For Everything a Reason (7 page)

Chapter
Thirteen

An intertwined canopy of trees sheltered Presley Perkins
from both the elements and prying eyes. Shoulders hunched, he hid in the cover
that the trees offered and watched carefully as the few people braving the
weather walked past. Most were accompanied by partners, pets, or police
officers on patrol. Central Park was a beautiful in the daylight, but would
become a dangerous landscape after nightfall. The clouds above the city rolled
by, fat and lazy and darkly ominous.

The day plodded towards
mid-afternoon. The park began to empty, most of its visitors heading back to
work or returning indoors to their homes to take shelter from the harsh
February cold. A few joggers rolled by to the buzz and crackle of oversized
headphones.

Presley stood with his feet
stomping up and down, quietly in the thick underbrush, and waited for the
safest of opportunities to present itself.

It came, eventually, in the
form of a large tuft of candyfloss.    

The bright splash of colour,
set against the sombreness of the day’s grey palette, made Perkins stop his
foot stomping and forced his attention onto the approaching pedestrian.

An old woman, hunched over in
her heavily insulated fur coat, and wearing gloves thick enough to weather the
Antarctic, walked casually towards him with her arm pulled straight by the
strain of a dog leash. Although she had covered herself against the weather
almost totally, her hair was open to the elements in a bright pink curly perm.
Like its owner, the little mutt was wrapped in a thick jacket, leaving its four
little legs racing in a blur. The mutt pulled against a long retractable length
of cord, forcing the old woman to take a couple of quick steps forward, subsequently
jerking her handbag off her shoulder. An expensive looking handbag, Presley
noted. This is the one, he thought, stepping out from cover.

The old woman came to a halt,
alerted to his presence. “Oh, dear,” she gasped.

The little dog barked a yap of
caution, too. The mutt turned to him, its face scrunched into a permanent show
of disdain, which made it look as if it had just buried its nose in a big pile
of dog crap.

“Cute dog,” Perkins said, as he
made his way over to the woman and her Pekinese.

The mutt tugged against the
over-extended leash and pulled itself closer towards this newcomer. As it got
to within striking distance of Perkins, the dog bared its teeth.

“Heel, Truffles!” the old woman
commanded, activating the leash’s mechanism. Squealing, Truffles returned to
the woman’s feet, where it growled continually.

Perkins gave the woman his best
smile. Truffles growled louder.

“Now, now, missy,” the woman
began, addressing the Pekinese. “We don’t behave in such a manner. Not when we
have people around.”            

“Hey, no worries,” Perkins
said. He slipped his hand into his jacket and wrapped cold fingers around the
stock of the Derringer. “Gee, it’s one cold day, today,” Perkins said, scanning
the length of the park. A couple of young teenagers were huddled together on a
park bench about a hundred yards away. Other than that, the park was deserted.

The wind changed direction,
enough to carry Perkins’ stench to the old woman’s nostrils. “Oh my,” she
gasped, her nose obviously used to finer scents. The mutt jumped up onto its
hind legs, twisting violently against the short length of cord.

“Thing’s a little jumpy,”
Presley acknowledged, nervously, understanding that the dog could quite easily
take a bite out of his leg. And, with no wish for that kind of pain, he took a
step back before withdrawing the pistol.

“Gimme your goddamn bag,
lady..!”

The dog launched into a frenzy,
barking and twisting in circles, while the woman just stared back blankly.

“What?” she asked, her face as
serene has the Holy Mother’s. 

“Your bag. Give me your bag.”

“Why?”

“Because I have a gun.”

“Where?”

“Here,” Perkins said, jabbing
the small weapon towards her.

The old woman squinted, her
eyes forming into tight slits. She strained over the ten yards or so which
separated them. “Don’t see it.”

Incredulously, Perkins took a
step closer. “See, look. A gun!” he said, twisting the weapon around in his
hand for her to get a more detailed look.

The woman shook her head. “No,
still can’t see it.”

Jesus Fucking Christ! Why the
hell had he picked this crazy old blind bitch to rob? He took another step
closer, his intention to ram the fucking thing up her nose, but the second his
foot left the ground, the small mutt shot forwards.

The old woman released the
leash’s mechanism and said, “Go get him!” The nasty little dog darted across
open space and snagged the hem of Presley’s pants in its teeth.

Then, as her would-be attacker
was pulled off balance, she snatched a small can of mace from her pocket.
Stepping forward, she launched a spray of liquid directly at his face.

Presley screamed as liquid fire
consumed his eyes. “No… Ah… It burns…” he shrieked. Instinctively, he pulled
the trigger. Two small hollow clicks answered as the hammer fell against empty
chambers.

“Why you..!” the woman said, now
understanding that the weapon wasn’t even loaded. She surged forward and rammed
her knee into his groin, sending him to the ground in a twisted heap. Truffles
released his cuff for a more satisfying mouthful of flesh.

“Call it off! Call it off!”
Presley begged. The sting of pain at his groin paled against the fresh agony of
the dog’s teeth. Truffles snapped at the tender meat of an exposed calf.

With nothing in the way of
mercy in her immediate thoughts, the woman slipped the bag from her shoulder,
and then started to whack Presley over the head with it. “Young man,” she said,
hitting him with a downward swing of her handbag between each word. “I suggest
you get yourself a real gun, next time you try to rob someone!”

“Christ, lady, please!”

The storm that was her anger
quickly blew itself out. “Release,” she said, and Truffles backed away
obediently. However, as the dog did, Perkins kicked out instinctively, catching
the mutt on the chin. Truffles yelped in pain and surprise, and tore away in
the opposite direction, hanging itself and spinning the old woman in a circle.
Both handbag and mace clattered to the ground.

With tears streaming down his
face, he reached out blindly. Mercifully, his fingers grabbed the small can of
repellent first. Unable to make anything out clearly, Presley caught the dark
blur of the woman’s legs. In a fit of vengeance he pointed the nozzle outwards
and sent a jet of pepper-spray in the mutt’s general direction.

Pain sent the dog running. It
pulled the leash from the woman’s hand, and took off across the park. With bag
and spray forgotten, the old woman followed, hysterically shouting, “Truffles!
Come back here. Come back to Mommy!”

Presley reached out blindly to
rake in two handfuls of snow. He pressed the melting snow into his eyes, and
whimpered in agony as he did so. The burning at his eyes was finally quelled.
He climbed to his feet. He squinted and found the park had become completely
empty. His little act of violence had gone unnoticed. 

He bent to retrieve the
Derringer and bag. Before the woman had a chance to return with cops in tow, he
hurried through the park and exited out onto Broadway. Understanding that he
would look suspicious carrying an expensive handbag, he stopped for a moment to
gather his wits. The bag would look too obvious stuffed under his thin jacket
and, if the cops were to stop him, then he’d be in real deep shit. He’d be
arrested and it wouldn’t take them long to identify their clumsy mugger as a
notorious cop-killer. He thought about emptying the bag and then tossing it
into a nearby bush, but the thing looked way too expensive to waste, and would
probably score a fair sum of money if pawned at the right shop. Looking inside
the bag give him an idea – the only one available to him at such short notice.

Then, he put as much distance
as possible between himself and Central Park, passing many a blank face as he
went, only a few curious as to know why a homeless-looking guy would be walking
the streets with a red bow in his hair, pink lipstick splashed across his lips,
and a stylish handbag hanging from his shoulder.

A couple of horse-mounted cops
watched the lipstick-wearing gentleman pass by, both following him until the
crowd of people gathered him within its multicultural embrace.

One cop turned towards his
partner. “Gee – I’ve seen it all now.”

“Yep,” replied the other.
“City’s definitely gone to the dogs. That’s for sure.”

Chapter
Fourteen

A black and white photograph had imprinted itself on the
insides of Joseph’s eyelids. The picture, clear and crisp, refused to dispel,
no matter how hard he tried to focus his attention elsewhere. Standing with
hands clasped together were two young girls, grinning sheepishly. He opened his
eyes and stared out towards the window. The small block of daylight that filtered
through looked grey and dismal: a monochrome block that held the projected
picture of the girls in Joseph’s imaginary eye. He huffed and turned towards
the opposite side of the room. Nothing there apart from Profit, slumped in a
chair at his side and snoring softly.

Joseph huffed again, and then
allowed his eyes to close. The girls smiled back at him in a duplicated
fashion. Joseph squinted, scrunching his eyelids tighter to get a better look.
They were dressed in thick clothing, animal skins cut to fit snugly, and wore
identical pairs of fur-lined boots. The boots weren’t the only identical
things. The girls possessed an uncanny similarity, mirror images of each other,
with broad Mongolian features. On closer inspection, Joseph noticed that the sisters,
twins no doubt, were not holding hands but joined at the hip – literally. Now,
Joseph knew where the image had come from - his memory.

Although he couldn’t remember
their names or anything of any real importance, he figured that at some point
in his life he’d read about the pair, that he’d seen this picture before. The
significance of the photo hit him. Joseph opened his eyes and glanced at his
left hand. He turned it over so his palm faced him. Then, he formed a tight
fist, feeling power within his grasp. In contrast, his right hand was limp and
lifeless, resting upwards, fingers partially curled, like an overturned crab.
Joseph focused his thoughts and tried to force his fingers to move. They
resisted. He huffed a blue streak of expletives under his breath.

This was what
the picture signified: himself. Two people trapped within the one body. One was
fit and strong, the other weak and infirm. Without warning, Joseph began to
panic as the full meaning of the Siamese twins analogy set in. One of the twins
had died, unexpectedly, leaving the other to fall fatally ill with blood
poisoning. They had shared just a single organ, the liver. Today, a relatively
simple procedure would have separated them, but not back then. The remaining
twin had died some days later when septicaemia destroyed her organs. Only in
death had they been separated, and only then in the interests of science.

The photo in
Joseph’s mind melted away, leaving behind it a wealth of terrible images. Most,
if not all, were formed by Joseph’s own dark imagination. He watched in horror
as a black decaying disease shifted into the left side of his body. Quickly,
this malignant entity destroyed the healthy side, leaving behind a festering
carcass.

Joseph
shuddered. 

Using all of
his willpower, he turned his mind away from these worrying thoughts. His eyes
came to rest on his old coach’s features. Once again, Profit had stayed by his
side. They had a bond now; one that Joseph hoped would never be broken, no
matter what the future held for them.

By the time he’d made a full
recovery from his neck injury years ago, Joseph had not only missed his golden
opportunity but had also found himself down by one promoter and manager. Only
Profit had remained beside him, as he did so now, and Joseph felt a flood of
affection and gratitude towards his aging friend. Not for the first time,
Joseph thanked his lucky stars as to how Profit had come into his life.

In the late 1950s – when only
one championship belt had existed – Eugene Profit had been a world contender.
Number Two in the world rankings no less. Back then, Profit had cut a dashing
figure; handsome, with an uncanny similarity to the Hollywood actor, Cary
Grant.
Time Magazine
had listed the young fighter as one of America’s
most prolific sportsmen.

By the time he was just
seventeen he’d already turned pro and had quickly risen within the ranks. At
twenty-one he boasted a scorecard of twenty-one wins, eighteen by knockout, and
zero losses. In a sport that had become predominantly dominated by African-Americans,
the public and promoters had fallen over themselves to get at this handsome,
enigmatic, young white fighter. And by his twenty-third birthday, was working
his way to a serious shot at the title.

What followed became the stuff
of legend.

Profit, unmarked, touted as
being too wet behind the ears by some and well out of his depth, had stepped
into the ring that night as a 10-1 underdog. The then current champ had been an
ugly, flat-nosed French-Canadian named Maurice
‘Mad Dog’
Russo. Mad Dog
had laid waste to all that had stood before him, having defended his crown no
less than eleven times already. A seasoned champ who knew every trick in the
book – and then some.

For the first five rounds,
Profit was forced to question his current occupational choice many times over.
His straight, finally chiselled nose was busted by the end of round two, and a
cut that was deep enough to shove dimes into had opened up above his right eye
by the beginning of the fourth. Twice his corner men pushed to end the fight. Perhaps
the masses had been right, and Profit was not ready for such an undertaking.
But something had the young fighter in its grip and was unwilling to let him
go. Profit shook off his fears and, with blood dripping from both nostrils and
brow, he stepped into the centre of the ring.

Profit got on his toes and
worked the ring like a matador. He utilised his strengths: speed and stamina,
and concentrated on using his sticking left jab to maximum effect. Every time
Mad Dog held them in a clinch, Profit stepped back and countered with simple
straight lefts and rights. By the eighth round the fight began to swing towards
the newcomer. The ninth saw both opponents floored – Profit by a swinging right
hook that he failed to duck, and Mad Dog by a vicious right cross delivered
with such speed that even the rolling cameras at ringside were unable to pick
up clearly.        

Rounds ten, eleven and twelve
came and went in a blur of leather, with so many punches landing, the
statisticians had difficulty keeping count. The current champ had two factors
working against him now: age and tiredness. His guard began to drop and his
shots were rapidly losing their power and accuracy. With fire in his belly and
lightning in his fists, Profit backed his opponent up against the ropes.

The fifteenth round was Mad
Dog’s undoing. Knowing now that only a knockout could save his championship, he
came storming out of his corner like a man possessed. Within thirty seconds,
though, he’d blown himself out, leaving himself wide open to a counterattack.
Profit happily obliged. His simple combinations of left and rights eventually
reduced Mad Dog to a spent force. And, with only seconds remaining on the
clock, he’d landed no fewer than thirty punches that were undefended and
unanswered. With no other option, the referee jumped in to end the fight.

The American dream now lay
subserviently at Eugene Profit’s feet. He took hold with both hands. In less
than a year, he had defended his title successfully on three occasions. The
film studios of that time were falling over themselves to include him as a
bit-part player in countless films.  More importantly, he met the love of his
life on the parking lot at Paramount Studios. 

Elizabeth Montague, a B-movie
actress, was herself on the verge of international success. Their first date
had been awkward and unnerving, both in awe of the other, desperate not to make
fools of themselves, and holding back in an unconscious way as to not suffer
too greatly if rejected. However, captivated by this young man’s enthusiastic
smile, Elizabeth had agreed to see Eugene again, a decision that in some
respects would eventually cost her her life.

A string of more successful
dates had slowly brought them closer, and in no time at all they had become Hollywood’s
B-list dream couple. Elizabeth continued to work on gritty, low budget cult
features, whilst Eugene made a number of successful defences. Fame and fortune
courted them both equally. They married in the late summer of 1959 under a sky
bluer than a tropical ocean.

In the 1960s, the film studios
started to shift away from the formulaic romantic-dramas/comedies and hired a
team of younger, more ambitious directors, eager to take the industry to new
heights and along uncharted paths.

Already established as a
serious actress, Elizabeth had landed the main role in a gritty movie about a
courageous single mother who found love with a black inner-city teacher. The
film opened to rave reviews and acclaim, and earned both Elizabeth and her
screen partner – a handsome black actor – Oscar nominations. 

Awards night should have been
an evening of celebration. And had Eugene been there, it probably would have.
Yet the promise of
even greater successes
had
lured him away from the ceremony altogether. Instead of arriving at Elizabeth’s
side, ready to share in her moment of splendour, he’d been almost 3000 miles
away, stepping into the ring to the chant of
‘Champ! Champ! Champ!’

Old Mad Dog had returned,
unwilling to let either time or defeat get the better of him. A string of
recent wins had pushed him back within contention. Eugene had brushed the
contest aside at first, with no wish to entertain the aging fighter. A
succession of publicised comments, regarding his only career knockdown, and the
promise of more lucrative financial endorsements, had worked its way inside his
gut. Eventually, pride and desire won out, and Eugene finally agreed to take on
the ex-champ again, ready to prove once and for all that he was now the best
fighter of his generation. The fight had been a farce. Profit stopped his man
within two rounds, before even breaking into a sweat. Only ten minutes after
stepping into the ring, he was back in the changing rooms, feverishly searching
for a spare dime. By the time he’d been connected to the hotel that was hosting
the awards, Elizabeth had left – the ceremony drawing to a close – and had
already begun to make her way to the after-party.

She never made it.

Her producer, a ruddy-faced middle-aged gentleman with a
passion for film, liquor and fast cars, had escorted her to the
after-party.
Amazingly, even after downing
over a quart of scotch, he almost made it. Yet somewhere
high up
in the Hollywood Hills, the vehicle had lost control
,
smashed through the side barrier,
before plummeting
to ground, killing the producer instantly and critically injuring Elizabeth.  

Grief-stricken, Profit rushed
back home, catching the first flight available – but arrived too late. His
wife, the newly crowned queen of Hollywood, died an hour before he reached her.

Torn apart by both grief and
guilt, Profit turned his back on the life he had, blaming himself for Elizabeth’s
death, and had shunned the world, drawing the curtains of life closed. Until,
that is, being discovered by a gangly young black kid named Joseph Ruebins. 

Joseph, then just a lanky
shadow of what he would become, had found the old fighter in the hope he could
convince Profit to return to the world as his coach. It had been a very hard
task. At first, the aging ex-pro had flatly refused to answer his door, never
mind speak to anyone, particularly this annoying black kid. Still, Joseph had
returned first weekly, then daily, before eventually drawing Profit out. They’d
simply walked a few blocks at first, giving Joseph time to explain why he’d
chosen the old man as a potential mentor.

That was simple: Joseph’s
mother had brought the younger, enigmatic and handsome Eugene Profit into
Joseph’s world through her passion for the old black and whites – particularly
the films starring her idol, Sidney Poitier.

Joseph’s mother had been giving
her son her usual monologue, of how brave the young black actor had been to
take on such powerful roles at a time when the industry would ordinarily see
Joseph’s forefathers as incapable of portraying anything other than bellboys or
hoods or servants. Hell, the actor hadn’t even had the right to vote by the
time he was receiving his nomination for an Oscar. And Joseph’s mother truly
believed that the actor and those as brave as him had been instrumental in
their battle for equal rights.  

A casual comment about
Poitier’s co-star, a beautiful young white girl, had started Joseph on the path
to allying himself with the ex-champion of the World.

“Such a sweet looking thing,
and such a shame she died so young, leaving her handsome champion all alone…”

This was so different a
statement from the one he was used to hearing that a teenage Joseph Ruebins had
pressed his mother to tell him all. She had.

And only hours after
discovering that an ex-pro, a World Champion no less, could be living
practically on his doorstep, Joseph found himself spinning through countless
reels of microfiche, late that afternoon, at the local library. Within minutes
of reading about the old champ’s heroics, Joseph had decided that he wanted
this amazing yet tragic boxer to lead him towards a world title fight.

Eventually his determination
had won.

Profit started to help Joseph,
just a few hours a week to begin with, in the gym, showing him how to throw
solid jabs and teaching him the important techniques of defence. By the end of
their first year, their fragile partnership had blossomed into Profit working
Joseph’s corner full time, and the old fighter looking upon Joseph as the son
he’d never had.

Now, as Joseph looked upon the
sleeping ex-fighter, he understood that Profit had become his guardian angel,
there to protect him, and see that success and all its hidden dangers didn’t
destroy this son of his.