Bad Luck (17 page)

Sal touched his elbow. “You know what to say?”

“Of course I know what to say. Hey, look, Sal, I'm not stupid.”

“I don't need the attitude, Joseph. I know you think this is stupid, but let's just do it the way we planned, okay?”

Joseph shook his head. “I don't know why you don't want to go directly to Walker. That makes more sense to me. But you're the boss, Sal. I'm just a
jooch.
I don't know nothin'.”

Sal held his tongue. You know pork chops, you jackass, that's what you know. “Just trust me, Joseph. I know how these guys are.”

Joseph shrugged. “Yeah, sure, whatever you say.”

Sal bit his bottom lip. Always the attitude with this guy. If it wasn't for Cil's insistence that he take care of his brother, he'd send the bum back to that goddamn butcher shop in Sea Girt where he belongs. For the life of him, Sal didn't know why the hell he listened to his sister half the time. Just because she's a nun she don't know everything. But you gotta take care of Joseph, she says, he's your only brother. Family, huh? Bullshit. Sometimes they were more fucking trouble than they were worth. Both of them.

Sal pushed through the door and stepped into the gym, and instantly the memories started coming back. The place was the same, exactly the way he remembered it from when he trained here—when was it? '72, '73?—for the Lawson fight. A square of moonlight slanted in through a window and cut across the heavy bag. Sal remembered working that bag for hours on end. Henry Gonsalves would hang on to the backside of the bag like he was humping it, yelling instructions at him, “Uppercut! Cross! Right! Right! Left! Jab it! Cross! Lower! Work the body! Lower! Lower!” For hours they would do that. Probably did the same thing with Walker.

But maybe Henry had better methods now. After all, he'd brought “Pain” Walker through the ranks and taken him all the way. When Henry was Sal's trainer they never even got close to a title shot. He was the stepping stone other guys used to get into contender position. Everybody wanted to fight him on their way up—he was a good draw because he was so big and such a hard puncher—but he'd lost more than he'd won, a lot more. Sal realized, of course, that he was a very different kind of fighter from “Pain” Walker. He didn't have Walker's footwork, for one thing. Or his physique. He didn't have Walker's dumb fearlessness either, leading with his head, leaving himself open to bait his opponent, that kind of stupid shit. In his heart of hearts Sal always thought he could've had a shot at the title, but he was no “Pain” Walker. He was a different kind
of fighter altogether. Anyway, that was a long time ago and it just wasn't meant to be. Sal wasn't bitter. No.

Joseph was looking all over the place. “Where is he? I don't see him,” he whispered. “If he was here, there'd be lights on.”

“Shuddup, will you please?”
Abbott and Costello Meet the Mummy.
Jesus, he acts like a jerk sometimes.

Sal scanned the old gym. He looked at the rectangle of moonlight laid out on the canvas of the old ring, the old worn leather corners. Sugar Ray Robinson had trained in that ring. So did Sonny Liston. Henry always used to say he liked this place because it had magic. Sal looked up at the rafters. Magic for some guys.

“So where the hell is he?”

Sal glared at his brother. I'm gonna kill this
stunade—

“Hey! Who's over there?”

A figure came out of the shadows in the ring. Stocky, snow-white hair, electric-blue satin jacket, a pretty big gut now. Sal watched his old trainer step into a patch of moonlight. Henry had aged. He wasn't an old man, but he'd gotten old. Everybody does. Eventually.

“Who's over there? Dwayne? That you?”

Sal nudged Joseph. “Go ahead.”

Joseph looked at Sal, the attitude plastered across his face as he called out. “It's an old friend, Henry. He wants to see you.”

“Wha'?”

Sal bunched his shoulders and walked his palooka walk toward the ring. “It's me, Henry. Your old boy Sal. 'Member?”

“Sal who?”

The overhead lights sputtered on and stomped out the sweet moonlight. “Sal Immordino,” Joseph said, his hand on the wall switch.

Henry squinted and shaded his eyes, standing at the edge of the ring with the stumpy cigar in the middle of his mouth, like the captain of a ship.

Sal kept walking the walk, smiling his dopey smile at his
old trainer. “It's me, Henry.” Sal climbed into the ring and threw his arms around the man. “How ya doin,' Henry? How ya doin'?” Henry smelled of cigar, always had. He wasn't exactly returning the embrace. Sal figured he was gonna be this way.

Joseph looked up at Gonsalves from the floor. “We were in the area, and Sal said he wanted to come say hello, wish you luck. I hope you don't mind.”

Henry looked suspicious, hostile almost. He knew what Sal's line of work was—there was no question about that—but that was okay. Sal wanted to see those little flashes of fear in his eyes, the ones Henry didn't think he was showing. Fear was good. It would save everybody a lot of time and aggravation. Sal stood there grinning, shoulders rounded, his head swaying, moving his feet, feigning vague punches at the old guy who just stood there with his hand glued to the ropes. This was good. Okay, Joseph, you can talk now. Give 'im the rap.

“My brother thinks the world of you, Mr. Gonsalves,” Joseph started. “He talks about you all the time, even tells his doctors about you. That's why we came here to see you.” Joseph hauled himself up to the ring, then leaned over the ropes and whispered to Henry. “His doctor said it might do him some good, make him happy. Sal's been very depressed these past few years.”

Henry shrugged. “So whattaya want from me? I ain't no doctor.” He was trying to be tough, but his eyes were giving him away. What he knew about Sal now was probably what he'd read in the papers, and the papers always gave the FBI version, that Sal was faking it, that there was nothing wrong with him. Henry had known him when he was an ambitious kid trying to get ranked. The FBI said he was a dangerous criminal, an underworld boss. The only thing Henry could be sure of, though, was Sal's fists—
they
were dangerous. Henry kept looking at Sal but avoiding eye contact. Poor Henry didn't know what to think.

Joseph leaned over the ropes again. “Just play along with him. I'm asking you, please, Mr. Gonsalves. My brother
thinks he's a nobody. He doesn't want to live. All he talks about is you and fighting. That's it. Just do us this one favor. Please. Act like you're training him for a big fight. Just for five minutes. It would mean a lot to him.”

Henry took the cigar out of his mouth and gestured helplessly. “I mean, what can—? Hey, how the hell did you know I'd be here in the gym? What'd you guys, follow me, for chrissake?”

Joseph shook his head. “Sal knew you'd be here. He said you always hung around the gym on Sunday nights when you were training for a big fight. Sunday night was your worry night. That's what he said you told him. His memories of you are very, very clear.”

Sal nodded, grinning like a dope. “That's just what I told him, Henry, yeah. Sunday is
worry
night. You always throw me out of the gym on Sunday night. You like to be alone so you can worry.” Sal kept nodding, punching air. Joseph was doing all right. He could be very ingenuous when he wanted to be, very convincing. A perfect front man when he wants to cooperate.

“So why'd you guys sneak up on me like this? Huh?” Suspicious bastard.

Joseph looked properly embarrassed. “You may not be aware of this, Mr. Gonsalves, but there are certain law-enforcement agencies—the FBI, for one—that have it in their heads that my brother is in the
Mafia.
For some reason they think he's some kind of kingpin, a boss, whatever they call it.” Joseph switched back to whispering. “I mean, look at him, Mr. Gonsalves. Sal's not . . . capable.”

“But why'd you have to sneak in here? That's acting pretty shady, if you ask me.” Henry took the dead cigar out of his mouth, then put it back in and sucked on it a little.

“We came here like this to save you and the champ a lot of embarrassment. We're being persecuted unfairly. There's no reason why you and the champ should suffer by association. If we'd called you up first, came during the day, you'd have cops questioning you and all kinds of crap you don't need. And if the papers got wind of it, oh,
man . . .” Joseph shook his head sorrowfully. “It just wouldn't be fair to the champ.”

Henry chomped on the cigar as he stared at Sal. He was trying to look tough, but his eyes told the tale. Sal kept grinning and bobbing, boxing the air, acting like he hadn't heard a thing his brother said. Joseph did all right. Now it was his turn.

Sal shuffled around the trainer with a clumsy sidestep, throwing cramped little punches at nothing. “Let's put the gloves on, Henry. Gotta work on my timing. My timing is shit. You told me that. C'mon, Henry. Let's get the gloves.”

“We'd really appreciate it, Mr. Gonsalves. Just five minutes.” Very nice, Joseph. That face is beautiful. Sincerity like that you can take to the bank.

“Well, I—”

“C'mon, Henry. My timing's bad, real bad.”

The trainer raised his bushy eyebrows and shrugged. “I guess . . . I dunno. Five minutes?”

“That's all,” Joseph said.

“All right, sure, I guess. There's some gloves over there.” He nodded to one of the corners where a few beat-up pairs of gym gloves were hanging from the turnbuckle.

Joseph picked out two pairs and handed one to Gonsalves.

The old trainer pulled the cigar out of his mouth. “Hang on. Gotta get rid of this.” He ducked under the ropes and climbed down to go put it someplace. When he came back Joseph helped him with his gloves. “I used to do this for Sal when we were kids,” he told Henry as he carefully pulled the laces tight and tied them with double knots.

Joseph went over to help Sal with his gloves then. Sal grinned as his brother tied bows in his laces.

Joseph moved out of the way when he was finished, and Sal started toward Gonsalves in an exaggerated crouch, dragging his feet. “Okay, Henry. Here I come now, here I come.” He threw a few weak punches at Gonsalves's gloves. The trainer looked confused and a little embarrassed by the whole business. He still didn't know what to
make of it. “Tell me not to drop my right, Henry. I always drop my right. That's what you told me.”

“Yeah . . . that's right. Don't drop your right.” Gonsalves moved away from Sal, cautious. He remembered Sal's right.

Sal kept coming at him, throwing weak, sloppy punches. “C'mon, Henry. Tell me what I'm doing wrong. Tell me what to
do.
You tell the champ what to do, don'tcha?”

“Yeah, sure, Sal . . . I tell the champ what to do.” He kept moving away.

Sal moved in and cuffed Gonsalves's ear with a soft left. “He's a good guy, the champ, isn't he? He listens to what you say, right? Even if he's the champ, he's gotta listen to you. Right, Henry?”

“Yeah, Sal, he listens to me.”

Sal cuffed the ear again, a little harder. “Yeah, Walker's a good kid. He listens to everything you tell him. Everything. You're like his father, right?”

“Walker's a good kid, yeah.”

Sal smacked that ear with a sharp pop. “When I was up at the hospital—you know, the hospital?—I heard that guy on TV with the funny hair say that you're the only one the champ listens to, Henry. They all say you're the only one he listens to.” Another pop to the ear. “He's like your dog.”

“No, Sal, he's not—”

Another hook to that ear. Harder. “They say if you told him to jump off the Empire State Building, he'd do it, Henry.”

“No—”

Whap!
A little harder.

“They say if Henry Gonsalves told Tain' Walker to throw a fight, he'd do it.”

“No—”

Whap!
Harder. Gonsalves winced and covered up.

“That's what I heard, Henry.” Sal broke up the cover-up with a right uppercut. “That's what I heard.”

“That's not—”

Whap! Whap!
Two quick rights, half strength.

“I bet he'd do it if you told him to, Henry.”
Whap!
“That boy loves you. Like a father, Henry.”
Whap! Whap!

Gonsalves bent over and tucked himself in like an armadillo. Sal unleashed a deep uppercut and blew the old man open.

“Okay, okay, enough! That's five minutes—
“Whap-whap!

“How 'bout if
I
told you the champ should throw the fight, Henry? How 'bout it if I made you a very good offer to let Epps take it in the third? An offer good enough for you
and
the champ. Would you tell him to do it?”

“No, Sal—”

POW!
Right uppercut to the gut, full power. Henry doubled over, hanging on Sal's arm.

“I'm gonna ask you again, Henry.” Sal untied the bow on his right glove with his teeth. “What would you say, Henry? For three mil, say.” He shook off the glove.