Crowded Lives, page 4
Pink saw him watching and slapped him smartly on the shoulder. “Two hands, Davey, just like everybody else,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Yeah. Two hands.”
“The way I figure it,” Pink said, “the kid is going to try to stick you to death. He’s fast, so he’ll hit and run, hit and run. What you got to do is cut off the ring on him, slow him down, and throw strong counter-punches, follow me? You can handle his hit-and-run tactics, Davey.”
“Yeah, sure. I can handle him.”
Resolutely, Handley resumed his workout.
At home that night, Handley was lying on the couch reading the latest issue of The Ring. On the floor beside him was a TV dinner tray and an empty milk glass. He had his stockinged feet propped up on the couch. On a table behind the couch, a small radio was playing softly. Presently a voice said, “The time at WGN-Chicago is 8:00 P.M. In a moment, WGN’s News on the Hour—”
Handley reached over and turned off the radio. He tossed the magazine on the floor and rested his head back to stare up at the dirty gray ceiling. Unconsciously, he moved one hand to his mouth and began to chew his nails. Suddenly there was the sound of someone trying to unlock the apartment door. Handley’s face lit up with anticipation. He quickly got up and hurried to the door. Jerking the door open, he found a black woman with a large bag of groceries.
“Will you just look at me, Mr. Handley!” she exclaimed. “Trying to get in the wrong apartment. Bet you thought it was your wife, didn’t you?”
Handley forced a weak grin. “Yeah, I sure did, Mrs. Little. Here let me take that bag for you.”
He carried the groceries down the hall for the woman and waited while she opened her own apartment door. Then he walked listlessly back to his own place. He stood in the middle of the room for a long moment, indecision etched on his face. Then, as he decided what he was going to do, his expression became set. He quickly put on his shoes, grabbed his ancient leather jacket, and left the apartment.
Outside, Dave jogged down the dark street and crossed to a cigar store that had an outside phone booth. He got out a dime, then had to search through a worn, cluttered wallet for a scrap of paper which had the number he wanted on it. He dialed the number. Presently there was an answer.
“Laverne? Yeah, this is Dave. Say, is Dorry there? Could I talk to her, please? What? Yeah, I know that, Laverne. Yeah, I know that too. Look, would you mind just asking her if she’ll talk to me?”
He waited, looking slightly disgusted in the dim light of the booth. Folding the scrap of paper several time, he tapped it irritably on the ledge beneath the phone. Then his face brightened.
“Yeah, Dorry? Hi, honey. How are you? Me? I’m okay, I guess. Kind of lonesome. You know I don’t like to stay by myself, Dor.”
He looked down at the floor of the booth, listening. His expression was like that of a child, being chastised. After a moment, he spoke again.
“Dorry, I didn’t mean to lie to you, honest. I was going to work up to telling you, see, but all of a sudden you backed me into a corner, you know. I couldn’t think of nothing else to do but say I didn’t take the fight. What? No, I know that’s no excuse, Dor. I ain’t trying to make no excuses. What? What’d I call for? Well, I wanted to say I was sorry and—”
Again he listened, frowning.
“The fight? Sure, it’s still on. But listen, Dorry, I seen this guy I’m fighting, and he don’t really look all that tough. Even Pink says all’s he’s got is two hands. Huh?”
Now he listened for a long time: patiently at first, nodding in agreement at whatever his estranged wife was saying; then he shrugged a couple of times, as if helpless in the face of her verbal onslaught; and finally, he grew impatient with it all and began to tap restlessly with the folded scrap of paper again. When he spoke again, it was with a tone of resignation and defeat.
“All’s I know, Dor, is that if you wanted to come back to me, you could. Nothing’s holding you over there, except maybe Laverne, and we both know how she feels about me. What? No, I ain’t saying nothing about your sister. Yeah, I know she’s only looking out for your best interests. Yeah. Yeah. Okay. Sure—”
His voice trailed off until finally he was simply nodding at the receiver. Then he leaned forward and put his head against the glass of the booth. He stood like that for a moment, a picture of frustration. When it became obvious that there was no longer a voice at the other end of the line, he slowly hung up the phone.
Stepping out of the booth, he zipped his jacket up to the throat, shoved his hands into its pockets, and walked like a whipped dog down the dark and lonely side street.
In the gym, Dave Handley began working like a man possessed. The speed bag. Heavy bag. Medicine ball. Sit-ups. The rope. He wore a sweatshirt under a tee shirt under a sleeveless jersey—and the perspiration of his workout made a dark, wet spot through all three. Gradually his weight dropped: 208 down to 204, down to 201, down to 198. He began to harden.
Pink was constantly with him: holding a wet sponge to douse him, keeping time when he sparred, rubbing his upper arms to keep the muscles loose. When Pink thought he had worked out enough, he would say, “Come on, Davey, knock off. You keep up this pace, you’ll kill yourself.”
But Handley would shake his head: no. He kept at it: working, working, working. Hangers-on in the gym began to notice him. Other fighters commented that they had never seen him work so hard. It worried Pink.
“Dave, ain’t you afraid you’ll peak out? Get your edge too soon?”
Handley shook his head. “It’s okay, Pink. It’s okay. I ain’t trained in a long time. Feels good, man. Feels good.”
He worked every day until Lester Jackson came in to train. Then, while the young gold medal winner hung up his tailored suit and silk shirt, put on his new training leather and new satin, Dave, over in a corner of the locker room, stripped off his faded cottons and old, scuffed protector harness, and got out his plain corduroy trousers and flannel shirt to put on after he showered. He and Jackson took note of each other every day, but they did not speak. As the days passed, Handley grew noticeably quieter and more subdued.
While working out one morning, Handley was tapped on the shoulder by Pink, who bobbed his chin toward the front of the gym. An older man had just entered: about 60, impeccably tailored in a fine cashmere topcoat and beaver fedora. He was Mr. Jake, the czar of illegal gambling on the West Side. Accompanying him was a man about Handley’s age, with a countenance as tough as Handley’s but without the scar tissue; also nicely dressed, with an air of hard confidence about him. His name was Eddie.
“Ain’t that your pal from the old neighborhood?” Pink asked.
“Eddie, yeah,” Handley answered.
“I see he’s still a strong-arm for Mr. Jake.”
Handley shrugged. “Yeah, well, it pays good, I guess.”
“You gonna say hello to him?”
“Aw, I don’t think so. We ain’t seen each other in a while. Besides, when he’s with the man, he’s like working, you know?”
Pink nodded and watched Mr. Jake and Eddie walk back to Leo Marvel’s office.
In his office, Leo Marvel was looking at a freshly-printed fight poster. It was black-and-red on white stock, and read:
CHICAGO STADIUM
OCTOBER 238:30 P. M.
MARVEL ENTERPRISES PRESENTS
30 ROUNDS OF BOXING
MAIN EVENT—HEAVYWEIGHTS
CHARLEY NEAL VS. WILLIE EDWARDS
10 ROUNDS
SPECIAL BOUT
LESTER JACKSON
PAN AMERICAN GAMES CHAMPION
PRO DEBUT
VS.
DAVE HANDLEY
FORMER CONTENDER
6 ROUNDS
“Very nice, Leo,” said Mr. Jake, noting the poster as he entered the office.
“Oh, Mr. Jake,” Leo said anxiously, jumping up. “I didn’t see you come in. Here, take my chair, please.”
“Thank you, Leo,” said the older man. He sat behind the desk while Leo took one of the wooden chairs. Eddie stood idly by the door; Leo could feel him at his back.
Mr. Jake put on a pair of silver-rimmed glasses and studied the poster more closely. His concentration was disturbed by a meow from the mother cat in her box of kittens in the corner. Mr. Jake glanced distastefully at the box but said nothing. Leo swallowed dryly as the gambler continued to peruse the poster.
“Yes, very nice, indeed, Leo,” Mr. Jake said at last. “You’re coming along quite well as a promoter. Seems like only yesterday you were scratching together four-round club fights. Now—” he waved an all-encompassing hand, “—your own gym, your own office, and thirty rounds of boxing at the Stadium. Impressive, Leo. Most impressive.”
Leo shrugged modestly. “I’ve been lucky, Mr. Jake.” His expression begged: What do you want?
“No, you’ve been smart, Leo. You’ve used your head. This, for instance,” he tapped his glasses case on the poster. “This bum Handley you picked to test young Jackson. I’m sure you gave the matter a lot of thought before selecting him. Am I right?”
“Well, yeah, I guess so—”
“I know so, Leo—because I know you. And I know you would have figured that there’s a lot of heavy money behind this Jackson kid. Not just Chicago money, but Detroit money, New York money, Miami money—money from all over. Money that wants to see this boy go all the way up to a title shot within three years. That sort of thing is good for our particular economy; it stimulates people to bet. You understand what I’m saying?”
“You’re saying you, uh, don’t want him to lose.”
“Exactly.”
Leo relaxed a little. “Nothing to worry about, Mr. Jake. Handley couldn’t whip this kid with a friend. See, Handley’s a pushover for a scientific left—”
“Please,” Mr. Jake said, raising a hand, “no lectures on the sport. What I want from you is a simple yes or no. The story I hear is that this Handley is training like this was a title go. People who know say they ain’t seen nobody train like him since Billy Conn. Now tell me, Leo: is there even an outside chance that this bum can whip Lester Jackson?”
“Absolutely not,” Leo said, shaking his head emphatically.
“Guaranteed?”
Leo swallowed dryly again. “Guaranteed,” he said, forcing the word out.
“Fine, Leo, fine,” the dapper gambler said with a smile. “Your word is good enough for me.” He rose and came around the desk. The mother cat jumped out of her box and brushed against his leg. Brutally, Mr. Jake kicked the cat against the wall. It screeched in pain and ran back to its box. “You shouldn’t keep cats around, Leo,” Mr. Jake lectured. “They get hair all over your clothes.”
Leo said nothing. Eddie opened the door for Mr. Jake and followed him out of the office. When they were gone, Leo hurried to the cat and gently examined it. There was nothing broken. He sat down next to the box and took the cat onto his lap. As he petted and comforted it, he glared hatefully at the still open office door and blinked back tears of frustration at what a man sometimes had to take to get ahead in the world.
Out in the gym, Mr. Jake paused and looked at Dave Handley. The fighter was working the speed bag, his heels rising and falling with the steady, even tempo of his punches. Mr. Jake studied him for a moment, then turned to Eddie. “This bum is the guy you knew from before, right?”
“Yes, sir. We grew up in the same neighborhood.”
“I think maybe I’ll let you have a talk with him.”
“Yes, sir. What kind of talk?”
“Friendly. Like a couple of guys who ain’t seen each other for a while. See what he thinks his chances are. See, Eddie, once a guy gets to thinking he can win, then he’s got a chance. Know what I’m saying?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Maybe I’ve got nothing to worry about, I don’t know. But I just ain’t a hundred percent sure of Leo. Anybody that’s a sucker for cats might be a sucker for bums like Handley, too. So you find out for me, huh, Eddie?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Jake, I will.”
Later that day, after he finished training, Handley was walking home to his apartment. He passed the phone booth he had used to call Dora. His pace slowed and he glanced at the booth. Indecision was etched in his face again; he wanted to call her, but he was reluctant to because he was afraid it would be futile. Finally he forced himself away from the temptation of the booth and continued on his way. As he was about to cross the street, he heard a voice calling him.
“Hey, Davey! Davey, wait up!”
Turning, he saw Eddie trotting up the sidewalk toward him. He remained on the curb, waiting for him.
“Hey, you old palooka, how you been?” Eddie asked, running up. “I seen you in the gym today. I wanted to say hello but I was with the old man, you know?”
Dave shrugged. “Yeah, sure.”
“Hey, come on around the corner to Minocci’s; let’s split a pizza.”
“I better not, Ed. I’m in training.”
“Hey, one pizza ain’t gonna kill you,” Eddie said. He took Dave’s arm and pulled him toward the corner. “Come on, we’ll get a low-cal pizza; have Minocci leave off some of the sauce. Come on—”
Dave thought about the empty apartment waiting for him. He finally allowed himself to be pulled around the corner. Half an hour later, they were facing each other in a booth with a big pizza on a tray between them. Eddie had a pitcher of beer on his side of the table; Dave had water. The two men were reminiscing.
“Hey, you remember back in’59 when we was twelve years old?” Eddie said. “We tried to sneak through the gate at the Stadium to see Sonny Liston box Nino Valdes? We kept waiting and waiting for the gatekeeper to look the other way, and when he finally did and we got inside, the fight was all over. Liston knocked him out in the third.”
“Yeah,” Handley grinned around a mouthful of pizza. Talking while he chewed, he said, “Remember those three fights Jimmy Bozeman had with Harold Brooks? In the first he lost a ten-round split decision, in the second he lost a ten-round unanimous decision, and in the third fight he was knocked out in the fifth. Remember that fat guy at ringside that yelled into the ring, ‘You better quit fighting this guy, Bozeman! There ain’t nothing left but death!’ Remember that?”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Eddie, trying to keep from choking with laughter. For a few minutes, he really enjoyed Handley’s company, enjoyed talking over old times, remembering days when life was not nearly so complicated. He sighed wistfully. “Man, there was some fine heavyweights back in those days. Remember Mike DeJohn?”
“Yeah. And Eddie Machen.”
“Yeah. And Charley Norkus.”
“Good fighters, all of’em,” said Handley.
“Man, they don’t make’em like they used to, huh, Davey?”
“No. Not no more.”
Eddie took a swallow of beer and remembered what he was there for. “We sure had some times crashing the gate at the Stadium, though. And now look at us: I get complimentary ringside seats from Mr. Jake, and you go in the fighters’ door. We still don’t pay.” He pursed his lips in thought for a moment. “Jeez, who’d ever have thought my old pal Davey woulda turned out to be a fighter.”
“Yeah, well, life’s funny.” A flash of Dora passed through his mind. And sometimes not so funny, he thought.
Eddie’s expression turned sly. “So, what do you think about this kid Jackson, Dave? You think you can handle him?”
“I’m gonna try.”
“Word’s around that you’re training like it was a title go.”
“I’m getting in shape, yeah.”
“You really think you can take him?”
Dave leaned forward on his forearms and lowered his voice confidentially. “I think I have a very good chance here, Eddie. Very good. Jackson’s gonna use a hit-and-run style against me, see; all’s I have to do is cut off the ring on him and get in my licks. I’m looking to go the distance and get the decision.”
Eddie nodded thoughtfully. “Well, I’ll be there at ringside yelling for you, pal.” Eddie smiled as he spoke, but his eyes turned very hard.
When he left Eddie and started home again, Dave passed the same phone booth for the second time. On impulse, he stopped and called Dora’s sister’s house.
“Hello, Laverne? Can I please speak with Dorry?”
He waited. After a moment, Laverne returned to the line. Dave’s expression, as he listened to her words, was one of hurt.
“You mean she won’t talk to me at all? Not even to say hello? What? No, I didn’t call up to argue. I just wanted to see how she was, is all. Okay, so she’s just fine. I don’t see why she can’t tell me herself.”
Dave looked down dejectedly as he listened to Laverne’s response. He blinked his eyes several times and wiped his nose on the cuff of his jacket sleeve. His face turned sad, helpless.
“Okay,” he said finally, his voice low, almost listless. “Okay, I get the message.”
After he hung up, he stood there in the booth for a long time.
The next afternoon, when Dave finished his roadwork in the park and jogged up to the gym entrance, a man in a business suit was standing there. “Mr. David Handley?” he asked.
“Yeah, that’s me.”
The man handed him a summons. “Divorce papers, Mr. Handley. Sorry to have to do this to you so close to the fight. Good luck against Jackson.”
“Yeah, thanks.” Dave watched him walk away, then stared at the summons he was holding. After a moment, he shook his head resignedly and went on into the lobby of the athletic club. At the cigar counter he bought a packaged sandwich, a carton of milk, and two apples. Then he went outside and crossed the street into Garfield Park again. He sat on a bench in the warm afternoon sun and began eating.
As he ate, Dave took the divorce summons out of his pocket and tried to read it. He frowned; it was too legal, too complex. Finally, he shrugged and stuffed it back into his jacket pocket. He finished the sandwich and the milk, and stuffed the sandwich paper into the empty carton. As he was doing that, he glanced up and saw Lester Jackson coming into the park. The young black man walked to a nearby bench and sat down, stretching his long legs out in front of him. Knowing that Jackson could not help seeing him, Handley took the paper-stuffed carton and lobbed it toward a trash barrel twenty feet away. He sunk it, dead center. Grinning, he looked over at Jackson. The young fighter grinned back and held up two fingers: two points for a basket.
