Pound for Pound (45 page)

“O, Señor Cooley, por favor, perdóname. En el nombre de Dios, perdóname.”

Dan did not try to brush away the tears that began to stream from his eyes.

“No, darlin—please forgive me.”

Slowly Dan extended his hand and Lupe grasped it in hers. They sat there in silence for a few moments and then Lupe gently replaced Dan’s hand on the bed.

“You knew I was watching you, you saw me. I was just crazy, just sick with hate. But the truth is, I couldn’t forgive myself. Had to blame you. Had to blame God. Put it on anybody but me.”

“But I did blame myself,” Lupe said, her voice trembling. “I knew what you were feeling, I knew your sorrow.”

Leaning close to Dan, Lupe told him about the collision on the Sixth Street Bridge between her father’s truck and a stolen car driven by a carjacker. He survived; her father and her two brothers did not. She told him about the trial and its outcome.

“It was for us as for you—a sadness for which there are no words. So when …” She hesitated and then gathered her resolve. “When my car hit your grandson, I felt the guilt, the sadness all over again. A thief killed my father and my brothers. But I … I was just as guilty. I took the life of your grandson.”

Dan saw tears starting to roll down her cheeks and took her hand again.

Lupe was in a daze when Earl, Father Joe, and Chicky took her down to the hospital cafeteria. As the elevator descended, Lupe looked over at Chicky and asked, “Do you understand what has happened?”

“Darlin, we can help each other. We can learn to bear the sadness and that blaming ourselves is pointless. For your dad and your brothers … for Tim Pat … we have to honor them by living and remembering. Child, you have a whole life ahead of you. Don’t let grief or guilt or anything stop you from livin that life to the hilt.”

“No, I don’t. ‘Preciate it if you’d tell me.”

The four of them sat down at a table and Father Joe went to get coffee and a pastry for Lupe.

“You know about the accident?”

“Yeah, Earl told me all about it.”

Looking directly into Chicky’s eyes, Lupe began to talk about the days that followed Tim Pat’s death. Without thinking, she switched into Spanish, and the well-worn, informal style of the culture they shared. As he listened, Chicky was thinking of the words one used to speak grandly, from the heart, words he had never uttered to any girl:—
¡Ay-yai-yai, no me dejes así morenísima de mi alma!—

Neither one noticed when Earl and Father Joe left them sitting alone, together.

Later that evening, up on the fourth floor, the usual background noise of the hospital had died away. Tracy, the RN on the unit, had checked Dan, given him his meds, and told Earl that he should go. “Mr. Cooley needs to get some rest.”

“Jus’ another half hour, then I’m gone,” Earl promised.

“Okay. But no more.” She fussed with Dan’s pillows, tucked the thermal blanket around him, and left.

Earl was beyond tired. He was grateful he didn’t have to drive. Chicky would come back to the hospital and pick him up after he took Lupe home.

For a few minutes both men remained silent. Then Dan hunched himself up a little higher in the bed.

“You know, when I came round the first time and you told me Chicky had won, my first thought was that I hadn’t been there when he needed me the most.”

“Naw, don’t be goin on with that stuff. Chicky told me he knew you was there for him, every round,” Earl said.

Dan waved his free hand impatiently.

“I let Chicky down, damnit. Hell, I let you down. It’s all my fault for not doing what Kogon told me. I knew he was right—I had a time bomb tickin away inside me. But I just couldn’t face it, couldn’t deal with it. Didn’t even eat right for months, damn near drank myself to death.”

Earl got out of the chair, stood up, and crossed his arms over his chest.

“None of that mean a thing, Dan. Chicky told me he reckoned that you and Eloy figured out how to set things right.”

Dan grinned ruefully and said, “Yeah, I guess we did at that.”

“Damn straight. I wish you could a seen it go down. First of all, we had a sell-out crowd. I walk in durin the prelims and I can smell it—everybody lookin for Sykes to just roll over this guy nobody ever heard of.”

Earl chuckled. “Oh my, it was sumpin. Sykes, he come out first, strutting down the aisle to the ring like some damn pimp. Even wearing those shades. Lucky he take ‘em off by the time Chicky come in. He don’t get it at first. Nobody ever said that boy is swift. But when the ref starts to call him and Chicky over to give ‘em the usual bullshit instructions, then Sykes looks close at Chicky and, swear to God, I think his eyes gonna pop right out of his head.”

Earl started laughing, and slapped his thigh with his hand.

“Trini and Paco figgered it out just about then, too. The Cavazos threw a shit storm when they saw who they was fightin. Trini, he jus’ goes nuts. He jumps down from the ring and starts screamin that the Commissioner got to stop this fight.”

Dan grinned and said, “So Jolly Joe did right by us.”

“Yessir, he sure did. He tells Trini the Commission was stickin to the rules: ‘Hey, this dude really is named Duffy. An’, yeah, his record is for real. An’ your guy’s gonna have to fight him. Or else it’s a walkover.’ “

“Any chance they’ll try to contest it?”

Earl shook his head and laughed.

“Well, I hear Trini and Paco got other things to worry ‘bout. Seems them two candy-ass lawyers who been backin Sykes got real mad at them
‘cause they find out from Mr. George that Sykes don like trainin too much. And Trini, he lets Sykes off doin roadwork.”

Dan shook his head. “Now that surprises me. Trini may be lower than a snake’s belly, but he knows better.”

“Jus’ wait a minute,” Earl said. “It gets better. Sykes got hisself a taste for nose candy. Guess who his supplier turn out to be?”

“My God—Trini?”

“You got it. Those legal eagles not too happy when they find out how much of their money bin goin up Sykes’s nose. Trini, he makin money both ways.”

Earl sat back down in the chair and leaned over to Dan.

“Jus’ picture it. Those dudes came spectin to see their boy make his move for the big time. ‘Stead, they end up watchin a train wreck.”

Earl could still hear the mounting chorus of boos that started in the second round.

“Sykes just couldn’t think what way to go. Wanted to get in shots to the head. Chicky didn’t let him land but two. You want to get to the body, well, you got to go to the head first, get the other guy to get his hands up, Sykes figures. That way he can use his gangbanger shit. But he never got no chance. When Chicky went lefty, Sykes look like he gonna shit in his pants. It was jus’ kick ass all the way. Chicky gave Sykes three rounds. First two, he took him apart. Piece by piece. Sykes get tired out real fast. Like they say, you can’t run, you can’t fight. Then round three and he put Sykes down for good.”

“What do you mean, ‘for good’?” Dan flashed back to the terrible injuries he had sustained in the fight with Eloy.

“I mean for good, pardner. A clean KO. Ain’t no way Sykes is going to have the balls to get into the ring again with anyone for a long time. Maybe ever. He’s history. I reckon our boy is set up for the next shot at the championship.”

“You sure?” Dan was no longer on oxygen. His color looked good and his eyes were clear, and shining with happiness. And pride.

“Yeah, right after the fight, I got a call from a promoter talkin about a fight with Pizzaro. Chicky’s ready. All we gotta do now is cut the deal. So you betta get out of this place pretty quick.”

Dan looked over at the bedside table. He could still see the image of Father Joe’s instruments of salvation sitting on it, the candles unlit, the holy oil untouched.

“Book it! I’ll be there. You can count on it,” Dan said.

We, the children of F. X. Toole, would like to express our deepest gratitude to Nat Sobel and James Wade, who made the publishing of this book possible. Their work was done in honor of and to pay tribute to a writer, our father, whose last words were, “Doc, get me just a little more time, I gotta finish my book.” They have accomplished this endeavor, and we are forever thankful.

F. X. TOOLE
was born in 1930. Having worked as a bullfighter, professional boxing “cut man,” taxi driver, and saloon keeper, Toole published his first book of fiction at age seventy. He died in 2002, before seeing his short story “Million Dollar Baby” become an Academy Award–winning film.

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Rope Burns

(reissued as
Million Dollar Baby)

POUND FOR POUND
. Copyright © 2006 by F. X. Toole Productions, LLC.

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Epub Edition © APRIL 2011 ISBN: 978-0-061-86027-0

FIRST EDITION

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Toole, F. X., 1930–2002

    Pound for pound : a novel / F.X. Toole.—1st ed.
          p. cm.
  ISBN -13: 978-0-06-088133-7
  ISBN -10: 0-06-088133-X

1. African Americans—Fiction. 2. Grandfathers—Fiction. 3. Grandsons—Fiction. 4. Domestic fiction. I. Title.

PS3570.O438P68 2006

813’.54—dc22                                                                              2005049508

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