Chicago Noir

Alex Pinto hears the bell by C.J. Sullivan

North & Troy

Alex Pinto shuffled down North Avenue. His head was bowed as he bumped into a young man coming out of Klecko’s Hardware Store. “Yo, pops, watch where the hell you walking. Damn, old man. You don’t own these streets.”

Pinto kept moving. He didn’t hear the guy. If he had, there might have been a confrontation. Pinto felt that the young men of Humboldt Park were too disrespectful. They had no sense of the neighborhood. They lived here to either be killed on these streets in some stupid and senseless turf war or to finally get a decent job and move to the suburbs. The neighborhood of Humboldt Park would never be home to them like it was to Alex Pinto. This was a place they came to because there was nowhere else for them to go. Humboldt Park was not only home to Pinto, it was the only place on earth he wanted to be.

The young today would never understand that. This was the video-game generation. Everything came too easy to them, so when they had to dig down and fight for what should be theirs, they had nothing to draw on. No sense of self or family. It was all about them.

They needed to be taught a history lesson. Like how when Alex Pinto moved into this neighborhood in the 1960s he had to fight Irish, Polish, and Italian toughs just to get to the store to buy milk and bread. Back then the Latins were considered cockroaches by the tough-ass white working class. When the Latins and blacks grew in numbers the whites moved away. White flight they called it. Then the fires started. And the gangs came. And slowly the neighborhood began to die. Killed by neglect from the city’s power brokers and the young men with guns, knives, and drugs, with no sense of community or pride. But Alex Pinto would never leave Humboldt Park. It was where his memories lived.

He never got to explain that to the young man because Pinto wasn’t on the streets of 2005 Chicago. His mind was busy remembering a fight from thirty years before. He stopped on the corner as the fumes from the 72 bus blasted into his face. He thought he was inhaling the smoky air of the Chicago Coliseum. It was 1975 again. “Jungle Boogie” played on all the boom boxes on North Avenue. President Ford was on TV talking about his new federal program, W.I.N. — Whip Inflation Now. Jaws was the big hit at the movie theater on West Division. Everyone was talking about how the Arabs were becoming world players and had learned to dole out oil with a boycotting flare. Cars lined up on Cicero Avenue for an hour wait to get a full tank of gas.

1975 was a good year, at least for Pinto. All his hard work was finally paying off. All those runs in the early morning hours through Humboldt Park. All that time in Brick Gym. Jumping rope. Sparing. Working the heavy bag until his hands bled. He was finally catching a break. The Trib lauded him as a local fighter ready to battle for a championship belt in his hometown.

Pinto stepped off the curb and felt like his legs were once again twenty-five and full of taut muscle. He saw himself as a young Latin boxer about to make his mark on a city. Strolling down the sidewalk, he felt as if he was moving like a big wild cat. The people passing by saw a slow-walking gray-haired man with a face that had caught too many punches.

Pinto smiled as he remembered that after the 1975 fight — if he won — he was going to hit Felicity Disco and meet up with his backers and the best of the local ladies. He would have a championship belt and the city would be his. Pinto passed in front of Kim’s Grocery as the Korean owner cursed at a Mexican shoplifter running away from the store. All Pinto heard was the referee telling him the fight was over. He’d lost on a technical knockout. He never made it to that disco.

Pinto had fought well that night. At the end of the fourteenth round he was ahead on all the scorers’ cards. Pinto knew it. His corner knew. The rabid crowd knew. In three minutes their local boy would be crowned the new light heavyweight champion of the world. Alex Pinto, the five-to-one underdog, was about to upset the legend of Bob Foster. And there was a lot of local money riding on Pinto. Chicago was about to have a big payday.

But Bob Foster had other plans. He’d been champion for years. He was the best boxer the division had ever produced. He was smart, quick, and was always in a fight because he had a powerhouse right that gave him a puncher’s chance. He sat on his stool staring at Pinto. Feeling his years. Angry that this kid had caught him unprepared. He thought this was going to be an easy fight. Figured Pinto was a rookie just happy to be in the ring with a legend. Foster saw a cocky young kid thinking the fight was his. He knew he had a short window to earn his redemption.

He came out in the fifteenth round and knew he had to knock Pinto out to keep his title. They met in the middle of the ring and touched their gloves. That would be the last time Pinto touched Foster. Foster hit him with a series of right jabs and left hooks that would have knocked out a lesser man. It was like Foster had set him up. Let him think he had it won. Pinto had boxed masterfully for fourteen rounds and now this. The crowd fell silent as Foster beat him senseless. It was like a force of nature had entered the ring. Pinto held onto the ropes as Foster punched him with sharp blows. The ref stepped in and ended the fight, perhaps saving Pinto’s life.

On the corner of North Avenue and Troy Street, Pinto blinked up at sun and felt like he had just woken up. The August heat of the sidewalk was cooking the soles of his threadbare sneakers. As he looked at the Humboldt Park Library, he wondered how he’d got here from his Armitage Avenue boarding house.

He walked into the library and felt relief at the cool air pumping in from the vents. Pinto went to the microfilm desk, handed over his library card, and took out the August 1975 Chicago Tribune. He would spend this hot afternoon reading about the young man he once was.

After he went through August of 1975, and then March of 1972 when he won a Golden Glove amateur title, his eyes grew tired from the microfilm machine. Pinto decided to grab a magazine and sit in the lounge, where the regulars went. In the summer only the old were seen in the library. They were the ones who couldn’t afford air-conditioning for those brutal August heatwaves. He grabbed an old Newsweek and nodded to a man he knew named Juan. Next to him was Olga. She always had a Sports Illustrated and read slow.

“Hey, champ, how you doin’?” Juan asked.

“Good, you ignorant Boricua. Don’t you know you supposed to be quiet in a library?” Alex said.

“Used to be that way here. No more. This here is uncivilized times we living in. This is a horrible time to be alive. Especially if you’re old,” Olga said.

Alex nodded at her and sat down with a sigh. He read about an earthquake in Sri Lanka and his eyes grew heavy.

“Closing time. Come on, time to go.”

Alex wiped some drool off his face and blinked at the security guard standing over him.

“What time is it?”

“Time to go.”

Alex looked around the empty room and stood up on his shaky legs. He waved to the desk librarian and walked out to the rush hour of North Avenue. The air was a little cooler as he crossed the street and entered Humboldt Park.

When he hit the path he started to jog slowly. He’d do five miles today. He kept up his roadwork. He liked to think he stayed in fighting shape. Tomorrow he would work as a part-time janitor at Brick’s Gym and after his shift he’d do some speed work and punch the heavy bag. He wouldn’t be getting any more shots at a prizefight, but in this city it paid to stay in shape. Can’t afford to get old and weak, he thought.

As Pinto jogged past the boat pavilion his body tensed as he saw a group of Spanish Cobras sitting on the benches. He knew all about these guys. Pinto had been a regular of the Latin Kings in the 1960s. Back then they stood for defending the Latins of the neighborhood against the whites and the the Chicago Police Department, the toughest white gang of all. Once he got into boxing and the Kings got into dealing drugs, he put the gang life down.

But these Spanish Cobras were a bad gang that caused a lot of trouble in the neighborhood. They mugged, robbed, and sold drugs to their own. He kept his head down and wanted to just move past them.

“Hey, homes. You. The boxer.”

Pinto slowed and looked at the young man approaching him.

“Yeah?” Pinto said, jogging in place looking at the man.

“I hear back in the day you were some fighter. My pops tells me you were almost champ. Long time ago. That you, Alex Pinto?”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“Damn. A pleasure to meet you. I’m Paco.”

Pinto shook his hand and said, “Well, thanks, I got to go.”

“Wait, homes. You want to earn some money?”

Pinto looked down on the ground. “How?”

“Doin’ what you do best, homes. Boxing. We hold smokers out on Cicero. I’ll pay you $200 you come out this Friday night. It’s good. We tape it and sell tickets and take bets there. You will be a big draw. Big bets on you, papi. People remember you in the ring. You were a legend.”

“Boxing? Really? Who am I fighting?”

Paco smiled at Pinto and said, “A guy about your age. You’ll tear him up. Only thing is, you gotta bring your own gloves. You down?”

Pinto hesitated. That money was a week’s pay for him. It would help. Get him some meat, fresh produce, and a decent bottle of wine. Maybe even a coat for the winter. But boxing? At fifty-five?

“I don’t know. How come I never heard about this?” Pinto said as he moved his weight from foot to foot.

“Hey, it’s our first smoker. Figured we start with the best and work our way down. Could be a regular gig for you.”

Pinto looked at the benches. The other Spanish Cobras were smoking and yelling at a woman walking by. Paco kept his eyes locked on Pinto.

“So what do you say, homes? You down?”

“Give me the address. I’ll be there.”

“Cool, it starts at 8. Be there like 7:30. You’re the first fight.”

Paco handed Pinto a flyer and walked back to his friends. Pinto put the paper in his back pocket and continued his run. While he circled the lagoon he saw himself in the ring ducking a punch and laying his opponent out. That is how it will go Friday night. A guy my age stands no chance against me, he thought. I’ve kept myself in shape. I still have the tools.

Pinto finished his run and limped out of the park. He went to a small grocery store and bought a can of beans and a beer. That would be dinner. Under two dollars. He was keeping to his budget.

On Thursday Pinto woke up feeling good. He got out of bed and did a few jumping jacks. He shadowboxed as he reveled in the thought that he would fight once again tomorrow night. There should be some kind of senior league for old boxers, he thought. Tennis and golf had it. Why does age make you put down the things you love? Old men still had basketball and football leagues. Why not boxers?

Pinto spent the day at Brick’s Gym on Mozart Avenue. He swept and mopped the floors. He tightened the ropes on the two rings. He held the heavy bag for a young lightweight. As he went about his chores he asked some of the young boxers if they’d heard of the smoker out on Cicero.

No one had, but they were young and had venues for their boxing skills. Pinto ate a bologna sandwich for lunch and read the flyer again.

Pinto put the flyer away and went to the bathrooms to clean up that mess. As his day ended, Pinto put away his cleaning supplies and went to his locker to tape his hands and put on his boxing gloves.

He went to the speed bag and got a good rhythm going. The bag smacked the wood with a solid whack. Yeah, Pinto thought, I still got it. I can still make that bag sing. He went to a corner and bobbed and weaved while throwing multiple punches. That’s how I’ll take him out tomorrow, Pinto thought. I’ll duck and come up and in. Body blows made young men want to quit. No way an older man can take the punishment I can still dish out.

When his workout was over he put his gloves in a bag and went into the office to see his boss, Mr. Rico, for his pay. Two hundred off the books. Enough to pay his rent and eat very lightly.

Pinto entered the office and saw a boxing poster announcing a fight of his from March 17, 1974. That night he knocked out “Irish” Danny Walsh.

“Hey, Alex, you still working out. Good for you,” Rico said from behind his desk.

“Yeah, well, you know I just want to stay in shape.”

Rico laughed and patted his large belly. “Hey, guys our age are too old to fight. Me, I eat what I want and keep this here.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a revolver. “This, Alex, is the fat man’s equalizer. This will stop any young man. Dead in his tracks.”

Pinto smiled as Rico put the gun back in a drawer and then slid his pay envelope across the desk. He thought about asking Rico if he’d heard of the smoker but then just put the envelope in his pocket. Rico was never a boxer. He never had that longing for his youth. To feel his body again and let his juices rip as he beat another man. And he knew Rico would tell him it was a bad idea. Pinto had enough dreams crushed in this life. He kept his own counsel.

“You okay, Alex, you need anything? You able to keep up your rent? You need anything, you come to me, okay, hermano?”

“I’m good, Mr. Rico. I’ll see you Monday.”

Friday night came and Alex felt those old butterflies in his stomach as he turned onto Cicero. He pushed open the door to the factory and saw a beat-up boxing ring with about 250 folding chairs around it. A few young men were setting up a table to sell beer and Paco smiled when he saw him.

“Hey, champ, you made it.”

“Where do I get ready?”

“Right over there in the corner with the other fighters.”

“There’s no locker room?”

“Homes, this ain’t the Coliseum. We do what we can. See that big ugly Polack over there. That’s who you’re fighting.”

Pinto stared at the man. He had to be pushing sixty with a big gut and a face weathered from street living. He looked like a bum.

“Him?”

“Yeah, you’ll tear him up.”

“He looks like a homeless bum.”

Paco got up close to Pinto. “Hey, the man needs money like you. Who you to judge anyone? You think you look any better? He used to be a boxer back in Poland. Almost made the Olympics in 1972.”

Pinto moved back.

“So where do we change?” he said. “We use mouth guards? And how long is the fight?”

Paco laughed and said, “See, now you asking the real questions. You fight as you come. No boxing gear other than gloves. No headgear. You got a mouth guard, you use it. Your boy you fighting ain’t got no teeth so I don’t think he needs a mouth guard. The fight? Well, it is a little different. There are no rounds. We ring the bell and you go until one man can’t fight anymore. No ref. No nothing. Just you and him in the ring. You on your own in there. Can you handle that?”

Pinto turned and said, “Yeah, I can handle that. But I want my money now.”

Paco laughed, “My man, now you talking.”

Paco gave Pinto two crisp hundred-dollar bills. Pinto put them in his front pocket and went to a bench to put on his gloves. There were seven older men with gloves on sitting on the benches. Their heads were down and they looked old and beaten. Pinto had to get away from them.

In the back of the factory floor he watched as a crowd of young men paid their money and took seats. Drinking beer and being noisy. The cigars were lit up and the smell of marijuana filled the air.

Pinto and his Polish opponent were called to the ring. Pinto stayed in his corner and jumped up and down, getting his legs loose. Paco got in the ring with a bullhorn and stared to yell.

“Welcome to our first smoker. In this our first fight we got Smokin’ Alex Pinto going up against Punchin’ Jan Pulaski. Both these men fought as pros. The line is even. Get your bets down. We jump off in two minutes.”

Paco came over to Pinto and put his arm around him.

“Take him out, homes. Make us proud.”

Pinto grabbed the rope and did a few squats. He watched one of the Spanish Cobras circle the ring with a video camera. The crowd was looking up at him, yelling that they had bet on him and he better win.

He leaned against the ropes and saw Jan Pulaski staring right through him. Pulaski didn’t move. Just stared at him with a blank look.

The bell rang and Pinto slowly approached the center of the ring. Pulaski staggered out of his corner. Pinto thought he looked drunk. He threw a wild right that Pinto ducked and came into Pulaski’s gut with a solid right. Pulaski belched and fell to the ropes.

“Kill him! Kill that old white bum!” a kid yelled from the crowd.

Pinto moved in carefully and threw a right to Pulaski’s head. Then another right. And another. Pulaski took the punishment with no reaction. His mouth was bleeding but his body didn’t move.

Pinto moved away and yelled though his mouth guard to Paco, “He ain’t fighting.”

Paco laughed and yelled, “Then make him.”

Pinto stormed in and hit Pulaski with a left hook. Then a right cross. The Pole staggered and then fell to the canvas with a dead thud. He didn’t move. The bell rang a few times and then Paco grabbed his hand and yelled to the crowd that Alex Pinto was the winner.

Pinto left the ring as he watched a few Spanish Cobras carry Pulaski out of the ring and sit him on a bench. Pulaski just sat there with his head down.

Paco slapped him on the back and said, “Hey, nice fight. You come next Friday, I’ll give you $250.”

“I’ll think about it,” Pinto said, then walked to the back of the factory and took off his gloves.

He left the factory quietly and walked down Cicero feeling dirty. Like he’d done something wrong. Sinful. Shameful. But as he kept walking he couldn’t stop feeling good about being in the ring again and knocking a man out. Even if the man looked like an old drunk.

The next week Alex Pinto showed up on Cicero Avenue. He needed that $250. He told Paco he’d only fight if he were on first. He couldn’t watch these other men flail around the ring.

That night he took out a forty-five-year-old black guy who looked like he needed to be on meds. The man threw punches like a wild man and Pinto was able to duck each one. The man was knocked out with a right to his liver.

He celebrated his second win with a ten-dollar bottle of red wine and a nice rare steak.

His third fight was against a Latin kid of about thirty. The kid looked like he hadn’t had a decent meal in weeks, but he could fight. He caught Pinto with a smashing blow to the temple. Pinto had to dig down deep to fake the kid out. If he hadn’t landed a right to the kid’s throat that knocked him flat, he might have quit. The fight went fifteen straight minutes and Pinto ran out of gas.

The Wednesday before his fourth fight Alex Pinto was walking down North Avenue when a young kid stopped him.

“Hey, are you the boxer?”

Alex smiled at the kid. “You’re too young to have ever seen me fight. Your dad told you about me?”

“Nah.” The kid laughed. “I seen you on that new video. They selling it right over there. You the best of the Bum Fighters.”

Alex froze and looked at the Latin man with a table set up with videos on it. He walked over to the table like he was in a dream. His legs grew heavy as he picked up a video and saw a photo on the cover of him knocking out Jan Pulaski, with the title: “The Best of Bum Boxing — See homeless bums beat each other till they bleed.”

“Fifteen dollars each, pops. Some of these homeless know how to fight. The shit is funny.”

Pinto walked away, his face burning. He ran home to his room and screamed into a pillow with rage. Screamed and screamed until the night came and he fell into a dreamless sleep.

He didn’t leave his room. He couldn’t. There would be no more. It was over for Alex Pinto. He wanted death. This shame he felt. This creepy crawling feeling that he had lived his whole life so that cowards who never got into a boxing ring could point and laugh at him. He was a failure. Nothing but an old joke. A bum who boxed other worthless bums.

“Silence, cunning, and exile...”

That’s how “Irish” Walsh had said he would live after Pinto knocked him out in 1974. Back then he laughed and thought the Irishman was just being dramatic. Now he knew how that felt. Well, at least the silence and the exile.

He sat on a stool and let his rage build. He thought about his whole life. It was all a waste. To end as the butt of a joke on a street-corner video box. A tag line. A broken old man. His face clenched as he stood up and punched the wall. That felt good. He did it again. Then again.

He found he lost track of time. Morning. Night. It all felt the same. He didn’t eat. Sipped a little water. Had no desire or needs. They all faded away. He was in a void, an old man’s purgatory. He knew he was hiding. Too shamed to be seen. The village idiot. The dopey old man who still talked about his youth like it would matter to anyone but himself. He would wake up and groan and just want to stay asleep. How would he ever face anyone at the gym?

As he circled his room in a daze, it came to him. He heard it. Clearly. Cunning would join him. It was like an angel’s voice telling him what needed to be done. Then he knew. There would be only one way out.

He left his room on Friday at 7:30 p.m. He kept his head down and looked at no one. He moved quickly through the streets. He thought he heard a group of kids laughing at him on a street corner as he passed. He looked back and saw that a boy was telling a joke. But how did he know it was not a joke about Alex Pinto? It could be. He was the laughing stock of Humboldt Park. The stupid old man who boxed bums.

He went to Brick’s Gym and avoided the few fighters left working out. He looked around and then pulled out a long, thin metal locksmith tool from his gym bag. He picked the lock to Mr. Rico’s office. He knew Rico was gone for hours now and he didn’t carry that gun on him. He closed the door and walked into the dark office and grabbed the revolver that was in the top drawer. He left the gym quietly.

When he got to the smoker, he went to a dark corner and put the gun inside his boxing glove. He moved closer to the crowd and sat on a milk crate and waited to be called into the ring. He kept his head down. Not from shame. That had left. No, he was hot. Red hot. He kept his head down. He didn’t want anyone to see his smile.

This night he was going against a forty-five-year-old named Welch. But Welch would get off easy. He stood in his corner with his head down. As Paco got in the ring to announce the fight, Pinto threw off his boxing gloves and put the gun to Paco’s head.

Pinto yelled, “All right, you bunch of parasites. You punks! You think I am some kind of joke? Everyone out of here. Now!”

No one in the crowd moved. They stared at Pinto and a few made moves to grab their chairs.

Pinto cocked the revolver. “Paco, I will put this bullet in your stupid head now if you don’t tell them to leave. You heard that gun cock. Right? That means you got a second or two to live.”

“You dead, homes.”

Pinto pushed the gun into his temple. Paco shook and said in a whisper, “All right. All right! It was just a joke. Don’t shoot.”

“Then tell them to leave. Loud.”

Paco called out, “All right! Listen up! Get out of here. Listen to this crazy old fuck. It’s cool. Go home. I’ll handle him. Get goin’.”

The crowd started to move to the exit. A man pointed at him. Some grumbled. Alex yelled, “Call 911! Tell them the boxer, Alex Pinto, has a gun to this punk’s head because Alex Pinto came to claim back his dignity which this pato tried to rob.”

The gym emptied as Pinto pushed Paco away and aimed the gun at his chest.

“You think you can make a fool of me. Rob me of my good name. Make fun of me. Treat me like a bum. Strip me of my humanity. You think that is funny? Make fun of who I once was?”

Paco backed away in the ring with a weak smile and his hands up, “Hey, pops, what’s your beef. I paid you for the fights. What’s your problem?”

“My problem is I saw those videos you’re selling. Bum Boxing. You played me for a fool. Made me a joke in my own neighborhood. Like my whole life was all a big joke to you. I ain’t a bum.”

Paco smiled and said, “Well, you ain’t a boxer no more either, pops.”

Pinto smiled back. Took a slow breath. Aimed the gun at Paco’s kneecap and pulled the trigger.

Paco fell to the ground with a scream.

“Well, at least I was once a boxer. I once fought for a title. What have you ever done? Look at you. Your life is over before it began. And what did you do? Make fun of people. Sell drugs. Ruin others.”

Paco kneeled on the canvas. He held his shattered knee and squirmed with pain. “Come on, papi. Don’t kill me. I won’t tell anyone.”

Pinto stood over him. He gave him a small smile. “You want mercy, boy?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It was just a joke. I paid you. I’ll get rid of them all. No more videos of you. All gone. It will be forgotten. No one will remember.”

Pinto held the gun up and said, “Too late. When you were in diapers, I was out here on these streets trying to do what was right. Well, you know what? I’m tired of doin’ what’s right.”

Pinto aimed the gun and shot Paco once in the head. Paco fell back, his torso leaning on the ropes. His eyes were still open. Pinto threw the gun on Paco’s lap.

He stayed, dancing around the ring, throwing punches, seeing Bob Foster in front of him, surprised at the fury that came out of the gloves of a young Alex Pinto.

Pinto thought that he looked like a good contender against Foster. He heard the sirens down Cicero Avenue and he went to his corner to wait for the bell to ring for the next round.