Pound for Pound (22 page)

Earl ignored the carnage inflicted on the Caddy and asked Dan, “What about doin some more fights? Get back into the game.” He paused and then said, “You ain’t got no life, livin this way.”

“Listen to me,” Dan whispered. “I don’t care anymore if I win or lose. Maybe I need a change.”

Earl said, “Hell, yeah! You need a rest, that’s all.”

Dan said, “All I know is that you got a family, and that you’re workin too hard.”

Earl said, “My wife understands. She said that gettin your butt out of town for a spell might do the trick. You’d feel different in no time.”

“I been thinkin about takin a long drive, you know? Maybe see some of the country I’ve only flown over. Maybe take the coast route all the way up to Washington state.”

“Yeah. Stop and visit somebody you know.”

“I got nobody.”

“Then go to Ireland. You always wanted to go to Ireland.”

“I don’t even care about Ireland, Earl,” said Dan. “I’m not goin away for all that long. And I don’t want you workin so hard. Hire somebody in my place. You’d have more time for your family and the gym. Bring in another trainer.”

Earl tried to smile. He said, “You spoiled me, Coach.” He didn’t remind Dan that business at the gym was mighty slow these days.

Dan hesitated, then measured each word. “I can’t go back on the floor no more. I see flashes of Tim Pat in the mirrors.”

Earl touched Dan’s shoulder. Dan shuddered, choked back a sob, then broke all the way down. Earl let him go on, patted him like he patted his little girls when they hurt. Dan gagged, but couldn’t weep. Earl got paper towels.

“Wipe and blow.”

“Look how low I’ve sunk.”

Earl thought about the mirrors and the voices. He looked into Dan’s haunted eyes. “I don’t know any other way, so for now, I say we close the gym to outsiders.”

“No, that’s not what I’m sayin,” Dan said. “You don’t have to close down on my account.”

“I’ll keep workin with Momolo. He’s good in the shop, and he’s got heart. His dream is to return to Africa as a champ and open a powdered-milk factory. Kids over there don’t get milk.”

“Ain’t nothin better than a dream.”

“I’ll tell trainers and their fighters that I don’t have time to run the gym alone, and that you’re quittin the game.”

Dan hung his head. “That ain’t no lie.”

“Course that don’t mean you can’t come back, right?”

“Right,” Dan lied. His mouth hardly moved. His eyes revealed nothing. “Yeah, I think it’s about time I took that drive.”

“You sure you’re up to driving all the way to Washington?”

“Oh, yeah,” Dan replied. “I’ve always wanted to get me a potful of Dungeness crab right out of the water.”

“When you takin off?”

“Tomorrow or the next day.”

Dan bought a road atlas that had maps of all the states, the kind that included illustrations and descriptions of points of interest. He bought a sleeping bag, thinking that it would allow him to sleep in the car, thus minimizing the number of people who would see and possibly remember him. He left his room in the gym clean as a monk’s cell. He stayed away from his home on Cahuenga.

Everything Dan needed, including the booze, was locked in the trunk of the 300 D. He hugged Earl and shook his hand. Both choked up. Dan promised that he’d call that night, and then at least every week. It meant one, maybe two more phone calls before Dan’s plan went into effect. Dan eased the green diesel Merc into traffic without looking back.

Dan had driven the I
-10
through Texas several times while campaigning as a young fighter, and knew exactly where to head. He’d told Earl that he’d be driving north, but instead he’d aim for some hidden spot in the dry Davis Mountains off the I
-10
a hundred miles or so east of El Paso. Late some night, while parked in a remote valley tucked between the mountaintops, he’d fill five plastic one-gallon bottles with gas from one of the five-gallon cans he had locked in the trunk. He’d line a cardboard box with several layers of aluminum foil. He’d spread part of a bag of charcoal briquettes, also stored in the trunk, across the foil, then place the gas-filled water bottles and the five-gallon gas can on top of the briquettes. He’d place the loaded cardboard box in the backseat of the car, and sit next to it. He’d use one razor blade to cut a hole in the crotch of his right pants leg big enough to expose the pink scar left from the angioplasty, the thumping femoral artery just millimeters beneath the skin. He’d use a second razor blade to sever the femoral with one stroke. Then he’d have a drink.

While the blood was spurting across the back of the front seats—but before Dan felt light-headed and passed out from loss of blood—he would ignite several of the slow-burning briquettes a few inches from the bottles filled with gas. He’d be unconscious by the time the flame of the first
burning briquettes ignited the adjacent briquettes, which, in turn, would melt the nearest bottle of gas. Once the first bottle melted and the escaping gasoline roared out like a Molotov cocktail, the other four bottles would go up like an atom bomb. The remaining five-gallon plastic can would also melt, and more gasoline would flood the car, the interior now a crematorium. The beauty of the “plan” was that the flames and smoke would be gone by daybreak. Dan was pleased that there would be nothing left of him. No face. No gold inlays. No fingerprints. No ID. Nothing. Any edible slush that might remain would be worked over by land scavengers and carrion birds. There was a good chance that his bare black bones would lie there for years. If found, small-town police would do a routine report. If anyone bothered to trace the vehicle to Mrs. Toussaint, she would probably have thrown away his phone number. The case would be closed, satisfactorily or otherwise. Earl and his family would be taken care of. Ashes to ashes.

Dan took the 5 North over the Ridge Route and then swung to the right at the
99.
A half hour later he pulled into Bakersfield. In a kicker beer joint, he sat thinking of his fights at the old Strongbow Arena all those years ago, the wooden seats so close to the ring there was no place for the corner men to work. Heat from the cotton fields and heat from human bodies made the slick walls sweat. Dan had lost eight pounds during one Bakersfield fight.

He called Earl that night and lied some more, said he had stopped at the town of Harmony on Highway 1, which was actually over on the coast, just down from the Hearst Castle at San Simeon.

“The ocean’s beautiful, and things are cheaper here than up near the castle.”

Earl sounded worried to Dan. “What’d you have to eat, some of that good fresh fish they got up there?”

“Had some fresh, charcoal-broiled halibut, salad, baked potato, the works. Coffee and pie. No booze.” He’d eaten a ham-and-cheese sandwich
he’d gotten back on the 5 when he stopped for gas at Gorman. Dan said, “Give my love to the family. I’ll call you in a week.” “Don’t forget,” said Earl. “Not me.”

Earl hadn’t believed a word Dan said. He didn’t know why, but he hadn’t.

S
unday, the last day of the tournament, Lamar Steuke presiding. Weigh-in. Physical. The bout sheet was drawn up according to weight class, the lightest going off first. Chicky would fight seventh on the program. Fighters were told to be back by ten-thirty, no later than eleven. Hands wrapped, they were to be ready to fight at twelve. Passbooks, all filled out, would be handed back to them as they left the ring with their trophies, losers as well as winners getting trophies.

Eloy was on time and Chicky was already up. Eloy could see he had gained some weight, but was still under
147.
As soon as the kid got his boots on, Eloy took him down to Crockett’s for biscuits and gravy with a little fresh salsa on the side, an order of sliced tomatoes, a cinnamon bun with raisins, and two glasses of milk. Once he’d taken a healthy dump, Chicky weighed in at
145.
Eloy was pleased that Chicky might not have to give up much weight to Sykes. In fact, Sykes had lost his appetite completely, and instead of pushing 147 at the weigh-in, he came in all eyes and scared shitless at
144.
Toby and Seth looked the other way. Mr. George knew something had gone down, even if Sykes didn’t.

Finished with the weigh-in, Paco went with Chicky and Eloy back to Crockett’s. Chicky had two glasses of grapefruit juice, oatmeal with cinnamon and raisins, and corn bread with butter and honey. Trini had slept in, after all, gotten more sleep than Eloy for sure.

Paco said, “Don’t worry, Trini’ll be pumped at fight time.”

It was nine-fifteen when Chicky finished eating his second carbohydrate meal that morning. Paco told them they didn’t have to show up until eleven-fifteen, because the tournament, as always, wouldn’t get started until twelve-thirty or so.

“So you’re all set?” Paco asked.

“Ready, set, go.”

Eloy could see that his
nietito,
his grandbaby boy, was sleepy from the rich food, and from fighting all night in his sleep, so they went right upstairs to Chicky’s room. It had been three hours, going on four, since Eloy had medicated himself after connecting with Trini. He felt his scalp dampen, and a trickle of sweat slipped down the crack of his ass. That hit hadn’t lasted the way it should have, but he couldn’t let on that he was in trouble. Chicky finished getting his equipment and fighting togs together, then sat on the bed.

“You hit the pillow, I’ll git you up.”

Chicky crawled under the covers. “Where’ll you be?”

“Doin the mess-around over at the show, but I’ll be back for you a quarter of.”

Chicky was almost asleep. “I love you, old man.”

Eloy touched the boy’s cheek, was swallowing hard as he left the room, but his tight throat was not only from the love he felt for his grandson. He wondered if his last shot of lullaby had been as strong as usual. Might he have injected less? Naw, he knew that this was doper-think.

Eloy would have to get off good and do it soon or he’d never make it through the tournament. At least he wouldn’t have to cook up, thanks to Trini. He could do himself quicklike right there in the truck if he had to, but if he parked on the street somewhere he wouldn’t be able to enjoy it
afterward, wouldn’t be able to listen to the sound of snow falling on the moon.

He still had his room until noon checkout at the Maverick, so he headed Fresita for it as fast as the law would allow. He pulled up at the far side of the building, walked in fast, trying to get past the office and to his room. But the owner was on alert and tapped on the bulletproof window of his stall.

“You pay me mo’.”

“I got till twelve checkout.”

“No, you pay me mo’ now.”

Eloy barked,
“Toma por el culo, pinche chino mamón,”
in your ass, you chink suck-off!

The old Thai pulled his green-and-blue-flannel plaid shirt tightly around his neck and slinked out of the office as if running from the sun. Eloy unlocked the door to his room and went in, his eyes sifting the gloom. He didn’t have much time. He pulled off a boot and damp sock. He loved the little brown bottle morphine came in, loved its blue and white and red label.

He slipped the needle into a fat vein so he wouldn’t blow the fix. It wasn’t long before his skin tingled and his pupils clamped down. His hacking cigarette cough stopped dead. Moments later, he settled back to float in three-quarter time.

Chicky’s gear bag, packed and ready, rested on the floor in front of the door to his hotel room. His fighting shirt and shorts hung from a hanger on the doorknob. There was no way to lose or forget a thing.

Chicky’s second meal in the morning had affected him more than he’d expected. Because of the rich food, his system sent a large quantity of blood to his abdomen, facilitating digestion, but also drawing a goodly amount of blood away from his brain and inducing sleep. Chicky had planned on a quick nap, but tired as he was from the previous night, he’d allowed himself to fall completely away, secure that Eloy would wake
him at ten forty-five. That would give them plenty of time to get to the Finals, and be dressed and wrapped on time.

A key, tapping repeatedly on his door, woke him. He sat up, refreshed and energized. He expected Eloy to walk in, but instead, a Mexican chambermaid peeked around the corner of the door. She excused herself, saying she’d been told the prepaid room was supposed to be vacant.

Chicky’s eyes snapped to his watch, and he was alarmed to see that it was 11:10. Eloy should have been there almost half an hour earlier. The maid apologized and left. Chicky dressed immediately, then stood still, hoping to hear Eloy approaching from down the hall. He didn’t know what to do. He was expected at the tournament in five minutes, but he couldn’t leave without his grandfather. What if Eloy was sick along the road, or maybe in a wreck somewhere, the truck turned upside down on him?

Chicky rushed down to the lobby, hoping for a message. None. He waited until almost eleven-thirty, then telephoned Eloy’s cell phone from a pay phone. When Eloy didn’t answer, Chicky left word that he was leaving for the San Nacho. He left the same information for Eloy at the front desk, then ran over to the tournament aware that he was burning energy he’d need against Sykes.

He checked in at the fighters’ entrance, where he was told he’d drawn the red corner dressing room again, Sykes the blue. He hurried, removing his shirt along the way to the dressing room. Eloy was not there. Chicky started changing, and as he finished lacing his second high-topped shoe, he asked one of the old-time trainers to wrap his hands. Still no Eloy.

Chicky was queasy with worry. Having worked up a sweat running to the arena, he now felt a chill, and hoped it didn’t mean that something bad had happened to the old man. It wasn’t until the other trainer was ready to wrap him, and asked for gauze and tape, that Chicky realized that the Cavazos were not there either.

“You ain’t seen Trini or Paco?”

The trainer shrugged, and said, “They was around earlier.”

No Eloy, no Cavazos? Chicky’s anxiety doubled. He could make no sense of it.

The first fight went off at
12:20.
Chicky was frantic. He was sure Eloy was in trouble, but didn’t know what to do to help him. He edged right up to full-blown panic, hovered there, wondered where Trini and Paco were, wondered how he’d fight without his seconds in his corner, without his granddaddy in the stands.