Down for the Count: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Ten) (6 page)

“
Doves of a Winter Night
,” I read. “Nice. I like the outline of the bird, too. How many books are you printing?”

“Three thousand,” Alice said below us.

“You can sell three thousand books of poetry for children?”

Jeremy smiled and put his hand on my shoulder. If he had closed the hand, my shoulder would have been avocado pudding.

“We do not plan to sell them, Toby,” he said. “We will give them away. These are dark times, Byronic times. Times swirling in the mists of world terror. I have no desire to profit from despair. These poems should, may help some children feel better about themselves and the possibility for the future.”

“We have hope for the future,” Alice said, looking admiringly at Jeremy.

“And what about your business?” I said to Alice.

“Oh,” she said, beaming, “I’m still doing the dirty books. A woman’s got to make a living and we’ve got thousands of servicemen gobbling up pornography all over California. Money I make on my regular stock, part of it, can go into
Doves of a Winter Night
.”

Somewhere below us in the lobby a drunk who had wandered in was singing “Night and Day.” Jeremy sighed deeply. “I’ll take care of that when we get the covers put away,” he said, picking up the boxes. “Keep the cover.”

“Thanks,” I said, moving down past Alice. “Good luck with the
Doves
.”

When I reached the lobby, the drunk was sitting against a wall. He was as pale and skinny as any crack in the cold tile under him. He was belting out “In the roaring traffic’s boom” in a not bad imitation of Fred Astaire.

“Got a tip for you, Fred,” I called as I went for daylight. “Dance your way out of here before a very big man comes down those stairs and sets a new record for the javelin throw with you as the javelin.”

Fred tipped his hat to me, grinned toothlessly, and didn’t miss a beat as he went on with “in the silence of my lonely room, I think of you night and day.”

I had been feeling pretty good coming down the stairs, but the drunk’s words reminded me of Anne, and I lost some of my edge. I tucked the cover of
Doves of a Winter Night
under my arm and headed down the street for Manny’s taco stand. It was early and I had downed a good-sized breakfast, but I was flush with money and a good bad meal consisting of a pair of Manny’s tacos and a Pepsi would put me right again.

Two tacos and a Pepsi later I was ready for Al Parkman and Reed’s Gym. I got into my Ford after telling Arnie that I wanted him to prepare for fixing the gas gauge, and I headed out toward Figueroa.

I flipped on the radio, avoided hitting an old guy crossing the street against the light, and listened to a static-broken Conga version of Felix Mendelssohn’s “Spring Song” played by Xavier Cugat.

3

R
eed’s Gym was just where Ralph’s notebook said it would be, on Figueroa near Adams. I’d passed it hundreds of times. Ralph didn’t have the name quite right, however. It was
REED’S SOLDIER’S GYM.
The sign was old and faded. It looked as if the letters had once been gold against a green background. Now it was just letters and chipped paint. The entrance was a narrow door between an appliance store and a movie theater, the Lex, which was showing
My Gal Sal
. The theater wasn’t open yet. It was only a little after one or so, but Reed’s was open. I could hear the sound of men talking, grunting, swearing, laughing, above at the top of the sagging wooden stairs.

I hadn’t called ahead. True, a call might have told me if Al Parkman was there, but it would also have told Al Parkman I was coming. As it turned out, Parkman was there, but first I had to get past the pug at the door.

“Ten cents,” he said. He was wearing a white T-shirt that had
REED’S
printed on it in black. He was also wearing two of the most convoluted ears I had ever seen on a creature claiming to be a member of the human race. He really didn’t say “Ten cents” either. I had to figure it out from the context and his extended hand. What he said was more like, “Tessn’s.”

I gave him the dime.

“Locker and towel’s another dime,” he said.

He was sitting on a stool, his back to the gym. When he spoke, it looked as if he was having a bit of trouble remembering the words, which he must have said at least thirty times that day alone, judging from the sweating bodies behind him.

“No thanks. I’m just watching today.” I grinned.

“You’re a little old for fightin’ anymore, anyway,” he said, looking at me under eyelids weighted down with scar tissue.

“You got it there,” I agreed. There was a ring in the far corner of the loft. Men, mostly white, were punching bags, jumping ropes, gabbing. Other guys in shirts were milling around or watching the two in the ring, who were going through the motions. Something looked wrong with the scene, but I couldn’t finger it.

“You’re China Rogers,” I said to the battered face at the door. He did something with his face that was supposed to be a smile.

“I used to be,” he said. “Ain’t no more. Now I handle the door here. Know what I mean?”

“I saw you fight Packy Carl for the California middleweight title in …”

“September 4, 1916, Stockton,” he answered. “Stopped him in the fifth with a combination. Voom, voom, right to the gut. Always went for the gut. I remember every punch I ever threw, every punch. Don’t ask me what I done this morning, but every punch in eighty-three fights I could tell you, believe me.”

“I believe you,” I said. “Hey, is Al Parkman around today?”

“Every day,” Rogers said. A kid, who looked like a Mexican about sixteen or seventeen, came up the stairs and handed Rogers two dimes and walked past me. China Rogers examined the change.

“Where is he, Parkman?” I asked.

“Back in the corner, by the ring,” Rogers said. “Little guy with a mustache. Nice duds. You’ll see him. But he’s not taking on any fighters old as you. Needs ’em bad, but guys like us is too old.”

Then it hit me. I knew what was strange about Reed’s Soldier’s Gym. All the boxers looked like high school kids or their fathers. The young guys were all gone, gobbled up by the Army or Navy.

“I’ll see you around, China,” I said.

“You really saw me fight Carl?” he asked, looking at me with a grin that showed broken teeth.

“You were great,” I said.

“Went for the gut,” he said as I walked away.

The strongest sensation in the room came not from the moving bodies but from the smell. Sweat and tobacco filled my nose and eyes. There were a few open windows, but they didn’t help much. The closest smell I could think of was the squadroom of the Wilshire District Police Station, which had the added odor of old food and things I didn’t like thinking about. I eased past a kid who looked as if he were twelve or thirteen working on a bag while a guy who looked like he was seventy yelled at him, “Faster, faster, faster.” I dodged two other older guys in short sleeves, arguing their way toward the door. One guy was waving both hands and shouting, “A finiff, five. That much you can take, no more.” The guy with him had his hand on the angry guy’s shoulder, kneading his sweaty cotton shirt, trying to calm him.

The ring wasn’t elevated. It was a floor-level mat with three strands of rope around it. The rope was covered with a badly worn material that looked like black velvet. I spotted Al Parkman with no trouble. He was standing next to a Negro with white hair. The Negro was about sixty, with strong arms and a little belly. He wore a short-sleeved blue shirt on the back of which was written
Teeth Guzman
. Parkman was about the same age as the other man, but he was pale and white with dark hair and a pencil mustache so dark it had to be dyed. He wore a suit with a gray background and thin yellow stripes. He looked like a modern painting gone all to hell. His collar was open and his tie, a red thing with some kind of animal on it, dangled over his shoulder.

“There,” Parkman said to the Negro. “You see? You see? His left is down to here.”

“I see,” the Negro said patiently. “I tell him and tell him. I shows him and tell him some more, but that boy don’t have the brain to take it in. That’s the truth. He’s simple.”

Parkman spotted me, let his eyes run up and down my suit, and decided that he couldn’t figure me out. He decided to play it without commitment.

“Josh’s right,” he said to me, nodding at the Negro and looking over at the two guys in the ring. “Kid’s no good. Jerry in there with him was over the hill ten years ago, and if I let him go, he’d send the kid to Little Nemo land. You know?”

“I know,” I said.

Josh took the opportunity of my appearance to ease away from Parkman and concentrate on his fighter in the ring.

“So,” Parkman said, rubbing his nose with his thumb. “So are you fighter, promoter, or what? We’re in the market for talent, but you’re …”

“… too old,” I said. Parkman’s head was bobbing up and down as we spoke, and he threw a glance at the men in the ring again.

“So, you got business, a kid, or what?”

“Or what,” I said. “Ralph Howard.”

Parkman stopped bouncing. A bell had rung in his head, ending the first round of our getting to know each other. Now we would start the serious jabbing.

“Ralph Howard,” he repeated.

In the ring, the young fighter caught a left in the gut, and Parkman sighed.

“It’s the old ones like Jerry who know to go for the gut,” he said. “You wear ’em down. You think Zale or Sugar Ray Robinson go for the head? They go for the gut.”

“Joe Louis,” I threw in.

“Goes for the gut,” Parkman said. A thin, moist line appeared on his upper lip just below the mustache.

“Let’s try again,” I said. “Ralph Howard and Joe Louis. What’s the connection?”

“Who are you?” Parkman said, trying to find the answer in my eyes. It wasn’t there.

“I represent Ralph Howard,” I said.

Parkman laughed, a crackling little laugh that turned to choking.

“What’s funny?”

“Nothing,” Parkman said. “Nothing. The man never learns. Tell him to forget it. Better yet, I’ll tell him. It can’t be done.”

“What can’t be done?” I said.

In the ring, the young man had turned his back on the older fighter, who was standing there in exasperation, his arms down.

“Come on, son,” Josh called over the gym noise.

“Just a minute here,” Parkman said, hurrying over to Josh and the kid who was shaking his head. It looked to me as if the kid wasn’t too simple in the head to realize that his future did not lie in the ring. I patiently looked around the room while Parkman and Josh tried to reason with the kid. After a minute or two, the kid gave in and turned to fight. Jerry, the older guy in the ring, looked over at me and gave me a well-what-are-you-going-to-do look.

“So,” Parkman said, returning to me. He had a towel in his hand and was wiping his palms. “What does Howard want now?”

“Nothing,” I said. “He’s dead.”

Parkman started to smile as if I might be joking and then realized I wasn’t. “What happened to him?”

“Someone beat his face in on the beach last night,” I said, watching him. It seemed to be a real surprise to him, but I’ve met a lot of good liars in my time.

“What the hell for?” he said. “He was good for—” Then he clammed up. “Who are you?”

“Name’s Peters,” I said. “I’m a friend of the Howard family. Mrs. Howard wants me to check up on her husband’s business, debts, things like that.”

“Well, you started with the right man,” Parkman said, pointing to his own chest. “I’m sorry the man’s dead but he owes me. Almost a grand. It might not be much to people like Howard, but for me it’s a lot.”

“For me it’s a lot, too,” I said. “What’s your connection to Howard? Why did he have your name and Joe Louis’s in his address book?”

Parkman wiped his forehead with his sopping towel and shook his head. “I’ll tell you. We were trying to work out an exhibition between Louis and Teeth Guzman. Howard had a piece of Guzman, Perry, the kid in the ring, and two other fighters. Not the cream of the crop, but with what’s around, you do what you can do. You catch my drift?”

“I catch it,” I said. Behind us toward the door the noise level went up. It sounded like a fight and looked like it, only when I turned around it wasn’t boxers going at it but the two old guys I had walked past.

“Goddamn crazy business,” Parkman said. “Howard wanted to set up this fight with Louis. Even a little purse would do it, bring in enough to keep things going, and who knows, Guzman might be able to go three rounds with Louis, might even look good. Stranger things have happened, like the pyramids. You know what I’m talkin’ here?”

“I get it,” I said. The two old men fighting had drawn a crowd. Even the two guys in the ring had paused to see what was going on, but Josh shouted at them to get back to work.

“I think the late Mr. Howard had too much sunk into these fighters, you ask me,” Parkman said.

“I’m asking you,” I prompted.

“Then I’m telling. I think Howard had some partner who maybe didn’t like losing money. More than that you’re not getting from me. I like my knuckles the way they are, thank you, if you know what I mean.”