Sugar Pop Moon (14 page)

The newspaper's boxing commission was due to meet at the home of Foster Werts, a local wannabe politician who'd lost four races for mayor of Newark. Everything Walter had dug up on Werts was fishy, particularly that his mayoral campaign had been paid for by Richard Canfield, the financier who'd been exposed as an underground casino lord two years ago. Canfield was the law's worst nightmare: he was rich, powerful, and as crooked as a rusty screw. Nobody who claimed to have any integrity wanted to deal with him. Nobody except Foster Werts.

Walter stood on the carved steps that led to Werts's front door and looked up at the Victorian mansion. The three-story jewel sat behind four massive oak trees whose leaves were already turning orange and red. It looked like a castle, complete with stained glass windows, turned wood trim, and rooftop tower. Walter had no insight into Werts's finances, but this seemed like an awful lot of house for a four-time loser who made a living by sitting on state commissions every now and then. He pounded the knocker and waited, not sure what to expect. Werts had agreed to let him sit in on the meeting, but the double-dealer would probably be a lot less hospitable if he figured out that Walter wasn't interested in what the commission was doing—only why it was doing it.

After a short wait, Werts opened the door. He was shorter and squatter than Walter had expected; he had a sloping forehead, a chin that disappeared into his neck, and bulging eyes that gave him the look of a reptile in a suit. He shook Walter's hand and walked him into the dining room to meet the other members of the commission: Robert Walker, John William Dobbs, and Patrick Bagley. The charlatan and his three puppets sat on the far end of a long, polished mahogany table. Walter took a seat on the opposite end. That was close enough for him.

“We're ready when you are,” Werts said.

Walter took out his notebook as Dobbs, a chunky man with muttonchop sideburns, poured glasses of Chianti. He didn't offer one to Walter, and Walter didn't care.

“I'm sure you're expecting my first question,” Walter said.

Werts shrugged his rounded shoulders, as if the commission had countless decisions other than ruling on Leo's title.

Walter spelled it out for him. “What's your decision regarding Ernie Leo?”

“It's an interesting case,” Werts said. “We've reviewed the particulars, spoken with various parties, conducted an investigation, and, sadly, after much consideration, we've decided to take away his title.”

“And his prize money,” Dobbs added as he swirled the Chianti in his glass.

“His conduct has not been what we'd expect from the New Jersey champion,” Werts added. “Not to mention that miscegenation is against the law.” Then he folded his arms across his chest, almost defying Walter to follow up with more questions. “We're perfectly justified in our actions.”

It was an odd comment, being that nobody had suggested they weren't.

“It's disgusting,” Dobbs said, shaking his head.

Robert Walker, the puppet across from Dobbs, added, “We can't let that nigger keep the title.”

Bagley nodded in agreement, his brown beard bouncing on his chest.

Walter looked for a trace of compassion in any of the four men, but found none.

“How do you know he broke the law? You don't have any idea what went on in that room,” Walter said. “Besides, when did a fighter's conduct outside the ring become grounds for losing a championship?”

“Since it was put in his contract,” Werts said.

“I'd like to see that contract,” Walter said. He had already checked the file at the
Evening-Star
and found nothing but photos of Ernie and Higgins.

“I don't have it here,” Werts said. “And even if I did, it's confidential.”

Walter wondered if there had ever been a contract. He jotted down a note to call on Ernie Leo.

“Have any of you spoken with Leo?” Walter asked. “Did you get his side of the story?”

“We didn't have to,” Werts said. “We spoke to Higgins.”

“Why speak to him? What does he know about how Leo conducts himself?”

“Doesn't matter, really,” Werts said. Then he smiled and added, “All the details were in your article.”

“Nice piece of work,” Dobbs agreed, tipping his glass toward Walter before downing it.

“I didn't write it so you could screw Ernie Leo out of his title.”

The lines on Werts's forehead arched at the accusation. “First of all, we're not screwing anybody. Second, there were other witnesses, too. You're not the only person who saw what went on.”

Werts was spewing pure bullshit. The only others who'd been outside Ernie's dressing room that night were his trainer, Willie Brooks, and the guy who'd given Walter the story—the young, red-haired security guard patrolling the corridor.

“Really? Give me some names,” Walter said, picking up his pencil.

“We can't divulge names,” Werts said. “They're confidential.”

“All of them?” Walter asked.

The four commission members nodded.

Walter shook his head, amazed that Werts and his pals weren't even dressing up their lies. “So what's going to happen to the title?”

“We haven't ruled on that yet,” Werts said.

Walter knew that Werts had already come to a decision, or more accurately, that a decision had come to him. “Is the belt going to Higgins? Without a rematch?”

Werts nodded as if Walter had just given him an idea that hadn't yet crossed his mind. “That Higgins is some fighter, isn't he?”

“If he isn't, I'm sure you'll make him one,” Walter said, shutting his notebook, unable to continue the farce any longer.

But as much as Walter wanted to write a story that ripped the cover off these four imposters, he knew he'd need some proof they were on the take—especially since his own paper had handpicked them. He had to find someone who wasn't on Albright's payroll and wasn't too scared to talk.

He would start tomorrow, and his first stop would be the very man who had stood up under the pressure of body blows and head butts, succumbing to nothing other than his love of a white woman.

It's a week before Christmas and instead of wrapping gifts for Pearl, I'm hiding out in Old Man Santiago's office at the Hy-Hat, afraid I'll catch a bullet if I venture outside. The office is a tiny room; it used to be a pantry before Old Man Santiago redid the place. It's opposite the kitchen in the back of the club, so if Jimmy's boys were to walk through the front door, I'd see them straight away and be out the fire exit before they made it through the game room.

It's dinnertime and Old Man Santiago brought me a plateful of roast turkey and mashed potatoes. The meal is sitting on the desk in front of me, half-eaten. I can't relax, not only because I'm ready to leave for the Pour House—which would be reason enough to be anxious—but because I've got my father talking to Jimmy McCullough for me.

It seems crazy, but the champ was the only person I could send to the Pour House. I thought about sending Santi, but I'm already upset with myself for letting the kid finagle his way to Philadelphia. Besides, Jimmy won't touch my father. They know each other from the old days in Harlem; Jimmy surely realizes the champ wasn't involved in any bootleg deal.

Still, I'm not sending my father to the wolves alone. I figure I'll enter the row house next door, crawl through the ratacombs, and listen in from the stairway outside the underground entrance to Jimmy's office. If things get ugly, I'll enter shooting.

Santi walks in with a bowl of stuffing and slides it next to my turkey.

“Your dad's a saint,” I say.

“He says he owes you,” Santi tells me, leaning on a metal file cabinet.

“Not lately. This place has been running without my help.” I don't mention the cash I've been leaving for Old Man Santiago on the first of every month. I drop it right here next to the telephone in an unmarked envelope. We never discuss it, but the old man must know it's from me—nobody else around here can come up with that kind of cash on a regular basis.

“So does your father have a plan?” Santi asks. “He can't just tell Jimmy to get off your back. The odds of that working are negligible.”

“I'm not expecting Jimmy to get off my back. I just want him to hear my story. Then I'll sit down with him.”

“You're expecting me to believe you're not going to the Pour House to back your father up?”

“No, I don't expect you to believe it. I just don't want you coming with me.”

I can see Santi's disappointed. And scared.

“Be careful,” he says. “If it occurred to me that you're going to be there, it must have occurred to Jimmy, too.”

The clock on Old Man Santiago's safe reads eleven.

“It's time,” I say.

Santi tells me to avoid Fifty-Third Street, but I ignore him. I slip my revolver into the waistband of my pants and throw on my overcoat. Then I walk through the game room and pass the teens playing ping-pong. All four tables are manned with fresh faces; the regulars are next to them, shooting pool. “I Got Rhythm” is coming from the phonograph and I wish I could join the gang. Instead, I wrap my scarf around my chafed jaw and step outside for the first time since I got here last night.

When I reach Fifty-Third Street and Ninth Avenue—the block of the Pour House—I slow down. I want to know if I'm up against the regular staff or if Jimmy has hired extra triggermen to throw me a homecoming. The easiest way to tell would be to see who's manning the door, but I can't make out the entrance of the joint. I'm not surprised. Jimmy pays off the lamplighters to keep the street dark. He figures there's no better cover than evening shadows during a nighttime raid, because we all know the block better than any cop or Fed.

I creep along the sidewalk opposite the Pour House, my breath turning to smoke and drifting off in the icy wind. When I'm halfway down the block, I position myself behind a tree for a closer look. Despite what Santi thinks, I'm relatively safe because nobody at the Pour House is expecting me to show my face. In fact, I'd rather be here than home, since Jimmy's boys are probably still camping out there.

A couple of boozers stagger across the street and walk the short path that leads to the Pour House steps. They hike the stoop and knock on the front door. It feels strange that they can walk into the Pour House while I've got to creep around outside simply because Owney Madden's boys wouldn't sell their precious liquor to the likes of me.

The drunkards are at the door and I can't make out their faces—but I do spot a head of plastered-down, spiky black hair, and I know it belongs to Diego. He's working the door, which means it's business as usual.

I cross the street quickly, hoping my black chesterfield helps me disappear into the shadows around me. The block is quiet except for the soft sound of snow crunching under my feet and the faint music coming from the Pour House. For a second I make a mental note to tell Jimmy about the leaking music until I realize it's no longer my concern.

When I arrive at 321 West Fifty-third, I inch my way up the path. I'm trying to act like I belong here but a cab pulls up and leaves me no choice but to crouch down behind the row of shrubs that separates the property from the Pour House walkway.

A man and woman get out and are standing only feet away from me; they're talking as they make their way to the door. I reach into my pocket and slip on my brass knuckles but these two customers sound harmless. He's got his date on his arm and he's telling her that he won't keep her long. It's a familiar tune.

Then he adds, “Just until Jimmy has a chance to meet you” and I realize the voice belongs to Antonio, an up-and-comer that Diego brought by the bar a few months ago. He's got one of those long, horselike faces—closely set eyes, slender nostrils, sunken cheeks—and he's as skinny as a streetlamp. I don't remember much about him, other than he likes his martinis with a splash of olive juice. My hunch is he's brought a looker so he can impress the boss.