Bad Luck (18 page)

“Enough, Sal—”

“Hey, take it easy, Sal.” Joseph yelling from outside the ropes. “You're gonna kill 'im.”

Shut the fuck up, Joseph.

Sal balled his fist and threw a right cross. Gonsalves's head whipped around, blood flowing from his nose, smearing his upper lip.

“I'm asking you, Henry. Will you tell him to do it? Huh?”

Oooph!

Sal lifted him off his feet with an uppercut to the stomach. He untied the left glove and threw it off, then started on that ear again. “I don't hear you, Henry.”
Whap! “
I don't hear you.”

Gonsalves was gasping for breath. “I—I can't—”

“Easy, Sal, easy.”

Shut up, you little fuck, you!

Sal was thinking about Henry taking Walker to the championship and all the shitty little two-bit fights he'd made Sal fight, fights that made other guys look good, punks like Walker. He clenched his jaw, moved in, and—
WHAM!
—a straight right square on Gonsalves's chin, the
killer right, the right that took care of Lawson, that could've decked Ali. A shock of white hair stood on end as Gonsalves's head flew back, then his knees buckled, and he collapsed in a heap. Out cold.

“Jesus Christ Almighty, you killed 'im, Sal. What the hell good is he now? Whatta we gonna do, Sal? There goes the fight, that's for sure. I toldja we shoulda went straight to Walker with this.”

“Shut your fucking mouth!” Sal yelled. He crouched down and looked at the old guy. Jesus,
did
he kill him? Sal started to panic. Shit, if Henry dies, they might have to back out of this fight deal. Fuck. “Go get some water,” Sal shouted. “Hurry up!”

Sal stuck his finger under the trainer's nose. He thought he could feel him breathing. Sal was relieved but, in a way, disappointed too. Sal muttered under his breath, “You
should
die for what you did to me, you old fuck, you.”

“What's taking you so long, Jo—” Just then the front door banged open.

“Hey, Gonz, what the fuck're you doing in here with all them lights on, man—?”

It was “Pain” Walker, with this black chick on his arm. The champ sensed that something wasn't right. He froze where he stood, staring up at Sal. Then he spotted his trainer laid out on the stained canvas.

“Gonz? Gonz, dat you?” There was panic in his voice. He shrugged the girl off and ran for the ring. “Gonz! What'd you do to Gönz, man?” Walker threw off his leather jacket and leapt up into the ring. He stopped and stared down at Gonsalves lying on the canvas, just stood there and stared. Then he started shaking. He raised his head and looked Sal in the eye. “Motherfuckin'—” The champ lunged like a panther and cracked Sal across the jaw with
his
killer right. It hit like a freight train. Sal stumbled back, dazed. Then Walker got him by the shirtfront and started whaling into his face.
“What the fuck you do this for, motherfuckah, huh? What'choo hurt Gonz for? Why?”
Walker was crying as he punched, crying and screaming and punching.

Sal swung at him, but he couldn't get a good shot in, not with the way Walker had him bent back over the ropes, so he tried to block the onslaught, but there was no getting away from Walker. He was all over him. Sal took a good one on the nose then, and time stopped. Then he felt it, that old familiar pain, brain-damage pain, like a spider-web crack spreading through his whole face, slowly shattering the skull underneath. Panic grabbed Sal by the balls. This fucking mental case was the heavyweight champion of the world, and he was pulling a nut on him, pulling a nut
barefisted.
This boy was gonna hurt him, hurt him bad.

Walker pounded Sal's ear. “Why you do this, motherfuckah? Why?”

Sal covered up to protect his head. “Joseph! Jo—!”

A gunshot cracked through the hollow gym.

Walker stopped short, fist cocked in the air. He stared across the gym.

“Cool it, brother, or your honey here's gonna be looking for a good plastic surgeon.”

Sal blinked and refocused his eyes. Joseph was looking up at them from the edge of the ring, holding his big 9mm to the girlfriend's cheek, pressing the muzzle right in there. He had her arm twisted up behind her. She had that kind of straight hair black chicks have that doesn't move. Like a Supreme. Her eyes were wide, white, and scared. Sal looked up at Walker who stood there like a dummy, trying to figure it all out. Sal pushed him off, straightened up, and smiled. Buckwheat and Farina. Thank you, Joseph. I take it back. You're not a total waste.

“What'choo
doin
' this for, man?” Walker's voice was high and strained. Too high for a guy his size.

Joseph took on that reasonable tone again. “We were trying to make Mr. Gonsalves a proposition, something that would be very good for you, champ. But he wasn't listening to us, so my brother had to press our point.”

“You talkin' shit, man. I don't know what'choo—”

“It's very simple, champ,” Joseph continued. “You throw the fight with Epps, and you'll end up with more money in your pocket than if you'd won.”

“Bullshit! Can't—”

“Three million, champ. All for you. Just stop and think, now. How much of that seventeen mil will you see if you win it? How much? You know how it works, champ. I don't have to tell you. Uncle Sam takes his big piece, the state gets their piece, the casino gets some, the promoter takes a lot, Henry gets some, then there's all the fees, and this guy's gotta get paid and that guy and the other guy's cousin, and when it's all over, what's left for you? Not too much, right? You take our deal and no one will know about it. Put it in a bank in the Islands. Nobody knows nothing. All for you. What do you think, champ?”

“Dwayne!” The girlfriend squealed, pleading.

Walker glared at her, hate in his eyes. This was a little too much for his limited capacity. You could see he was trying hard to sort it all out, but he had a slow processor and he didn't like being pressured by the babe. He didn't give a shit about her. That was for sure. What was probably making him mad, Sal figured, was that somewhere deep in the back of his head he was already making up his mind about throwing the fight, and now he was just pissed that she'd heard about the three mil.

“Dwayne! He's hurting me, Dwayne!”

“What you want me to do? He got the gun. Tell him.”

Sal had to laugh. He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at his nose. He was surprised it wasn't bleeding. He grinned to himself. Always could take a punch.

“So whattaya say, champ?” Joseph said. “It's a good deal.”

“I, I . . .” Walker couldn't get the words out. He stared down at Gonsalves on the canvas. “I don't know.”

Sal folded the handkerchief and put it back in his pocket. “Listen to me, champ.”

“Whattaya doin', Sal? Don't be stupid. Let me talk.” Joseph looked hurt again. He was too sensitive.

“It's okay, Joseph. I want to make the champ understand a few things.”

Joseph shrugged, disgusted. He didn't like it when Sal stopped playing dumb without warning. He liked being the mouthpiece. It made him think he was really in charge.

Sal turned to Walker. “You know, champ, you have to understand that this isn't
Wheel of Fortune
we're playing here. It's not a take-it-or-leave-it situation. We want you to throw the fight, and if you don't want to cooperate, you better start thinking about being a janitor or a doorman or something suited to your abilities, because if you don't do it, you're finished in boxing.”

“Fuck you, man. You don't know nothin'.”

“Oh, no? Well, chew on this, brother. You don't throw this fight, I find a convicted drug dealer who'll swear on a stack of Bibles that he sold you steroids, coke, crack, heroin, you name it. I'll get
two
fucking drug dealers.”

“That's bullshit, man. I don't take no steroids.”

Sal shrugged. “So what? The accusation alone will be enough to get the Boxing Commission on your ass, and everybody knows how they feel about you. Those old guys are dying to make an example out of you, Walker. Guilty or innocent doesn't matter. As soon as you're connected with drugs, there's no way they're gonna sanction a title fight with
your
name on the bill. Forget about it. They'll strip you of your title. And who the hell's gonna want to fight you if you're not ranked? That'll be it for you, pal.”

Come on, Walker. You're gonna do it. You
wanna
do it.

The champ was speechless. Comatose was more like it. He stood there, his chin on his chest, staring down at Gonsalves, waiting for him to rise from the dead and tell him what to do. He got down on one knee, touched the trainer's neck, his chest, his face. He didn't know what the hell he was doing. He just wanted Gonsalves to get up and handle this, be his daddy and take care of the tough decisions. Hell, he was just supposed to fight—Henry was supposed to take care of the rest. Henry had a way of making
his fighters dependent on him like that. That's why he and Sal had never really hit it off. Sal had other obligations.

“You gotta think for yourself, champ,” Sal said. “Henry means well, but he's a little old-fashioned, if you know what I mean. Sure, you can whup Epps. Everybody knows that. But in the long run that's not gonna put the cash in your pocket. Don't be stupid. Always go for the money, champ. You can't go on forever. Everybody gets old. It's a fact of life. You gotta think of your future. The smart guy always goes for the big money, champ. Be the smart guy.”

“Dwayne!” Joseph was squeezing the black chick again. It was more
braciòl'
than he'd squeezed in a long time.

“Dwayne, he's hurting me!”

“Shut the fuck up, bitch!” Walker looked like he wanted to punch her lights out. He turned back to Sal and whispered. “Three million dollars, you said?”

Sal nodded.

“And nobody can touch it but me?”

“You throw it before the fourth round, and the money'll be waiting for you in a bank in the Cayman Islands. All for you. Nobody else.”

Walker started nodding like he was in a trance. He was mumbling something.

“Whatcha say, champ?”

Walker kept mumbling under his breath, bobbing his head up and down, staring at Gonsalves. What the hell was this? Voodoo?

“Champ, I'm talking to you.”

Walker didn't seem to hear him. He wanted Gonsalves to get up and make the decision for him. Fucking Henry. He turned his fighters into babies. They couldn't shit without his okay. That's why he'd stopped pushing for Sal way back when. Sal wouldn't be his baby. Fucking Henry. Sal felt like stomping on his sleeping face.

“Look, champ, let me explain something to you. Henry's a good guy, but do you really think he's got your best interests at heart? What the hell's he got you fighting this has-been Epps for? You fight has-beens, pretty soon people
start calling you a has-been. You should be knocking down all those guys coming up the ranks, taking fights that're gonna keep you on top. Listen to me now. Take this deal, pocket the three mil, and you'll be free to take any fight you want. You won't have to be tempted by jerk-offs like Nashe waving big-money purses in your face, big money that you never even get to see. Am I making sense or what, champ? Am I?”

Walker was looking at him, eyes narrowed, face all scrunched up like a prune. He mumbled something.

“I don't understand what you're saying, champ. Speak up.”

Walker looked down at the floor, shoulders bunched, back rounded. “I said, all right, all right, I'll do it . . . I'll do it.”

Sal clapped his hands. “You're a smart guy, champ. You made the right decision.” Sal ducked under the ropes and climbed down out of the ring.

Joseph let the girl go, reluctantly. He kept the gun out and started backing toward the door, like George Raft.
Jooch.

Sal stood at the edge of the ring, eye level with Walker who was kneeling over Gonsalves now. “Hey, champ, listen up. This is important. You make sure you get Henry to Our Lady of Mercy Hospital over in Reading. Our Lady of Mercy. It's about forty-five minutes from here. You register him under the name of—” Sal shrugged and frowned—“Hector Diaz. Yeah, Hector Diaz. You got that? They'll take care of him. No questions asked.”

He turned to his brother. “Remember to call Dr. Steve and arrange it.”

Joseph nodded once, his eye on the ring.

Sal turned and headed for the door, Joseph walking backward with the gun trained on the champ. “Put that fucking thing away before you shoot yourself in the foot.” Fucking nitwit. Lou Costello.

He looked back at the ring then. The black chick was hanging on the champ's back, looking for a little consoling,
but Walker was only worried about his trainer. His daddy. “Hey, champ,” Sal called out, “don't think this over too hard. Just do what you promised. You think about it too much, you might get second thoughts, and second thoughts are no good for anyone. Especially you, kid.”