Casino Moon

31

WITH THE SIXTY THOUSAND dollars I borrowed from Danny Klein—at three percent interest, due every two weeks—I was finally able to pay for Elijah Barton’s training expenses and sanctioning fees. Eddie Suarez from the boxing federation took his ten thousand with about as much grace as a parking attendant accepting a two-dollar tip. I swore at him under my breath, but we were on the road. And with Teddy getting arrested, I didn’t have to worry about his interference for a few days.

The first thing John B. did was arrange a public workout at the Doubloon, to drum up press and show everyone Elijah was still in good shape.

But when Elijah walked into the Admiral’s Ballroom that mid-August afternoon, I noticed his face looked a little more bloated and bovine than before.

“What’s the matter with him?” I asked John B. as his brother slowly climbed through the velvet ropes of the ring they’d set up. “Has he been mainlining Häagen-Dazs or something?”

John tried to play it off. “No, no, man. That just the way he look when he’s in training. He’s already been sparring awhile. That’s why his face get all puffed up.”

Elijah began to walk in a circle within the ring, like a shaman priest trying to summon the spirit. He wore a long red robe with his name and the words “... Once and Future Champion” in white on the back. A red Everlast head guard covered most of his face like a mask. He shuffled a little as he walked, like a drunken sailor trying to cross the deck on a rainy night. I wondered if I’d made a mistake in borrowing all that money from Danny K.

But it was too late to back out. The sparring partners andtrainers had already been paid off and now gamblers from downstairs were streaming in to take seats in the folding chairs around the makeshift ring.

“You sure he’s not punch-drunk?” I asked John B. quietly.

“He just playin’ possum.”

The first of the young sparring partners climbed into the ring and the bell rang. Elijah shucked off his robe and started bouncing around. Rolls of fat jiggled at his sides. I found myself worrying he wouldn’t make his weight for the fight.

“Sure he’s not eating too much?” I asked John B., who sat next to me in the first row.

“It’s all protein. Brain food. It go right to his head.”

Elijah suddenly lunged forward and swatted his sparring partner with a quick right hand. He seemed more alert now that the bell had rung. The sparring partner danced away from him and bobbed his head from side to side. I noticed this kid was built the same as Terry Mulvehill, the current light heavyweight champ, who we’d be fighting in the fall. Same big head, wide shoulders, and narrow hips. I wondered if Elijah had the strength and stamina to keep up with someone half his age.

“Is he going to be able to defend himself come October?” I asked John.

“Look at his legs,” John said proudly.

I looked at Elijah’s legs. They were like tree trunks. The most powerfully developed part of his body by far. You could break a chainsaw on them.

“Legs like that, he won’t never go down. They’ll keep him standing all night.” John elbowed me.

“Great,” I mumbled. “It’s just the rest of him that’ll get destroyed.”

But I had to admit Elijah was more than holding his own in the ring. He threw a fast jab and a cross combination and then backpedaled in a half-circle. The sparring partner staggered for a moment and had to steady himself against the ropes. It was like a scene from a Bruce Lee movie where the old Kung Fu master teaches his young charge some new tricks. Elijah took a run at the kid and clapped him with a right on the ear as he soared past him. The crowd, which had grown to about one hundred fifty people, laughed and began to applaud.

I started to relax and enjoy my surroundings. The glass chandeliers, the red damask curtains, the gold embroidered wainscoting along the walls. This was where I belonged. Not under some grubby Boardwalk, firing a gun. I fell into a daydream of what it would be like to run a place like this. Men in gray suits running up to ask my opinion about things I didn’t really care about. People at the slot machines taking a break to shake my hand.

But then a side door opened and snapped me out of my reverie. In walked the reigning champ Terry Mulvehill with his father Terrence Sr., who was also his trainer, and a stocky bald white man wearing an expensive suit. Even sitting fifteen yards away, you could feel the heat coming off this Terry. He wore a bright red T-shirt that was straining at the seams, like the manufacturer had never intended for it to be filled with muscles this big. Dreadlocks fell over eyes that didn’t move or widen. His whole presence was like a fist, with all the parts drawn together and clenched for the purpose of annihilating another man. I went back to being nervous about Elijah fighting him.

The white man at his side had a shaved head that gleamed like the tip of a missile. I made him for about fifty years old, but he was bursting with good health. He had the bull neck and rounded torso of a weight lifter and the bearing of a Roman senator. He wore the same double-breasted brown Armani suit that I’d coveted months before in GQ magazine. It grabbed him across the chest and seemed to declare, What a man this is!

“Who’s that?” I whispered to John B.

“That Frank Diamond,” he murmured. “He’s the promoter for the fight.”

“Why haven’t we met him yet?”

“Oh, he’ll go along with the other people we been dealing with ...” But when John swallowed the rest of what he was saying, I knew we had trouble.

The bell rang, signaling the end of the round. Elijah went over to his corner and stood there breathing heavily. Terrence Mulvehill walked across the room to look up at him.

“Old man can’t catch his breath,” he said loudly.

Elijah ignored him and just stared straight ahead with his gloves resting on the top rope.

“I say old man fight like a old woman!!” Terrence taunted him again, even louder this time.

There were scattered giggles in the crowd and then a long silence. Terrence put his hands on his hips and waited for Elijah to respond. You could hear the squeaking sound of people shifting uncomfortably in their seats. I looked over at John B., who had his head bowed. Finally Elijah spit out his mouthpiece and looked down at Terrence at ringside.

“Next time I appreciate if you call me by my proper name,” he said slowly and deliberately.

“Kiss my black ass, motherfucker!” Terrence turned back to the spot near the side door where he’d been watching with Frank Diamond the promoter.

The bell rang and Elijah stuck his mouthpiece back in. I realized I was rooting for him in the way I rooted for Vin to get off the barroom floor after he was shot. Elijah walked right to the center of the ring, dropped his hands to his sides, and stood stock-still in front of his sparring partner. It was a defiant gesture, meant more for Terrence Mulvehill than his immediate opponent. Terrence smirked to show he wasn’t impressed.

“C’mon, champ!” John B. shouted. “It’s your show, E.! It’s your show!”

Elijah threw a head fake, offering his chin, but his sparring partner didn’t take advantage of the way he dropped his guard. So Elijah did the head fake again, almost as if he were teaching the kid a lesson. When he did it a third time, the kid hit him squarely on the jaw.

Elijah’s mouthpiece flew out and he fell backwards into the ropes. The crowd gasped as the mouthpiece landed like a bloody grenade on the canvas. He turned halfway toward us, and through his headgear I could see his eyes rolling back in his head. If he wasn’t actually knocked out, he was on his way to oblivion. My future was struggling on the ropes beside him.

“He all right, everything gonna be all right,” John B. mumbled uselessly as he jumped to go help his brother.

“Old man oughta stay in the old man home,” Terrence announced as he turned to leave with his promoter.