, this here's a buddy of mine. Tu Li. Li, this is one of my crew, Mickey Flynn."
I started to offer my hand, then remembered the Chinese wasn't overly fond of that tradition, and nodded instead. Li nodded back.
Li took a drag off his cigarette and eyed me through the smoke. "You big man."
"Yeah." I didn't know what else to say.
"You fighter?"
I didn't know what he was asking and wondered if he wanted to know if I'd been a soldier.
"You fighter?" This time he touched his right eye and I knew he was talking about the bruise I had there. In case there was any confusion, he doubled up his fists and shadowboxed. Ash fell from his cigarette.
"Some. I fight some."
Li nodded. "You good fighter?"
"Yeah. I'm a good fighter."
He took one of my hands. I let him only because the cap'n gave me the nod. The old man traced the calluses and scar tissue on my knuckles and felt the muscles of my palm. Without a word, he gave me my hand back.
Then Li swiveled his attention from me to the cap'n again and they talked some more among themselves. I didn't have nothing to do and I was still hungry, so I flagged the waitress down for another sandwich. She brought it and some more chips before the cap'n and Li was through palavering.
Li watched me eat while he listened to the cap'n. Then, after I'd finished and was thinking about how good a nap woulda been about then, Li pushed up from the chair. He gave me a little bow and said goodbye. I told him goodbye and watched him leave.
I looked at the cap'n, who had signaled the waitress for another round of drinks. "You wanna tell me what that was about?"
"Li's part of the Chinese mob."
"That old guy?" I couldn't believe it.
"Yeah, and if he decides he doesn't like you, he'll slit your throat so quick you won't know it till you're standing in your own blood. He's got moves you ain't ever seen before."
I didn't say anything to that. Over in Hong Kong, Shanghai, and Malaysia, I seen some fighters. They got their own kind of boxing, and them boys was plenty tough. They got guys that beat on each other with small sticks, and I thought that wasn't nothing till I saw one of them fighters empty a whole bar with them sticks.
"So we came here to see him?"
The cap'n nodded. "Somebody like him. We needed information and I knew I couldn't go talk to them Italians. So, I figured we'd have better luck with the Chinese."
"Did we? Because I don't speak the language so good." I was more than a little irritated and I guess it sounded in my voice.
"Yeah, we had better luck." The cap'n took a sip of his fresh beer. "Li's gonna do some snooping around for us. Find out if Falcone was the one that hit Bertha."
"How's Li gonna do that?"
The cap'n smiled. "The Italians may run the casinos, the clubs, and the hotels, but the Chinese have got people cleaning tables, cooking, and making beds in all of those places. We'll find out. All we gotta do is sit tight here."
ROUND 17
"Wake up." The cap'n tapped me on the back of my head.
I woke still sitting in the chair I'd dozed off in at the bar. I came awake immediately. Korea had trained me to go from sleeping to alert in a heartbeat, and living aboard Wide Bertha and dealing with the sea and storms had kept me sharp. I had my fist on the .45 at my back and gazed around the bar.
"Easy." The cap'n spoke in a low voice, like we was just out for sandwiches.
I took my hand away from the pistol and spotted Tu Li at the bar getting a drink. I checked my watch and saw I'd been sleeping for a couple hours.
"Shoulda woke me." I drained the dregs of my beer.
"Wasn't no need." The cap'n pushed aside a couple empty beer glasses that wasn't there before. I guessed he'd kept himself occupied.
Tu Li carried three beers to the table and passed them out. I took mine and said thanks, then took a sip of the cold brew. It was a lot more welcome than them dregs had been.
The Chinaman and the cap'n talked in Mandarin for a while. It bored me listening to them because I wasn't able to keep track of it all, but I knew they was talking about Falcone.
And me.
I knew the Mandarin word for boxer because I'd been in some fights in Shanghai and Kowloon City. So when they was talking about "the boxer," I guessed they was talking about me. That made no sense to me and it made me keep thinking about Tu Li asking me if I was a fighter. The wily gleam in the cap'n's eye told me he was up to something, but I didn't know what. Sometimes he kept a couple games going on at the same time.
The cap'n took out a modest roll of cash and started to peel off some bills and sounded like he was apologizing. I suspected he was paying Tu Li for whatever information he'd gotten. Before the cap'n could get them bills loose, Tu Li closed his hand over the cap'n's and stopped him in his tracks.
They talked a moment more, and Cap'n Slidell looked as thankful as I'd ever seen him. Tu Li patted the cap'n on the shoulder, then he turned to me and lifted a clenched fist.
"You fight good. Always fight win, okay?"
I looked at him and nodded, not understanding nothing that was going on. "Yeah."
Tu Li lit up a fresh cigarette and walked outta the bar.
I looked at the cap'n and felt a little worried. "You wanna tell me what's going on?"
The cap'n took his pipe out of his shirt pocket and stuffed the bowl with tobacco. "Falcone jammed us up. He was behind the crew that robbed Wide Bertha."
I waved that away. "We already knew that."
"No, we suspected it. Now we know. Li confirmed that some of Falcone's cronies were talking it up."
Anger rose in me. I hated being played for a putz. "If he knows who we they are, we need to go after them. What are we doing sitting around here? We can go get our stuff back."
The cap'n sighed and shook his head. "Stow that. You got a lot to learn about how these things work, Mick."
I shook my head. "It's a simple world the way I see it. You hit me, I hit you back."
The cap'n chuckled and I got a little peeved at him. "That's a fool's game. The way it works is this: you hit me, I hit back harder. You don't fight to fight, Mick. You fight to win."
"I don't see the difference."
"We go after the guys who robbed us, we get some of the money back. Maybe not enough to weigh anchor. And we don't get to touch Falcone at all because you can bet your left eye he ain't left his hands dirty on this. If we move against him, them other Italians he's mobbed up with will drop on us like a ton of bricks." The cap'n shook his grizzled head. "Nope, what we need is a payday, and me and Li think we got one figured out."
I sipped my beer and shrugged. "What?"
The cap'n leaned in toward me with a crafty smile. "Falcone seems to put a lot of store by that boxer of his. Simbari."
"Yeah. So what?"
"So I figure the best way to get to Falcone is through his pride. In order to do that we gotta bait a hook and pull him in."
"What are you talking about?"
For a minute, the cap'n looked at me. "If I can get you in that ring with Simbari, do you think you can take him?"
I leaned back and sipped my beer. My pride told me to just say yes, but I knew the cap'n wanted an honest answer from me.
"I need to know the truth, Mick, because there's gonna be a lot riding on it."
I thought I saw where he was coming from then. "You plan on betting on the fight?"
"Yeah."
"With what?"
"I negotiated an agreement with Li. He's gonna back our play."
"He's gonna give you money to bet on me with?"
The cap'n nodded.
"And if I lose, you'll have to pay that back?"
"Yeah."
Truth to tell, I wanted to fight Simbari. Him and his big ego was what started all this trouble. I wanted to climb into that ring and pound him into the ground.
Trouble was, I wasn't sure I could do that. Simbari was a great fighter, had skills I knew I couldn't match. All I had going for me was the fact I was tough. When you put tough up against skills, tough don't always come out on top.
I eyed the cap'n. "Wouldn't it be better to take a loan from Li? Pay that off?"
The cap'n shrugged. "Sure, maybe I could swing a loan, but Li ain't in the loan business. He's in the money business. Him and his buddies would rather rake in a big score than have me making payments."
"They're gonna be betting on me too."
"Yeah."
I took in a deep breath and let it out. "I dunno. Guy's good at what he does, cap'n. No way of steering clear of that. I met Simbari in an alley, where rules wasn't gonna make no difference, sure, I could take him. When it comes to bare-knuckled scrapping, kicking, and gouging, I don't think he's seen too much of that. But a straight up fight, toe to toe, with a ref in the ropes too?" I shook my head. "Ain't nothing guaranteed about that."
The cap'n just grinned at me. "If it was guaranteed, it wouldn't be gambling, now would it?"
"Li and his buddies could be pretty sore if this goes south, couldn't they?"
"Don't you worry about that, Mick. One thing I know, Li and them friends of his like gambling. Gets their blood up. When I told Li about this, about you fighting Simbari, he was interested immediately. Li and his buddies have taken a drubbing from them Italians regarding the business over here. They're looking for some payback themselves." The cap'n showed me a crooked smile with a twinkle in his eye. "Could be this is what we're all looking for."
I smiled at the cap'n 'cause I know he wanted me to, but I wasn't feeling nowhere a sure about this thing as he was. I just kept remembering how I'd seen Simbari take the German apart in that ring.
ROUND 18
That night, I met Estefania on in front of her building. I'd been sitting there, jawing with her father, splitting a few beers I'd brought, and thinking about her.
When she saw me, her face lit up, then went dark again almost immediately.
"Oh, she's not happy with you, amigo. She has been worried about you all day, and you did not come back to let her know how you were." Her father took a draw on his cigarette and the orange coal flared brightly against his dark skin. His name was Esteban and his hands was hard and callused and scarred. He dropped one of them on my shoulder. "Do not think me a cowardly man, but this is not my fight."
Estefania's jaw was set tight and I dreaded what was coming.
Esteban put his beer between his thighs, gripped the wheels of his wheelchair, and spun smartly to go back into the building. I wished I was going with him. But I wasn't.
I stood and pulled my watch cap off and held it in my hands. "Good evening, Estefania."
She stopped in front of me, surveying the cuts and bruises that remained from the fracas the previous night. Maybe she wouldn't have maintained her stone face if I'd lost an ear. Or maybe an arm. But there I was, standing in front of her battered, but whole.
"So." She raised an arched eyebrow. "You finally decided to come calling?"
"Finally had a chance." I rubbed the back of my neck and wished words came easier to me. It was hard enough when there was no anger involved, and that girl was like a storm-tossed sea just building up to deliver all kinds of grief.
"Finally?" Well, it was plain to see she wasn't happy about that. "After I worried about you all day? All you had to do was get word to me to let me know how you were." She shook her head. "Am I truly the last thing on your list, Mr. Flynn? If so, I'm not interested in talking to you anymore."
"Can I say something here?"
"No. I believe I know where you stand. I have met many men like you." Hurt knotted up her face and made her words sharp as broken glass. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go make my father's dinner." She started to step around me.
I caught her shoulders in my hands, and I knew it was the wrong thing to do, but I did it before I knew I was gonna do it. She slapped me hard enough to turn my head and smart something fierce, but I didn't let go of her. I understood her anger. When you're in the world alone, you don't let your defenses down, you don't let anybody in close. Somehow, I'd got in under her defenses, and me not having the decency to let her know I was okay after getting picked up by the cops reminded her of how vulnerable she was.
How much she could be hurt.
I looked into her green eyes. "Look, I don't wanna hurt you."
"You are not going to get that chance." She tried to slap me again, but I deflected it with my forearm, and that just frustrated her more. She kicked me in the shin before I knew it was coming.
"Estefania, please."
That stopped her, and it was a good thing, too, because her next kick hadn't been aimed at my shin.
"Let me go."
I did.
She backed up a step, looked hard at me, and those green eyes cut right into me. I held my hands up in surrender.
"You don't have to worry about your father. I already brought him something to eat."
She shot a hard glance at the four empty beer bottles sitting there in the alley. "Beer is not a meal."
"No, it's not. Beer was for after the meal. He asked me to go get some beer. I did. Then we drank those waiting on you to get home."
She folded her arms. "What did he eat?"
"Take out from the Chinese place around the corner. I let him choose. He said the restaurant is a favorite."
"It is." She wasn't giving me an inch of forgiveness.
"Look, I know there's some hard feelings here, but I ain't been leading you on. Me seeing you? That's exactly what you thought it was. Before you started thinking it was this, I mean. I like you, Estefania. I like you a lot." That was hard for me to say. I was getting out there where I was defenseless too, and I didn't like it none. "But I ain't ready to settle down, and I think you know you already got your hands full here."
Her gaze was sharp enough to cut glass.
"I enjoyed the company. I hope to continue to enjoy it till we set sail again, and maybe when we come back this way. Me and you? We're charting different stars right now, but I like the company."
She didn't say anything, but I thought maybe some of the frost was gone from her eyes.
"I couldn't come by till now. Cap'n Slidell pulled us outta jail this afternoon, then took us back to Wide Bertha to get our jobs done. When we got back, we found out one of our crewmen got knocked out and the ship had been looted. They cleaned us out. Cap'n says we ain't got enough to clear the harbor fees."
That softened her then. "I am sorry, and I must apologize for my behavior."
I shook my head. "No. That's fine. I understand. The day I've had today, I want to hit something -- someone -- too. I'm saving that for Simbari, though."
"Simbari?" A troubled look erased the leftover bits of her anger. "What do you mean?"
"I'm going to fight him. And I'm gonna need your help to set it up."
Shaking her head, Estefania walked over to me and looked up at me. "You are muy estupido if you think I will help you get into that room with that animal."
I tried to think of something to say, but I couldn't. Words was never my best skill. I took her by the shoulders again and I kissed her long and hard.
ROUND 19
Estefania hit me again, and she had even more pepper on this one than she did the last time. I didn't even have to fake stumbling back because she'd rocked me back on my heels. Fire spread along my jaw and my ear rang because she'd clipped it too. I shook my head and glared at her.
"I told you to stay away from me, gringo." Estefania's voice cut through all the hubbub and chatter in the Mermaid's Pearl. The place was packed because several ships had come in, and that helped what we staging. "I no longer have any wish to see you. You disgust me." She spat at my feet.
She was a good actress. If I hadn't known what we was doing, I would have believed what she was saying. It was real enough at the moment to hurt some anyway, and that surprised me. I knew we was faking the fight to attract another fight.
"Get outta my face or I'm gonna bust you one." I lifted a fist and swayed like I'd had a few too many. I took a step toward her.
A few of the guys in the bar rose to their feet because there was some decent men among them. But most stayed in their seats, not wanting any of the trouble I was pushing.
The fight, mine and Estefania's, had been dreamed up by the cap'n, a bit of theater to influence the mugs sitting around in the place. And I'd surely set myself up to be the villain in our little production. Them boys that had kept their seats was probably still salivating over the idea of me getting my head stove in. That was something they'd pay to see, and the cap'n had figured on that too.
Before anybody else could reach me, Adrian Linares, one of the fishermen who was friends with Estefania's father, jumped off his seat and pasted me a good one in the gut. It was hard not to tense up to take the punch, but I didn't have to worry about making it look good. Adrian was a healthy bull of a man, made hard by the sea, and he threw a strong right hand.
I bent over as all the air rushed out of me. If we'd really been fighting, he'd never have touched me because he telegraphed that punch. He clocked me behind the ear with his left and I went down.
Several people in the bar started clapping and cheering Adrian on. I fumbled around, trying to get to my feet. Adrian grabbed me by the belt and the shirt collar and gave me the bum's rush out the door. I landed in the street and rolled, then remembered to lay there for a minute like I was stunned.
People crowded the door and the windows at the Mermaid's Pearl to watch me. Other people stood on the sidewalks. I got to my knees in front of a taxi that I thought for a moment was gonna run me down, and I was wondering what the cap'n would make of that if it did.
As those bright lights poured down over me and I felt the burn of abrasions on my elbows and my knees and one cheek, I grabbed that taxi's bumper and climbed up it like a man grabbing hold of a life preserver in a wild sea. Finally, I stood. I took one look back at the bar, saw Estefania there and Falcone standing at the window, and I shuffled away into the darkness.
\*\*\*
"Are you sure that Adrian did not hit you too hard?" Estefania fussed over me as we sat at her dinner table after she got off work that night. "Your cheek looks very bad."
The cheek did look bad, all swollen and turning purple. Adrian had caught me a good one there, and the fact that it had been bare knuckles instead of a boxing glove made the injury more severe. She was working on the concrete burns I'd picked up after getting thrown out of the bar. She'd dab a small towel into some foul-smelling ointment and rub it into the wound. That stung, but I liked her fussing over me.
"I'm fine. The cheek's okay. Adrian surprised me with that punch, that's all. His hand's probably hurting more than my face is." I knew that when you was gonna hit a man bare handed, you went for the soft spots, not bone. The face had a lot of bone in it. Better to go for the throat, and shutting down a man's wind always ended a fight sooner.
Esteban grinned at me from his wheelchair and tilted back his beer. Adrian had stopped over earlier to make sure I was all right, and to collect the money the cap'n sent me to pay him. Adrian said he was going to bet it on me when we had the fight set up with Simbari because he'd never hit a man with a harder head than me. I wasn't sure if I'd been complimented or not, but he'd just grinned, drunk his beer, and went on his way. Then me and Esteban had eaten at the Chinese place again and made small talk till Estefania got home.
"Did Falcone get a good look at everything?" I flinched a little when she started treating the bruise on my cheek.
"Hold still."
"Did he?"
"I think so."
"What do you mean, you think so?"
"I was busy watching you, making certain you were not too badly hurt."
"I wasn't hurt."
"Then you were nearly run down in the street."
"That was a surprise, but it didn't happen."
Estefania shrugged as she dabbed the towel into the ointment jar again. I was torn over asking her to stop because the stuff smelled so awful, but as soon as she put her soft fingers back on my face, I was a goner. "Falcone was watching. Everyone in the bar was watching."
I let her tend to me in silence for a while, and I was hoping that we'd put out the bait pretty good. Now we just had to set the hook when the fish came to bite.
ROUND 20
Things was quiet for a couple nights after that. The situation aboard Wide Bertha was getting even grimmer. The crew was pretty down in the mouth, but the cap'n said something like this took a little time, that we had to be patient. The whole while, though, we knew the harbor fees was piling up. And as long as we sat at anchorage, we wasn't making no money. In fact, some of our pay depended on a timely delivery, and we was missing that on some shipments.
It was hard times for all of us.
The good thing for me, though, was me getting to see Estefania. We couldn't go out together since we didn't wanna get seen together, but we had dinner at her place, and her father even made himself scarce sometimes so we could be alone. I was doing okay, but I knew it couldn't go on like that forever.
Then the cap'n came to me while I was shadowboxing and loosening up in the hold, having Sandbag hold the practice targets while I went after them. In between rounds, I was running through the obstacle course through the cargo and climbing crates. I was already in shape. Crewing aboard a cargo ship wasn't for weaklings, but I had to get that fighter's mental edge back, that willingness to go the distance. Lucky for me, that mindset was never far away. I came up too hard for it not to be chewed into my bones.
Sandbag nodded at me, lowered the pads, and took a step back. I turned around and saw the cap'n standing there.
"You ready to do this, Mick?"
I looked at him and let my gloves fall to my sides. I grinned, showing more confidence than I felt. "Yeah. I'm ready."
"Good. Get cleaned up and meet me up top. We're gonna see about putting the screws to Falcone."
\*\*\*
An hour later, we was in the Hotel Nacional de Cuba, and I had never been in a swankier place in my life. The hotel was on the Malecon, the roadway and seawall that held back the Caribbean from the city. The cap'n had gone in before I did, to get himself set up for act two of the little drama he'd put together.
Tu Li's wait staff helped us get in, and we went straight on out to the casino. Lucky Luciano ran the casino as part of his deal with Batista, and the New York mobs was pretty happy with him. The place was making a mint, and it was packed with people who couldn't give their money away fast enough.
The Chinese waitresses knew to look out for me and the cap'n, so we got took back to where Luciano was holding court at the craps tables. Him and some of the other New York Syndicate guys was hoisting drinks, and one of them guys was Falcone.
The man was dressed to the nines, acting like he was part of the mob royalty that was turning Havana into their own money-making paradise. Only Tu Li had told the cap'n that Falcone was still a lap dog working to get himself in Luciano's good graces.
He was a guy figuring he was on his way up, and he was gonna do whatever it took to get him there.
That was what the cap'n was betting on. The most vulnerable part of a man was his ego, and Falcone had himself a big fat one. The way he threw his weight around, and the way he had Simbari fight for him, told you that.
The cap'n wanted to break Falcone, and I was the hammer he was gonna use. And I was only too willing to be used after what was done.
I looked at them hard guys on the other side of the room, and I admit I felt some fear in me. Them guys -- Luciano, Meyer Lansky, Santo Trafficante -- they was all killers. They'd shoot a man down on his knees begging for his mother. Luciano had been deported from the United States after World War II, and even been kicked out of Cuba, but that didn't look like that kept him from dropping by the old neighborhood.
I recognized them from the descriptions the cap'n had given me. Lansky was the short, Jewish guy with soft, watchful eyes. Luciano was taller and better looking, but he had hooded eyes. Trafficante was a round-faced guy with glasses that put me in the mind of a bookkeeper.
Screwing down my courage, knowing the cap'n and the crew was counting on me, I crossed over to them men. I didn't get within ten feet of them before the torpedoes around them bosses closed ranks and kept me pushed back. One of them big palookas left his meat hook hanging in the middle of my chest. I looked at him, then looked past him to Luciano.
"I didn't mean to offer no disrespect, Mr. Luciano. Just came to tell you what a nice club you had here is all."
The big ape with his hand on my chest grinned at me and I saw the pistol riding in shoulder leather beneath his jacket. "Mr. Luciano don't fraternize with his fans."
"Sure, sure. I get that. I was just surprised you was hanging out with such a lowlife like that bum, Mr. Luciano." I pointed at Falcone. "I heard you had class. Didn't expect you to see you with a rat that would stoop to stealing from a ship of hardworking guys that spend their dough in your casino. I mean, a sailor comes in here, puts his money on a number or a roll of the dice, he's got a shot to walk out a winner, right? But he ain't got no chance at all if some cheap hood rolls him when he ain't looking."
Luciano cut a quick look over at Falcone, who was steaming.
"Way I see it, though, Mr. Luciano, Falcone there is taking outta your pocket too. Me and my pals, we're too busted to even play the penny slots here thanks to Falcone. So, I'm thinking maybe you should see him about getting your cut of what he took."
Falcone put his drink down and took a step toward me, but he stayed behind them bodyguards. "Maybe you've had too much to drink, sailor. You should just push off before your mouth gets you in trouble you can't handle."
"I handle trouble just fine."
Falcone touched his cheek and smiled. "Yeah, that bruise you're wearing there is real convincing."
"I earn my lumps, Falcone. When's the last time you took one you had coming?" I shook my head. "I think maybe you forgot how. You got that trained ape of yours to beat on others just so you can watch. You ask me, that takes one sick and disgusting son of a -- "
Simbari almost blindsided me. I heard him coming, his footsteps heavy and his breath hard, before I caught him in the corner of my eye. His big fist rocketed toward my head and I got away from most of it. The punch exploded against my temple and I went backward. I covered up as he come up on top of me like an avalanche. There was no finesse to him at that moment. He was all fists and knees and elbows.
ROUND 21
I blocked and slipped and twisted, escaping the brunt of the violence, staying just ahead of it like a ship cutting around the edge of a storm. But I knew I couldn't keep that up without getting hurt because he was backing me up against a craps table.
I saw an opening and I slapped Simbari with an open hand hard enough to jar him. The impact was solid and delivered with a lot of muscle. You can hit a man really hard with an open hand and there's no risk of breaking or jamming your fingers. I knew I needed to save my hands because this was just the prelude to the main event.
Still, the slap was enough to give Simbari pause and make him reset himself. He wasn't done. He was just taking another look at the playing field. And he was grinning. "Now, I'm gonna hurt you."
I didn't say nothing. That red mark on Simbari's face was all the statement I'd needed to make. I could reach out and touch him too.
The cap'n was headed toward me and he was gonna stop the fight, only he didn't have to. Luciano put a cork in it.
"Pull your dog back, Falcone." Luciano's voice was cold enough to freeze water. "I don't want nothing in here broke, and I don't want the customers panicked."
Falcone didn't say nothing and Simbari threw a punch that caught me in the gut. I folded over the blow like I hadn't been able to avoid most of it, then took another clip on the side of my face just above my eye. I lifted my hands then, in case he wanted to pour on any more, and blood trickled into my vision.
Luciano pulled a .45 from under his jacket and pointed it at Falcone. "I said, pull your dog back. If you don't, I'm gonna put him down."
Simbari froze for just a minute, looking between Luciano and Falcone. He was a wild animal, wanting to close in for the kill because he had the scent of fresh blood in his nose.
Then Falcone grimaced and forced a grin. "Sure, Lucky, sure. No problem. Just giving this wiseacre what he's got coming to him is all." He waved Simbari back and the big guy hesitated, but went.
I stood and acted a little shaky, but I wasn't having to act much. Simbari hit like a Missouri mule. I wiped blood from my mouth.
Luciano put his gun away and looked at me. "That true? What you said about your ship?"
I nodded. "Every word."
"Tough break." Luciano didn't care. He was a gangster, and no way was I gonna forget that. But I figured he might give Falcone some grief over the percentage anyway.
"It was more than a tough break." Cap'n Slidell waded into the conversation without hesitation, thumping heavily on his wooden leg. "It was thievery is what it was. Falcone already come crying up to my ship for an apology to his fighter, which me and my crew weren't gonna give. We sent him back where he come from. Man ain't got the guts to come straight on ahead at you."
Luciano picked up a highball glass and took a sip. He was watching Falcone pretty close. "You backed away?"
Falcone looked flustered. "They had guns."
"Of course they had guns." Luciano sounded sarcastic. "You had guns too. I don't let a man with a gun stop me if he's got something I want. Including an apology. You get a reputation like that, you ain't gonna be in this business long."
"I'm gonna take care of it, don't you worry." Falcone waved a dismissive hand at the cap'n.
"How you gonna do that? Come creeping into my bedroom and short sheet me next time?" The cap'n could be full of bluster when he wanted to be, and he was full of it then. Everybody around us was staring, waiting to see what happened.
Simbari started for the cap'n, and I took one step and put myself between them.
I grinned at Simbari. "Heel, boy. Before you get yourself shot."
He caught himself and looked over his shoulder at Luciano.
Falcone cursed. "I'll pay for whatever Simbari breaks, Lucky. Just let him have these two. He'll chew them up and spit them out."
"In a fair fight?" The cap'n pushed his way forward, having to be held back by Luciano's bodyguards now. "That plug-ugly of yours wouldn't stand a chance against my boy." He hooked a thumb over his shoulder at me.
Falcone's eyes blazed. "Your boy wouldn't stand a chance against Simbari."
"You wanna put your money where your mouth is?"
That took Falcone back a minute. Then he shook his head. "You ain't got nothing, old man. You already said that."
"I still got my ship. I'll put that up if you wanna match your thug against my fighter."
Well, I stood there flummoxed. Could have knocked me over with a feather. I'd thought the plan was to go in there and bet with the money the cap'n was getting from the Chinese. Suddenly, I felt like I was in way over my head. Fighting for money was one thing, but Wide Bertha was all the cap'n and a lot of us crew had. I couldn't imagine losing her too.
Luciano looked at Falcone. "You think that animal of yours can take this sailor?"
"Of course he can. You just watch."
"Then it looks like you're about to go into the shipping business." Luciano glanced at the cap'n. "Maybe, if you're feeling generous, you can throw the old guy a bone. Let him captain the ship he used to own after his boy kisses the canvas."
I wanted to stop the cap'n right then and there, but I couldn't get close to him. I'd told him I didn't know if I could beat Simbari as plain as I could. I didn't know what he was thinking.
But it was done before I could say anything.
"Fine." The cap'n nodded. "We'll do this tomorrow night at that dive you own."
Falcone scowled at the reference to his business, but he nodded. And the deal was done. I felt the weight of Wide Bertha resting on my shoulders as me and the cap'n walked out of the casino.
ROUND 22
I didn't sleep good that night. I tried, but I couldn't. Sandbag said the cap'n slept like a baby, which disturbed me to no end. With everything we had to risk, I didn't know how he could keep from being worried sick.
Then again, I figured I was worried enough for the both of us. I got up the next morning with the rest of the crew and tried to get some work done, but the cap'n made me sit some more.
I did some roadwork running the length of Wide Bertha. I heard the men and the ships around me, the voices and the diesel engines, felt the pulse of the ocean sway the ship while she set at anchor. The wind blew in layers, warm, then cool, like it couldn't figure out what to do either.
Sweat poured from me and I made sure I stayed hydrated, drinking plenty of water and nothing else. Sometimes I rested and I looked at the water, thinking about all them places I'd been, and how many of them I'd like to see again. There was a whole world out there, and I was getting to see a fair chunk of it. Life was pretty good.
And tonight, every minute of my future was gonna get laid on the line. If I went down, if we lost Wide Bertha, I didn't know what would become of me or the cap'n or the crew. I couldn't imagine any of us living any life, but the ones we had.
I couldn't shake that thought. Made me think of the way me and Patrick had ended up being orphans, me holding him while we was both staring down at our mother bleeding in the street. My father had been there, too, but he'd been hiding behind a car, not believing that hail of bullets had somehow missed him.
Then...
He was gone. I knew he came around a while after that. He even came to St. Vincent's a few times, always telling me and Patrick stories of how he was gonna get us out of there and get us back in a house, and how we'd be happy with our new mother.
None of that ever happened.
I thought about how the Korean War had separated me and Patrick. I'd felt like I'd had to go, and I did. But when it was over, I'd tried going out to see Patrick in Los Angeles where he'd lighted. I'd hung out there for a while, but it didn't take. I still had too much wanderlust in me and Patrick had his own life and he knew what he was doing with it.
So I'd found a ship that would take me on, not Cap'n Slidell and Wide Bertha then because I'd found them a short time later, and Patrick had walked me out to the pier one morning in his shiny blue uniform, shook my hand, and I'd took my leave.
We saw each other now and again, but he had his life there catching bad guys, and I had...
Wide Bertha.
I looked around the ship and noticed how Sandbag and the rest of the crew forced smiles at me and tried to look hopeful. But I knew they was scared too.
It was even worse than going through a white squall, one of them storms that just blew up outta nowhere. Sitting there on that deck, I felt alone, and I knew that feeling was gonna be even worse when I stepped inside the ring that night.
ROUND 23
That evening, it looked like everybody in Havana turned out to see the fight. Word of what was happening musta got around pretty quick. The cap'n and the crew crowded in because Sandbag had been sent ahead to scout out the territory and secure seats. Falcone's people were camped there too, and I saw Luciano had showed up as well, looking out of place because he was dressed so swell and looked so dangerous.
And then there was the regulars and a whole lotta tourists. If they'd all breathed together, I was thinking them walls woulda probably heaved in and out right along with them.
I sat on a stool in one corner of the ring, my hands taped up and my gloves on tight. Sweat was already trickling down my body. Simbari was nowhere to be seen. I guessed he was making me wait and wanting to make a dramatic entrance. I also guessed that was Falcone's idea. But the clock was working against them now Luciano was there. The mob boss wouldn't want to be kept waiting. The action had to start soon.
The cap'n stood near the corner and was rubbing the back of my neck with one of his big hands. I felt his rough calluses like they was sandpaper. "You're too tense," he said.
I rolled my neck in an effort to loosen it, but it didn't help.
"You're gonna have to protect that eye, Mick."
He was talking about the one Simbari had punched last night. The skin had split and the cap'n had had to put four stitches in. If this had been a regulation fight, I wouldn't have been able to put on the gloves before a ref would have tossed me.
But this wasn't a regulation fight.
"I know." I bumped my glove against my left eye so I'd remember. Simbari was right handed, so most of the jabs and punches would be coming to the right side of my head. I could protect my left side okay.
"You get that cut opened up, it's gonna bleed and make it hard to see."
"Yeah, yeah, I got it." I pounded my gloves together, ready to get started. My heart was thumping and I hated it. I always got nervous before a fight.
The referee, a short guy with a bald head, came over to us. "Where's your cutman?"
The cutman was also the corner man, and he was the guy supposed to keep a fighter together between rounds. He used styptic pencils and medicine to keep a fighter from bleeding too much, and to make sure the fighter wasn't going out onto the canvas punch drunk and unable to defend himself.
The cap'n looked at the referee. "I'm the cutman."
The referee sized him up with a glance. "No, you ain't. You gotta have a cutman or you ain't gonna have a fight. You need somebody to check on your fighter, make sure he's okay."
I couldn't believe it. I couldn't see Falcone going to all the trouble to set this fight up just to yank the carpet out from under our feet. Didn't make sense.
"Lucky for you, I got a cutman for you tonight." The referee crooked his finger at an old Cuban guy sitting against the back wall. "Hernando. Got a client for you."
The cap'n blustered and cursed and threw his weight around, but the referee stuck to his guns. "No cutman, no fight. That's how it's gonna be."
Falcone stood and yelled at us. "And it there's no fight, that scow you call a ship is mine."
The locals cheered loudly. Falcone bowed to them, then bought a round on the house, which earned him another cheer. Luciano didn't look so impressed, though. In fact, he looked irritated.
The cap'n made a show of kicking and cursing some more, but in the end, we had no choice other than to accept the cutman and he knew it. Falcone had deliberately boxed us.
Hernando climbed through the ropes. He was a skinny old guy in his fifties who'd seen better days. His black suit hung on him and he looked like an undertaker. Thick glasses magnified his watery eyes and made him look apologetic.
"Do not worry, senor." He had a whispery thin voice. "I am very good at what I do. Now, por favor. I must attend to your eye. A little more protection, I think." He set down a scarred black bag at my feet and rummaged through the contents.
"What are you going to do?"
"Apply a -- how do you say?" Hernando held up what looked like a short stick of off-white wax.
I recognized what it was immediately. "Styptic pencil."
He nodded and smiled. "Si. Styptic pencil."
I relaxed a little as he ran the pencil over the cut. The chemicals contained in the medicine made blood vessels close off so a fighter wouldn't bleed. I carried one in my shaving kit too. No big deal, and I thought maybe it would help. I figured I was gonna get bloody before the fight was over, but I intended to do the same to Simbari.
Hernando was just finishing up checking my laces when Simbari came downstairs. A half-dozen guys ringed him in a protective circle, making a production out of it.
I cut my gaze over Hernando's shoulder to watch, but the old man ignored everything but me. His soft brown eyes kept searching my face, staring into my eyes.
Falcone's toadies stood and started clapping as Simbari crossed the floor. Cheers thundered inside the room till they reached a deafening level. Simbari grinned and touched his gloves together over his head, like he'd already won the fight. One of the guys walking with him stood on the bottom ropes and raised the others, making the opening bigger so Simbari could duck through.
He was dressed in a red silk robe over red trunks. He shucked out of the robe, banged his gloves together, and posed for the crowd, throwing them into another tizzy.
The grandstanding was making me sick. I couldn't wait to paste him one in the kisser.
Hernando was still looking at me.
I focused on the old guy. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I was simply studying your face. I need to know what it looks like so I may help after the fight."
"Help what?"
"Put everything back where it belongs."
I just stared at him as he leaned down, picked up his bag, and stepped out of the ring. I stood and the cap'n slipped my stool out of the ring.
The bald referee waved me to the center of the ring, then waved Simbari over. People started chanting Simbari, Simbari, and the noise level inside the basement climbed again.
Blue-gray smoke pooled and eddied under the bright lights hanging overhead. The heat washed down over me. My heart thundered in my chest and I felt like I was about to explode 'cause I was so wired. I looked up at Simbari and stared into his dead gaze.
"Okay, gentlemen." The referee knew he wasn't fooling nobody with the term, and I think it amused him to use it 'cause he had a little smile. "I want a relatively clean fight -- "
That was when Simbari planted a big right hand in the middle of my face.
ROUND 24
I cursed myself as my legs momentarily turned to rubber beneath me and the lights dimmed. My eyes fluttered and I struggled to keep them open. I should have been expecting Simbari to pull something like a cheap punch. I had been expecting it, in fact. And the guy still surprised me.
I stumbled back a couple steps and had to work on keeping my balance. If I hadn't had so much practice riding out a pitching deck, I might not have managed to stay upright. But I did. My nose and mouth hurt something fierce, and I blinked through watering eyes. I set myself as Simbari came at me again, raised my arms to protect my head. I turned away a salvo of blows, but a few of them got through, not with as much zip, though.
The referee stepped in between us to break it up, but I knew that was all show. I believed he'd known Simbari was gonna pop me one while he was talking to us. The referee finished his spiel at the same time he was pointing me to return to my corner. I thought about ripping the guy out of the way and going for Simbari, but knew that was stupid. I wasn't ready to make that kind of play, and I didn't want to give Falcone any reason to call foul later.
Walking sideways, keeping an eye on Simbari, I retreated back to my corner. Hernando held out my mouthpiece. I opened my mouth and he fit the hard rubber into place. I clamped my teeth down on it, already tasting salty blood. My upper lip was swelling.
The cap'n stood nearby and looked tense. "Mick, you shoulda known he was gonna do that."
"I did." It was hard talking around the mouthpiece with the puffy lip. "He's fast."
"Then you're gonna have to be faster."
I nodded and pounded my gloves together, waiting for the bell to start the round while I ignored the clamor screaming inside my skull. Simbari had a better punch than I'd thought, and he'd hit me a pretty good lick. A lot of the crowd was cheering Simbari for his cheap shot. It looked like all of them wanted him to take my head off.
The bell rang and I went out into the center of the ring, hunting Simbari and wanting to hurt him. I went at him hard, throwing everything I had, trying to beat my way through his defenses. He let me do that for a time, confident that I was gonna run out of gas. Then, when I was drawing back, he launched a left jab that exploded on my right cheekbone and twisted my head. God, he was fast. I never saw that glove coming, and I thought I'd been covered up.
The overhead lights kaleidoscoped as I went backward, getting small and big and spinning all around me. I tried to get my feet under me and couldn't quite do it. Before I knew it, I was flat on my back on the canvas. I couldn't believe it.
I rolled over, head spinning and arms feeling like lead, and got to my knees. Getting to my feet was hard and seemed like it took all day. By the time I stood, Simbari was already there, ignoring the referee's orders to return to his corner in between counting me down. He reached seven by the time I got to my feet. Simbari came at me immediately, shaking off the referee and steeping into his next combination.
Simbari hit me with a right, then a left, then another right, taking advantage of the dazed state I was in. I barely kept my feet under me, and I kept stumbling backward to stay upright. I stepped sideways and managed to throw an arm over the ropes. Simbari was supposed to clear off at that point, but he didn't. He pounded me a couple more times, driving me backward. Although he was putting on a good show of yelling at Simbari, the referee was no help at all.
I ducked under a roundhouse that would have cleaned my clock, got off the ropes, and got my hands up in front of me. Simbari didn't cut me no slack, pounding and punching relentlessly, like he wasn't no man at all but some kind of diesel powered machine. My arms and shoulders took the worst of it.
I circled, managing to keep my legs and feet working, figuring out my left from my right over and over as I went along. I knew I'd been in tougher fights, but those had always been against more than one opponent.
That fight I'd seen Simbari have with the German hadn't showed me everything Simbari could do. The guy had no backup in him, and his only mission was to beat me to a pulp. I kept my hands up, protected my face and head as much as I could, but Simbari didn't sweat it. He just hammered away, trying to knock chunks of me away with every punch.
I only felt some of the punishment he was dealing out, which was a good thing and a bad thing all at once. Good because there was a lot of pain, but bad because I knew I was halfway in the bag. I couldn't get my rhythm going. I threw punches, trying to keep him honest, but every time I let one fly, he slid away like a ghost and connected with one of his own.
Staggering, listening to the crowd yelling for my blood, I stayed in the center of the ring and off the ropes. I knew that if I got on the ropes Simbari would make mincemeat outta me. That referee wasn't gonna be no help, and the rules didn't matter.
Finally, the bell rang to end the round. I kept covered up because I knew Simbari was gonna try to cheap shot me again, and he did. I caught the piledriver on my gloves, but they just made a cushion that popped back into my face and rocked my head back. I took a step to catch my balance, breathing like a bellows and sucking air like a man just escaped drowning.
The referee wrapped himself around Simbari, and this time Simbari allowed the bald guy to force him to his corner. But he was snarling and pointing at me like a madman. "I'm gonna pound you, Irish! They're gonna scrape what's left of you from the floor!"
Warily, I walked back to my corner and sat down on the stool as the cap'n slid it through the ropes.
Round One belonged to Simbari and I knew it.
ROUND 25
"It's okay, Mick. You're doing great." The cap'n massaged my arms and shoulders, working quick. Hernando got out his styptic pencil and started working on my face, which was beginning to feel like I'd walked into a beehive.
I didn't have the breath to argue with the cap'n, but I knew I'd made a poor showing. Having my bell rung before the round had started had put me behind. I sat there and worked on getting my breath back, trying to figure out how I was gonna get on top of this fight.
Memories swam in my head, washing over me like breakers. All those long, hot afternoons down in the basement at St. Vincent's working with Father Tim. No matter where I went, no matter what I did, I knew I'd never get far from that little room. Them bouts with other boys, including my brother Pat when he got big enough, and all that teaching from Father Tim had formed me into the man I was today.
He'd taught me how to center myself, how to slip a punch, how to dig into the canvas and bring more power and snap to a punch. He'd taught me how to care about myself -- and Pat -- and how to be the man I took pride in being. I wasn't never gonna be respectable the way Pat was gonna be, at least, probably not respectable in the way my brother was with his job with the cops, but I didn't have no fear of looking at myself in the mirror.
I was my own man.
I took another deep breath.
"You still with me, Mick?" The cap'n was peering into my eyes.
"Yeah, yeah." I nodded, still working on breathing, and that was difficult because my nose was full of blood.
Hernando finished up with the pencil, then swapped blood outta my nose, bringing out strings of it that fell across my chest. I snuffled and tasted more blood, but my nose was clearer. The old cutman squirted water into my mouth.
"Don't swallow."
I didn't. I just swished it through my teeth.
Hernando held up the spit bucket and I spit pink-tinted water into it. He put the bucket away and grabbed a towel to wipe the blood off my chest. I had to give it to the old man, he knew what he was doing and I appreciated having him there.
"You are doing good with the eye, senor. Keeping it protected, yes?"
"Yeah." Actually, I hadn't even thought about the eye. Everything was hurting.
In the opposite corner, Simbari just sat watching me, like he was some kind of predatory bird just waiting to swoop down on me. He didn't look like he was breathin hard at all, and there wasn't a mark on him.
"Okay, go get him, champ." The cap'n took the stool away when I stood, and I noticed my legs felt a little more solid. I banged my gloves together, more for show than anything.
The bell rang and I went out to meet Simbari. This time I wasn't so eager, but he was, and he crossed the floor in long strides.
ROUND 26
I set up better this time, and I stayed moving. My knees and legs held up better, and I was moving quicker, coming off the floor with better speed and strength. Simbari was overconfident, thinking maybe he already had me in the bag.
I let him pound on my gloves and shoulders, felt the impact rattle down along my arms and torque my elbows, and I gave ground before him. The crowd booed and hissed, and I heard several of them calling me a coward.
I didn't let any of that touch me. Father Tim had taught me to concentrate on my opponent, and what I could do. A fight was all about learning on the fly, making adjustments and battle plans in a heartbeat, seeing openings that no one else could see.
Simbari was big and powerful, and he was as cold-blooded as any fighter I'd ever faced. He wanted to destroy me, not just beat me. That desire was written on his face. I didn't know if it was his own or something Falcone had put there, and I didn't care. That made him a dangerous man.
Shuffling and bobbing, I stayed ahead of Simbari, but he jabbed and punched, still taking everything I left open, whittling away at me. For the first half of the round, I fought defensively. If this had been a point fight, I would have been way behind on points. The judges would have had no problem scoring the round.
But I was in learning mode now, but every minute of that education was costing me in wear and tear. Simbari pounded again and again, lulling me into a rhythm that I went for one time too many. Then his right hand detonated against the left side of my face. Before I could cover up, he hit me again in the same spot.
Blood trickled down the side of my face and ran into my eye, blinding me, cutting my vision to less than half of what it had been. He grinned at me then, but he'd wanted me to see that grin, and that was his mistake. I went for it -- stepping forward and landing a left that popped his head back, then followed up with a piledriving right that I brought up from my toes.
Simbari backpedaled, getting away quick. He deflected my follow-up left jabs as I tried to feel the distance between us. Having only one eye threw off my depth perception. I thought maybe I had him scared then, but I was wrong.
He led me into the ropes before I knew they was there, then he came around me on my blind side and used his body to push me into where he wanted me. I collided with the ropes, flailing to keep my balance and got tangled up.
My right arm slid between the ropes and Simbari was on me before I could pull free. He drove jab after jab into my face and head. Warm blood ran down my face and dripped across the floor. I saw the crimson splashes against the concrete, heard the roar of the crowd sitting just beyond the ropes, and fought to keep my head clear as my thoughts crawled all over themselves.
I concentrated on my arm, got it loose, and felt my head rocked again as Simbari hit me with another powerful right. Desperate, I threw a couple left jabs at his face that he easily blocked, then rammed a right with everything I had into his gut. It was like punching cement, but I heard the wind rush out of him and I knew I'd hurt him. I might even have fractured a couple small ribs.
Simbari backed off at once. He was still smiling, but he wasn't smiling so broad now and he was sucking air like a landed fish. I considered going after him, but I knew my eye wasn't in any shape to make that a good idea, and my head was floating and filled with pain. Even with one eye it seemed like I had double vision.
I waited on the bell to ring as I circled with Simbari, and I knew he was waiting too. I'd surprised him, maybe by not going down so easy, and maybe with that big right hand. Either way, he knew he had a fight on his hands.
The bell rang to end the round and I walked back to my corner.
ROUND 27
I felt like I was hurt all over, but Hernando went to work on my eye first. He flushed the blood out of it with water from a squirt bottle, but that didn't do a whole lotta good because I had double vision for sure then. My head ached something fierce and it felt like somebody had set fire to my face. Gently, he tilted my head back to keep the blood from running down into my eye again and started in with the styptic pencil.
Having my head tilted back gave me vertigo, and I tasted all the blood pouring down my throat from my nose. That almost made me sick, but I choked it down.
"How you feeling, Mick?" The cap'n sponged me down to cool me off. Water ran down my chest and back, but it was mixed with blood.
"Like I been hit by a truck." I barely got that out.
The cap'n laughed. "Well, you look worse." He kept sponging. "What you got left in the tank?"
"Enough." I said that, but I didn't know for sure.
"Can you handle another round with this mook?"
"I was thinking maybe I'd just put him down, be done with it." I gave him a lopsided grin.
"Well, you can't do that. Not yet. Tu Li and his boys just got here. They haven't placed their bets yet."
"They putting money on Simbari?"
"Nope, you. But they wanna get the odds right. So you gotta go another round, see how the line moves."
"Where's the line now?"
"Last I heard, it was four to one."
"I suppose I ain't the one favored?"
"Lotta guys are reluctant to risk the one."
I smiled. "Well, we got them fooled, don't we?"
"Yeah." The cap'n kept wiping. "I gotta admit, Mick, this guy is better than I thought. And it if looks like the fight is gonna go south, I'ma throw the towel in. I ain't gonna have your blood on my hands."
"Just gimme a minute, cap'n. I'm still figuring him out. Gimme a little time."
"You're a bloody mess, Mick. You ain't got much time left."
"O ye of little faith. It ain't a fight unless you're wearing your own blood."
"Yeah, well you start wearing more of it on the outside than you got on the inside, you're doing it wrong."
Hernando washed my face tenderly, then I got to my feet and managed to stand without embarrassing myself. Every now and again, the floor felt like it tilted and slid sideways.
The referee walked over to us. "Lemme see your fighter." Hernando backed away and the referee stood there in front of me. "He looks like hamburger."
I glared at both of those referees. "Don't you worry about it, baldy. Falcone is paying you for the privilege of seeing me get tore up. You gotta earn your money, right?"
The referee scowled and muttered some curses, but he knew I was right. He took my gloves, shook my arms and tested my stability, and then stepped back.
The bell rang again.
ROUND 28
I musta spooked Simbari, or maybe he was feeling some pain. Either way, he came out in the third really aggressive instead of hanging back. He figured he had himself an advantage and he was gonna press it. I defended, bobbed, weaved, and watched his footwork.
A fighter gets built from the ground up. Father Tim taught me that. You work on the feet because everything goes from there. The way you moved, the way you hit, the way you defended, all of that came from how much time you spent on your footwork.
Endurance was a big part of a fighter, too. You had to be able to go the distance, had to be able to take the punishment. I'd seen more of that than Simbari had. For all of them fights he'd been having, the man plain and simple hadn't been living as hard as I had. I put in long days, worked hard, and learned how to pace myself over hours.
That said, all that hard work didn't take away from the skill and the time Simbari had put in learning his craft. And fighting was a craft. Father Tim had taught me to respect that as well.
When we was boys in St. Vincent's, Father Tim used the boxing ring for two thing. For one, it was a training arena, a place where us orphans could go and learn how to be men and to respect ourselves.
But the other was a punishment. If you lipped off at the nuns, if you beat on a kid smaller than you, if you started fights just because you was sure you could win, then Father Tim had put you in the ring as well. Only then he humbled you, beat on you and made it look easy, till you was embarrassed and mad at yourself.
Everything that Father Tim could give you, he could take away. He'd let us know that, and he'd also let us know that it was our choice which we got in that ring. By the time I aged out of the orphanage, I could take Father Tim two times outta three, but I always knew I'd been in a fight. But I was younger, faster, and I'd had a great teacher that gave me good skills and taught me heart too.
So that was what I eased back into while I was facing Simbari. This time, I let him come at me. And he did because he was a little scared of me now and he didn't want the fight to last any longer than it had to because he knew I could hurt him.
We went at it every time, and I gave as good as I got. I hit him when he left openings, I took a hard shot every now and again so I could get off one of my own. He threw a vicious right, following up a left jab that had snapped my head back, but I had his rhythm now and I had known what he was gonna do. I stepped forward, taking away the distance he needed to land that right, let it glance off the left side of my head above the cut over my eye, and followed up with a hard right of my own that I put all my shoulder, hip, and leg behind.
Simbari's mouthpiece exploded from between his lips in a spray of bloody spit. He staggered back, windmilling his arms and shuffling his feet to stay upright, only he didn't. He went down hard and smacked against the concrete.
The referee was johnny-on-the-spot then, stepping between me and Simbari and pushing me back with both hands. I taunted Simbari, waving a glove at him as I let the referee push me back.
"Get up, you big mook. Get up and take some more of that. I got plenty more."
Simbari got to his feet like a big cat, a lot faster than I thought he would. I'd hit him hard too, as hard as I'd ever hit any man. Seeing him get up like that, I felt the fear come back into me a little. No matter what I did, the man just wouldn't go down.
The referee went over to check Simbari, but Simbari just shoved him out of the way and came at me. He was a madman, a whirlwind of punches and flurries and jabs that beat me backward. There weren't any openings then. Every time I saw one, the next thing I saw was a glove in my face.
Then I got the rhythm again, moved with the cadence he'd settled into, and lit him up with two more quick rights to the ribcage in the same spot I'd hit before. The pain lanced through him and I saw him stiffen with it, then I feinted with my left, slammed him with a right that died against his gloves, and popped him with a left that landed flush on his chin.
For a second, the lights went outta Simbari's eyes. He went down and backward, and I thought for a moment that it might be over, that I might have won just like that because that was how it usually happened. I stood there breathing as he hit the floor, just sucking in air because that was just about all I felt I could do.
Sandbag and the others started screaming in victory.
Then, incredibly, Simbari got to his feet again, and he was grinning, but I saw from the hard muscles bunched in his jaws that the expression was fake. He wasn't so cocky now. At least I'd knocked that out of him.
While the referee was giving Simbari a standing eight count, the bell rang. I went back to my corner, but I watched Simbari the whole time.
The referee had to manhandle Simbari to get him back to his corner. Simbari made a show of trying to climb over the referee and come after me. "I'm gonna kill you, Irish! I'm gonna kill you!"
If Simbari got the chance, I knew he'd do just that.
ROUND 29
"You got him scared, Mick." The cap'n sponged me down while Hernando worked on my face. "You could see it in Simbari's eyes."
I felt foggy, but he snapped a capsule of smelling salts under my nose and perked me up. I waved it away. "Yeah, but since he's scared, he's gonna come at me harder."
"Just stick to the game plan."
I focused on the cap'n. "What about the Chinese? They get their bets down?"
The cap'n shook his head. "Not yet. The line's six to one now."
"Don't have a lot of believers in the crowd, huh?" I tried to laugh, but it hurt.
"You still got me, Sandbag, and the crew, Mick. You got us." The cap'n kept sponging. "And you got your girl."
"Estefania?"
"Yeah." The cap'n nodded behind him and I saw Estefania standing there looking worried.
I was surprised to see her there. When we'd talked about the fight, we'd agreed that she would stay away. She looked tense and worried. I got angry. "What are Chinese waiting on?"
"Tu Li says they want the line to go to eight to one."
"Greedy so-and-sos."
"Nah. Eight's kind of a magic number for them. When they get that eight-to-one line, they're gonna bet the bank. When you pull this fight out, you're gonna bust Falcone financially. He's been laying down the cash heavily, and he ain't gonna be able to stop himself from taking the money the Chinese got too. He figures it's easy money."
"What gave him that impression?"
"Because, senor, I have been given the signal to spike your water." Hernando smiled at me.
"What?" I looked at the cap'n and backed away from the bottle Hernando was pushing at me. It was different than the one he'd used before. This one had a line of tape running down the side.
"Yeah." The cap'n grinned. "Falcone fixed the fight. Couldn't help himself, I guess. Didn't want to look bad in front of Luciano, who's been spreading around some cash himself. Anyway, he hired Hernando here to spike your water, only Hernando's been looking for a way to get out of Havana. I told him Wide Bertha had room for a passenger."
Hernando grinned slightly. "Si. So you should drink up. Senor Falcone is watching."
The cap'n patted my shoulder. "Do it, Mick. Just remember when you go back in this time, you're gonna have to take a beating until I tell you otherwise."
I drank, but I didn't bother telling the cap'n I didn't think I could take much more of a beating than I already had. Then he took my stool away as I stood up and got ready for the next round.
ROUND 30
I wasn't no actor, but the role didn't call for much effort on my part. All I had to do was play hurt and groggy. I was already doing that without any acting. But just to add a little to it, I stumbled every now and again like I couldn't quite get balanced on my pins, and I wiped an arm over my face and eyes.
Simbari smiled around his mouthpiece and he closed in for the kill. He pounded me unmercifully, hitting me so hard it felt like he was working me over with a baseball bat. I embraced the pain. There was nothing else I could do. I had to become part of it.
And I did. I remembered how much it hurt seeing my mom dead in front of me and Pat. I remembered how much it hurt knowing our old man wasn't gonna take care of us and we was gonna go to the orphanage. I remembered how much it hurt to leave Pat and Father Tim when I signed on for the Marines and went to Korea.
All that was pain that I kept rolled up inside me. Me and pain was old friends, road companions and shipmates through back alley brawls and front line action in Chosin, across the far-reaching seas and tough port cities. I knew how to take a beating and stay alive.
Staying conscious, though, was another thing. Simbari got through my defenses and clocked me a good one right on the button. My arms turned to anchors and my legs became jelly. I went down fighting, but that only allowed Simbari to land two more punches to my face before I ended up on my back on the concrete.
I saw a couple of referees waving Simbari away, then they started counting me down in tandem. I flailed twice before I got myself rolled over and to my knees. Then I started on my way up. The referee stopped counting at eight when I was standing, then came over and took my gloves.
He looked at me and spoke quietly. "I'm gonna stop this fight."
I focused on him till there was only one of him. "You stop this fight, Falcone will kill you. And if he don't, I'll come after you and put what's left of you in traction."
He scowled at me and cursed me. "You got a death wish, Irish?"
"No more than the next guy."
"It's your funeral." The referee stepped back, then waved to me and Simbari to mix it up again.
Simbari came on strong this time too, hammering and punching and using his body to knock me around the ring because he thought I was affected by whatever was supposed to be in my water. I staggered like I wasn't all there, tried to stay covered up, but I took some hard shots that left me scattered. I ended up in the corner, the last place I wanted to be, and covered up as best I could while Simbari rained fists on me.
Then the cap'n stood just outside the ring. "Okay, Mick. The bets are in. Put this mook on his back."
I reached back for everything I had left in the tank. I knew there wasn't much. I hoped there would be enough. That's all I wanted, just enough to see me on the other side of this fight and leave me the strength to stand. It didn't have to be pretty, just done.
Getting the rhythm again, I slipped one of Simbari's punches, stepped in close so that my face was pressed up against his sweat-covered chest, then hooked my arms in his and spun us around. Simbari pushed his gloves up between us and shoved, but that was fine because I'd wanted some distance once I'd gotten us turned around.
He hit me with a fast left, coming at me quick as a hummingbird, and even if I'd tried to block that punch, I'd have never gotten to it in time. I rolled with the punch, staggered for just a minute, then I stepped into him and went to work on his mid-section. I hit him with everything I had, powering lefts and rights into his ribcage and stomach, feeling stronger with every blow I landed.
There wasn't no place for Simbari to go when he tried to escape. I caught him on my left shoulder, then pushed him back into the ropes again and continued pounding away like I was chopping wood. He bent over my shoulder and slammed his gloves against my back, but I didn't let off. Finally him and the referee both grabbed hold of me and shoved me back.
I backpedaled, light on my feet again, and claimed the center of the ring. I looked at Simbari wobbling there, staring at me in disbelief. I just grinned at him.
Outside the ring, the crowd froze. They knew something had happened, but they wasn't sure what. Chinese faces were mixed in with the others now, and I spotted Tu Li standing close to Falcone and Luciano. Neither of them Italian gangsters was looking happy, and Falcone was looking a little scared.
Any bravado I might have felt wasn't gonna win me the fight, though. I concentrated on Simbari as he came at me. I blocked and defended, and gave him just enough punches back to keep him wary. Him knowing that something was wrong, that I wasn't as looped as I'd pretended to be, had put him off his feed. He was more careful now, and that kinda worked against me. While he was careful, he was gonna fight smarter.
"What's the matter?" I taunted him, barely able to spare the breath to get it done. "Surprised I can still fight?"
Simbari growled curses at me and tagged me with another left I couldn't get out of the way of. I stepped into him again, ducked, and worked the ribcage, crushing him with blow after blow. He pounded down on me, trying to knock me down, then he stepped back, trying to get down there with me. I hit him as he was moving and caught him between steps, throwing him off and causing him to stumble back.
I didn't let up on him. I kept my punches short and tight, hitting him each time with everything I had. His whole body shivered under the impacts, and so did mine. I drove him like a sixteen penny nail, one bit at a time, taking satisfaction with every step I forced him to go back.
A minute later, I had him on the ropes again, and I pounded him good. The referee stepped in between us and forced me back. I returned to the center of the ring and waited for Simbari like I had all day.
The crowd stayed quiet, but Sandbag and the crew was cheering to beat the band. I listened to them and it was music to my ears.
Simbari took a little longer to come back at me this time, and Falcone was up outta his seat yelling at his fighter. Tu Li stood nearby and showed no expression at all, just smoking calmly on his cigarette.
I knew there couldn't be much of the round left, and I didn't want Simbari to have time to rest, or to make a mental adjustment so maybe he wouldn't be second-guessing himself. I'd worked hard to beat that fear into him. I was determined to keep it there.
I went after him, and when I reached him, I laid into him with combinations, with short jabs and punches that kept him on his toes. He was still fast enough to hit me, and strong enough to hurt me, but I gave back what I was getting. A lot of the defense was forgotten, we was just slugging it out, and one of us had to go down.
He caught me with an uppercut that sent my head reeling. My legs didn't move as quick as I needed them to and I almost went down. Smelling blood, Simbari came at me. But I had Father Tim and Patrick in my head, and I knew I had what I needed to beat him.
I stood there and took another shot to the face that broke my nose. But I went at him too, hitting him with two left jabs that popped his head back and left his chin hanging in the breeze.
That was when I closed the show. I stepped into him and delivered a straight right to his jaw that twisted his jaw around and then corkscrewed his knees into the floor. Simbari's eyes glassed over before he fell, and I knew he wasn't getting back up.
I looked down at him a second, then walked on trembling legs back to my corner. The referee was slow about counting Simbari down, but it didn't matter. Simbari wasn't coming outta that for a while.
Finally, when the referee counted ten reluctantly, I walked back out into the ring. The referee wasn't happy about lifting my hand, but he did it. As he held it there, I pointed my other glove at Falcone, letting him know I saw him.
I knew Havana wasn't gonna be a safe place for me to hang around.
A couple days later, Wide Bertha was loaded and ready to set sail. The cap'n made sure I didn't have too much work to do because I was still healing up. I still couldn't breathe through one side of my nose and it hurt to move, but I knew that would pass.
I wished I could have taken Estefania out to breakfast before we left, but the cap'n said that probably wouldn't be safe, for me or her, and I didn't want her to get hurt.
So we gathered on the ship's deck, seated on crates, and eating the breakfast Estefania had brought from one of the Greek restaurants. It hurt to chew, but she'd brought pastries so that made things a little easier.
"Are you sure you and your father are gonna be okay here?"
She smiled at me and nodded. "Yes, we will be fine. From what I have heard at the club, Falcone has more problems than just trying to get back at you. Or me, for that matter. Luciano bet heavily against the Chinese on the fight. Falcone is having to pay off those losses."
That made me feel better. "You and your father could come with us."
"No. This is our home, Mick. My father loves this place. He would be lost anywhere else." She looked at me sadly. "And this is my home too." She patted my bruised hand. "You are not ready to settle down anywhere. I see that in you. You need to follow that big heart of yours until you are at peace with yourself."
I didn't know if that would ever be the case, but I didn't tell her that. Some days it just felt like whatever was broke in me, that piece of me that was designed for permanence and roots, would never be fixed. Maybe as permanent as I would ever get would be Wide Bertha and her crew.
But that was okay with me. That small world inside the bigger one made me happy. Right now, with all the winnings we had from Falcone and all the side bets Sandbag and the others had placed on the fight, we was flush, setting high, wide, and handsome.
After breakfast, when it was time to get underway, I walked Estefania down to the dock. I fumbled around a minute, trying to figure out how I was gonna say goodbye.
She just smiled at me, grabbed my face in her hands, and leaned up to kiss me right there in front of the guys. Well, Sandbag and the others hooted and cat-called, to the point it was embarrassing.
I turned around and glared at them. "Keep it up, swabs, and I'm gonna come up there and heave the lot of you over the side."
They found other things to do.
I turned back to Estefania and kissed her one more time. "If you ever need something, lemme know."
"I will. You just stay safe, and let me know when you're in Havana again."
I said I would, then I went back up onto Wide Bertha, and stood at the railing till we got under sail and she faded from sight.
FIGHT CARD: FELONY FISTS
ROUND 1
LOS ANGELES 1954
I was leaning back against the ring ropes, elbows tucked in, arms up, gloves protecting my face and head. Lester Killer Carter was banging away at me, thinking he could finish the fight fast, and I was letting him. Not because I didn't have a choice, but because I had a plan.
It was still early and the Los Angeles Olympic Auditorium was less than a quarter full. My fight with Carter wasn't even listed on the night's card, just a middleweight amateur three round bout to get the evening rolling.
Still, Mickey Cohen, a squat toad of a man, was there ringside. His bodyguards sat behind him, while on either side there were a couple of expensive looking ring Jezebels -- the kind of women who liked to get a man's blood splattered across their dresses. Sitting stoically next to the frail on Cohen's left was the huge black bulk of Solomon King -- Cohen's current light-heavyweight contender.
Word was, King was the real deal. His tall frame was packed with massive muscles. Long arms were capped by fourteen inch fists, which King used to club his opponents relentlessly. Boxing reporters speculated Cohen had King on track to fight Archie Moore, the current light-heavyweight champion, later in the year. But King would have to decisively win at least one more fight, against a viable contender before Moore's people would allow the championship belt to be put on the line. King was the kind of fighter champions dodged for as long as they could.
I shot out a left jab, rocking Carter's head back. It was just hard enough to make him mad. Carter started swinging wildly, and I went back into my defensive shell.
Cohen had a lot of much more lucrative, if illicit, businesses, but he loved the fights. Carter was reputed to be headed into Cohen's stable, but I was going to make sure the big man was disappointed in this particular prospect.
I rolled off the ropes and scooted away to Carter's left. He followed throwing a right cross, which I batted easily away. He should have thrown a left to drive me back to the ropes, but Carter didn't have a left worth writing home about. I let him chase me for a bit and then stopped and threw a triple combination designed to sting, but not hurt. All three punches scored, drawing more embarrassment for Carter than pain.
The bell ran to end the first round and I swayed back to avoid Carter's late left hook. It went past me like a weak breeze. The ref, a short fat man in black pants, white shirt, and red bow tie, jumped between us.
In my corner, Pop Hawks was waiting with my stool. Before I sat, I looked directly at Cohen. Catching his eye, I pumped my left arm up and down in a mocking motion, rubbing in his fighter's weakness. I didn't like Cohen. Most cops didn't unless they were on his payroll.
That Cohen shared a first name with my older brother was a disgrace.
Cohen had filled the organized crime void in L.A. in '47 when mobster Bugsy Siegel ate a bullet sandwich in his home -- all because he wouldn't play ball with the east coast crime families. While Cohen did pay token respect to the east, he was tougher and more violent than Bugsy ever dreamed of being. Most everyone, made-men included, gave him a wide berth.
"What are you doing out there?" Pops growled, taking out my mouthpiece and tipping water in my mouth before I could answer. I was slick with sweat, but felt instantly cooled when Tina Hawks, Pops' thirteen year old daughter, squeezed a sponge across my shoulders. She then held a bucket for me to spit in. Growing up around a family full of older brothers, Tina was a tomboy and a half. Tall and skinny now, she'd be a beauty someday, but she wouldn't want to hear about it now.
"Easy, Pops," I said. "He's punching himself out and I'm not even breathing heavy."
"Don't mess around in a fight. He could lucky punch you and you're on your back being counted out."
Ex-navy swab, Pops Hawks had left the Los Angeles Police Department after eight years and a bullet in his leg to run Ten Hawks Gym -- named for him and his nine kids. All the Hawks were fighters either in the ring or out.
Pops had the cauliflowered ears and eye scarring of a palooka, but he still had his brains if not his looks. Ten Hawks Gym was just down the street from Central Division Station, where I was assigned to the night watch felony car. Pops coddled part time fighters like me, and dreamed of training a contender.
I looked over at Cohen and his following again. The gangster was chatting away, but Solomon King wasn't paying any attention. He was staring straight at me. His eyes were dead pools of hate. I'd seen that look before from other Negros I'd been with in the Navy -- it was a look of them against the world. King's burned harder.
I noticed another large Negro sitting behind King. He was perhaps an inch shorter, but had the same ebony carved expression. A comma of straight, short, white hair stuck out on the left side of his forehead, stark against the wiry curls of his otherwise tar black hair.
"Who's sitting behind King?" I asked Pops.
He didn't even turn to look. "Focus, Flynn. Get out there and put this guy down."
The bell sounded. I popped up off the stool and into a barrage of punches. Carter had obviously been fired up in his corner. He knew Cohen was watching and he wanted to look good. As long as he was progressing, Cohen would fund his rise. One setback and Cohen would lose interest.
I backed into the ropes, rolling easily with one of Carter's right hooks. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught one of the frails with Cohen, the redhead, watching me intently. For a second I thought I recognized her, but then I had to get busy fending off Carter.
I wrapped Carter in a clinch. Over his shoulder I could see Cohen was watching, waving his arms around and getting animated.
King just watched.
I let Carter push me away and went back to work counterpunching.
I knew a lot about Cohen. When he was a teenager, he began boxing in illegal prizefights in Los Angeles. In 1930 he turned pro against Patsy Farr in Cleveland, Ohio. He'd been a pretty good featherweight -- even got a shot in '31 against World Featherweight Champion Tommy Paul. In that real fight, he hadn't lasted long. Paul knocked out Gangster Mickey Cohen, as he was known even then, at 2:20 into the first round.
Cohen's last fight in the ring was in '33, twenty one years ago, against Baby Arizmendi in Tijuana, Mexico. It was another beat down. Now, he fought in the streets where there were no rules, using guns and blades and other men as deadly punches to climb another type of championship ladder. Cohen was a heavyweight, out of my league as a beat cop, but that didn't mean I couldn't take down one of his puppets.
I fended off a couple more strong rights from Carter and then walked into a weak left hook -- only it wasn't. It was fast and hit with the force of a boulder. I staggered and reeled away, suckered like some tin can just waiting to be knocked over. Carter followed relentlessly, throwing combinations I couldn't answer. I hated being a sucker. My brother Mickey would have razzed me. He always said I didn't take fighting serious enough.
I clinched, wrapping my arms around Carter, burying my head in his shoulder. He tried to push me away, but I held him tight like I'd paid a dime for the dance.
The ref tapped me on the shoulder and yelled, "Break!"
My head had cleared a little and I covered up as I pulled away. Carter threw another of those sucker lefts, but I was ready for it -- slipping it and stepping in to throw a couple of weak jabs. They didn't do much damage and Carter came back at me again.
I clinched again and was still waltzing with him when the bell rang.
"Stupid!" Pops said, as I sat on the stool. "I taught ya better . . ."
I was waiting for Tina to sponge my back, but instead she popped up next to Pops and handed him a folded piece of paper. Pops knew Tina didn't fool around, so he took her serious and opened it.
"Where'd this come from?"
"The negro with the white in his hair handed it to me."
Pops turned the paper toward me.
The message was to the point -- On The Canvas This Round.
There was only one source that cared enough to get me to throw a fight. There wasn't any threat attached. There didn't have to be. I looked over and the Negro man with the white comma of hair was back sitting behind Cohen and King. Messenger boy.
"What you going to do, Pat?" Tina asked.
"I don't go in the tank for nobody," I said, standing up.
I couldn't believe Cohen cared much about a small time amateur fight, but I cared. With the Navy, I'd been assigned to the battleship Missouri in the Eastern Med when Truman was rattling his Cold War saber. I'd boxed on the deck for the Navy and on shore leave for the honor of the ship, and I wasn't going down for some two-bit gangster no matter who he was.
The bell rang and I came out of the corner on fire. In the Navy, I fought whoever they put in front of me. The sanctioned fights had kept to official weight standards when they could, but on shore in the bars and behind fuel dumps, I'd never walked away from bigger, heavier men. I'd taken my lumps, but I'd developed a reputation for being a giant killer -- a David taking on Goliaths with just my fists, no sling needed.
There had been some split decisions along the way, even a couple of bad beatings, but I'd never gone down for the count. Not once.
I boxed these days simply because I'd always boxed. Between the nuns and Father Tim at St. Vincent's Asylum for Boys in Chicago, where me and Mickey grew up, I'd been made tougher than an old elephant's hide.
We'd called the asylum Our Lady of the Glass Jaw, simply because the nuns hated the nickname. They made us pay for it regularly. Their pious anger and Father Tim's fast hands in the ring challenging us were what made us tough and proud.
I kept in shape now and fought regularly, but without a goal. I wasn't hungry, but I still hadn't gone down for the count, and I wasn't going to start now.
Carter saw me coming. He knew instantly something was different. I was Patrick Felony Flynn. I was a giant killer and I saw the fear in his eyes. I hated that fear because it was the fear of weak bullies.
I feinted with my left and sent a right straight from my shoulder, blowing between Carter's raised fists. His head snapped back, but this time there was more behind the punch than the last time I'd tagged him.
Then I went for Carter's exposed body. I was seeing red. On some level, I was aware of the small crowd starting to pay attention. I didn't just want to stop Carter, I wanted to destroy him -- as if by destroying him, I could destroy Cohen. Stupid thinking.
Carter had a good core, but not a great one. There were a lot of miles not run, a lot of sit-ups not done, and I made him pay for his laxity. My gloves pounded at his gut as I ignored the off balance punches he threw.
When Carter's hands dropped, I drove through them with an uppercut hitting him on the button. He was going down, but I propped him against the ropes and let loose. I was gone -- the unreasoning anger I'd always known since I was a child was hot and raging. I hit him again and again until the ref and Pops pulled me back.
Carter dropped. Done. Finished. If he ever got in the ring again, he'd end up the same way. I saw the fear in him and knew I'd broken him for boxing.
I pulled away from Pops, spitting out my mouthpiece. I walked over to the ropes and looked down at Cohen. I spat a gob of blood on the canvas in contempt.
If anything, Cohen looked amused. He clapped his hands slowly, puffing on the cigar stuck in the middle of his mouth. The redhead next to him looked uncomfortable. Somehow, she didn't seem a match with the blonde on Cohen's right. She was dressed with the same floozy glamour, a too tight dress and gaudy jewelry, but there was intelligence in her eyes saying she didn't belong there.
The Negro guy with the white comma of hair was gone, but King was there -- sitting still as a statue, giving me his hard, flat stare.
I wasn't worried about him. He was a pro and I was an amateur. He was a light-heavyweight; I'd always fought as a middleweight. The only way I'd ever come face to face with him was in a back alley, and then I'd have the good sense to run.
Pops and Tina threw my robe over me and guided me to the center of the ring where the ref raised my hand for half a second and let it drop. This was nothing to him. A small fight in a big venue. Not even on the card.
FIGHT CARD: FELONY FISTS
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FIGHT CARD: SPLIT DECISION
ROUND 1
KANSAS CITY, KS. 1954
I knew I had him when he started to fight dirty. Most fighters start out on the up and up, only turning to the cheap shots when things aren't going their way. Round three though, the son of a gun tries to lace me.
He pivoted around so his back was to the referee, then comes at me high with a left jab. He makes like he's aiming for my right eye, then he lets his glove drift wide. The idea is to get the laces on the inside wrist of your glove to rub alongside your opponent's face like a cheese grater. As soon as he threw the punch, we both knew the stunt.
So, fine. He wants to play it that way, okay.
It felt good to be winning. I'd dropped my last three, putting me below .500. Not a good record for a kid supposedly on the rise. A rise to the middle. To the punch drunk league with all the stumble bums out there taking licks for nothing more than cab fare home.
My form was on, I wasn't out of breath yet. Hard work had paid off and no way this joker was going to take this match out from under me with some cheap shots.
I laid three in his gut and had him on the retreat again when the bell rang signaling the end of the third. All I wanted to do was keep on punching until he was face down on the canvas, but that would have to wait another ninety seconds.
In my corner my manager, Sal, put down the stool and tipped a bottle of water into my mouth. I spit it out into the bucket.
"Did you see that? He tried to lace me," I said.
"What's that?" Sal turned his good ear to me.
"He tried to lace me," I repeated.
"Aw, he's scared, that's all." Sal had been there and back and seen it all along the way. A salty old veteran of every fight hall from here to Buffalo, Sal had punched himself silly years ago, then kept it up for another ten years after that. His nose had been broke so many times he'd lost count. Matching cauliflower ears hung like lamps from each side of his head and he moved with a hitching limp that finally brought his days in the ring to an end. Why he picked up a go-nowhere prospect like me, I'll never know. I was his only middleweight, and I felt the tag was plenty appropriate. My talent was in the middle. The highest I could ever get in the fight game was somewhere between the title fight and the gutter. He knew it and I knew it, like the palooka across the ring and I both knew he threw those laces at me.
Still, Sal treated me like a contender. He may have been punched dumb, but he was no fool. Treat your boys right and they'll treat you right. Guess he always reminded me of Father Tim in that way. That was enough for me to hitch my wagon to Sal for keeps.
\*\*\*
The bell rang for the fourth and I came out blazing. I backed him into a corner straight away, banging body shots into him until he bent at the middle like a little wilting flower. Sucker.
I brought out my uppercut to lift his chin, but that wasn't where the damage came from. The damage came in my follow up right cross to the now wide open chin. As many times as I'd practiced the move in sparring, it came as second nature to me.
His chin rose like it was praying to the Virgin Mary, and from there it was easy. His head snapped to the side, his jaw knocking out of place and staying there. I knew he was headed for the floor, but I couldn't resist one last shot.
Out on his feet, his hands dropped and I laid one straight shot to his face, pulled it a little left and ran my laces across his eyebrow. The skin split open like a pair of lips gasping for airand the blood ran into his eyes before he hit the mat.
The ref pushed me back and started to count, but I didn't stick around to listen. I went back to my corner where Sal waited for me with a big grin. I heard the bell. Fight over. My record came even at ten and ten.
Over Sal's shoulder was Lola, my girl. She was at every fight even though I always tell her not to come. A lot of guys like to bring their gals to the fights, but I think it is no place for a lady. Most of them end up bored, filing their nails and waiting for the bloodshed to be over so they can get home. Still they come, content with their role as arm candy for the big shots as long as it keeps them in mink.
Of course the crowd here at the Excelsior is more a squirrel-masquerading-as-mink than a real fur and diamonds crowd.
And Lola is my diamond. She smiles at me, I smile back. My face wasn't even bruised up that night. No cold steak over a black eye for me. A night out with my winnings, treating Lola the way she deserves. A double in her highball and desert after the meal.
Two more fights to go that night and she knows the drill. I'll meet her out front. She can't make it to the locker rooms and there's no reason for her to hang around inside to see a bunch of sluggers she doesn't know.
After my three seconds of glory standing center ring with my fist in the air, Sal takes me down to the locker rooms.
"Real good, kid. Real good," he says. "You read him like a book."
Easy for Sal to say. He can't read no more than I can do Chinese algebra. That part of his head was punched away a long time ago.
We go through our usual post-bout rubdown and there's not much to talk about since the fight went so well. We don't talk about what to work on for next time. In fact, there's no next time scheduled.
"What do we got lined up, Sal? I gotta eat, y'know."
"Yeah, yeah, I know, Jimmy." Sal kept on rubbing, squeezing a little hard like his mind was somewhere else.
"Hey, lay off there, Sal. I won. No need for punishment."
"Sorry, kid." He took his hands off me, rubbed them together to get rid of the liniment oil. "I been meaning to talk to you . . ." He trailed off. Not unusual for Sal. He sometimes dropped thoughts like the act of letting them out of his mouth made the whole idea he was trying to communicate slip away.
"Just let me know when we got the next one set, okay, Sal? Maybe after tonight I can get something a little further up the card, y'know?"
"Yeah, yeah. Maybe, Jimmy."
I hopped off the table and started dressing. "It's just, well, you know how it is, Sal. How I feel about Lola. You know I been wanting to ask her to marry me. I can't do it without two nickels to rub together."
"Yeah, Jimmy. It's tough times all around."
Just like Sal to make me feel guilty about wanting the best for Lola. Sal had it rough. Not a dime left from his fight days, and when I go on a three-fight losing streak it makes it hard to secure any kind of purse. And him taking a percentage of what I think isn't enough to live on? Man, I'm a heel for not thinking about him first.
"I'm sorry, Sal. I know I ain't been exactly making it easy for you." Neither had any of his other pugs, but I didn't want to remind him. Rubbing salt in the wound, y'know?
"Well, you see, Jimmy . . ."
This time he was cut off by a knock at the door. Odd. Not many people made it down the long hall to the locker rooms. Fewer had the politeness to knock.
I looked up, my pants on but unbuttoned and my chest still bare. Through the door came a small man in a fancy suit. Two much bigger men were with him but they stayed outside, bookending the door and looking like they were waiting for something to happen.
"Sal!" the man said. Sal looked down at the concrete floor and sheepishly extended a hand to the well-dressed man.
"Mr. Cardone, good to see you again."
Cardone shook Sal's hand but looked past him to me standing by my locker, half dressed.
"This is the guy, huh? Jimmy, right?" He pointed at me and despite the smile on his face it felt like an accusation. "A hell of a bout out there. You really showed that joker what for."
He brushed past Sal and held out a hand for me to take. I turned and shook with him. The top of Cardone's head came to my shoulder. It wasn't until he was right up on me that I noticed exactly how short he was. He carried himself like a much taller man.
He aimed that wagging finger at me again. "I came here tonight with an eye on you. Sal here has told me a lot about you."
"That right?" I couldn't figure this guy. He didn't smell like a promoter. Too much aftershave, not enough sweat. The suit, the vest, the tie clip, pocket watch chain and mirror-shined shoes all said money. But what kind of money?
"I got a fight for you. Next week if you want it."
"Sure. I want it." It's what I'd just been on Sal about, so I couldn't turn down an offer just because the guy offering it gave me the creeps. "You a promoter? I never seen you around."
"I'm a promoter of sorts. I put things together. Fights, other things. Entertainments." He lowered his chin, looked up at me from under the brim of his expensive hat. "I arrange things."
He was dropping hints and I was catching them.
"How'd you like another one in the win column?" Cardone said with a smile. I caught him sliding an eye down across my bare chest.
"Always."
"I think I can," he winked at me. "Arrange that for us."
I turned to Sal who was still staring at the floor.
"Is this a fix up?" I asked. Why not get it out there? I'm not much for speaking in codes.
"It's a chance for you to win another one and make a little scratch while you do it."
"So, that's a yes?"
For the first time the smile slipped off Cardone's face. He turned to Sal. "Sal, are we gonna have a problem here?"
Sal didn't react. Staring at the floor, I figured Sal just didn't hear him.
"Sal?" he said louder.
Sal finally looked up. "No, no, Mr. Cardone. No problem. We'll take the fight. No problem."
The idea of a fix didn't sit well with me. Even if I came out on the winning side. Plus, I was upset with Sal not telling me beforehand, but I realized he was trying to do so when Cardone came in. Still, it made me wonder how long he'd been planning it.
Cardone turned back to me. "So, kid, we have a deal?"
I looked again at the expensive suit Cardone wore. How much money does a man have to have that makes him carry himself a foot taller than he really is? Must be a lot.
"Did I mention it pays five hundred bucks?" he said.
I felt like I took a glove to the temple. My knees went a little soft. I don't think he noticed. I learned something about myself right then. I learned I had a price.
FIGHT CARD: SPLIT DECISION
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