Born Bad (36 page)

TONY: Holy shit, man! Can't you go to the Youth Board? Get them to cool it?

LACEY: Man, everyone knows the Youth Board ain't really for niggers. Besides, those Egyptian Kings, they just rumble, man…they ain't no social club. They even called off their war with the spic crews just to get at us. They got fuckin' guys in there must be thirty years old. I mean real gangsters, man. The Messenger said they emptied the treasuries of all the nigger clubs just to buy some death for us.

TONY: But first they got to call a War Council…

LACEY: They don't got to do shit! They say all the rules is gone for this one because they got to have the boy who blinded Priest. Man, they gonna go down without warning and they gonna jump guys in neutral turf and in school and even in they homes, man. They say vengeance by fire, man, you understand?

TONY: What…

LACEY: Yeah, that's like it is. The Messenger say they call the whole thing off if we give them Rix.

TONY: They want Rix to fight another one of their boys?

LACEY: Oh, man…they want to torture the cat. The Messenger says they have to cut off his balls and watch him bleed to death, pull out his eyes with pliers. They say he got to pay!

TONY: You mean like…fuckin'
deliver
him? Hand him over? What if we hip him and he cuts out…splits the neighborhood for good?

LACEY: Don't be crazy, man. They will know how he knew and we will all pay the fuckin' price. The niggers are crazy behind this one. Anyway, with all the shit on the street, the cops must know one of you guys burned that cop. Somebody got to pay for that, too.

TONY: I got to make a decision.

LACEY: I been talkin' to you like a brother, man. But the only decision you got to make is if Rix dies by himself, dig?

LACEY
goes over to
Rix,
puts his arm around his shoulders.

LACEY: How's it feel, man? To be the baddest cat of all?

RIX: I'm feelin' no pain, man. I shoulda killed the fuckin' nigger.

LACEY: Listen, Rix. We got a pound of smoke and an ounce of snow stashed over near the border, in spic territory. And you know that fine spic whore, the one they call Rondella? Well, she wants to meet you, man. She heard what you did, baby, and she thinks she be safe from niggers, she was your woman. We always keep the stuff over at her home 'cause her mother works this night shift at the hospital. We called, man, and she wants you to pick up the stuff personally. She waitin' on you. Don't worry about the turf, either. I have ten good men go with you, like an escort for a king, man. They watch the house while you inside with her. And they be fully heeled, with
pistols,
man. Nothing but the best for my new Warlord.

RIX: Hey, beautiful, man. I don't need no escort, but if you want…

LACEY: Man, I told you I will deliver and I will. Just hold tight for an hour or less. Yeah….

LACEY: Rix, man, you gettin' ready to go?

RIX: Man, I gettin' ready to
come!

Tonight he
was
the main event, a ten–rounder. Middleweights, they were supposed to be, but they called Carr's weight out at one sixty–four.

There was a lot of betting in the mid–priced seats just past ringside—betting how long the fight would go before Carr stopped the other guy.

Nobody knew the opponent—he was the last–minute replacement for the guy Carr was supposed to fight. He walked to the ring by himself, wearing a thin white terry–cloth robe. His trunks were black.

The announcer pointed to the opponent's corner first. Manuel Ortiz. Dragging the last name out way past two syllables—
Orrrr–Teeese!
Ortiz was fifty–six and sixteen, with thirty–two KOs. Originally a welterweight, he'd go up or down…wherever there was work. They had him at one fifty–nine tonight.

Maybe he had dreams for this once—now it was a part–time job.

I knew his story like it was printed in a book. He got the call the day before, finished his shift at the car wash, got on the Greyhound and rode until he got to the arena—I could see it in his face, all of that.

Carr was twenty–two. He'd gone all the way to the finals at the Olympic Trials before turning pro two years ago. They said Ortiz was thirty, shading it at least a half dozen. The guy who managed him worked out of a phone booth in a gym somewhere near the Cal–Mex border. His boxers always gave good value—they wouldn't go down easy, didn't quit, played their role.

The fighters stepped to the center of the ring for their instructions. Carr had three men standing with him, one to each side, the third gently kneading the muscles at the back of the middleweight's neck. Ortiz stood alone—the cornerman they supplied him with stayed outside the ring, bored.

Carr gave Ortiz a gunfighter's stare. Ortiz never met his eyes. That was for younger men—Ortiz was working. I could feel the Pachuco cross tattoo under the glove on his right hand….I knew it would be there.

The referee nodded to the fighters. Ortiz held out his gloves, just doing as he was told. Carr slammed his right fist down against them. The crowd cheered, starting early.

The bell sounded. Carr snake–hipped out of his corner, Bring a quick series of jackhammer jabs. Ortiz walked forward like a man in slow motion, catching the jabs on his gloves and forearms, pressing.

Carr danced out of his way, grinning. I dropped my eyes to the canvas, watching parallel as Carr's white leather boxing shoes ice–skated over the ring, purple tassels bouncing as Ortiz's black lace–ups plodded in pursuit.

Deep into the first round, Ortiz hadn't landed more than a half–dozen punches. He kept swarming forward, smothering Carr's crisp shots, his face a mask of patience. Suddenly, Carr stopped back–pedaling, stepped to the side, hooked off his jab and followed with a smoking right cross, catching Ortiz on the lower jaw. Ortiz shook his head—then he stifled the crowd's cheers with a left hook to Carr's ribs.

The bell sounded. Carr raised his hands, took a quick lap around the ring, like he'd already won. Ortiz walked over and sat on his stool. His cornerman held out his hand to take the mouthpiece, splashed some water in the fighter's face, leaned close to say something. Ortiz didn't change expression, looking straight ahead—maybe the cornerman didn't speak Spanish.

Over in Carr's corner, all three of his people were talking at once. Carr was grinning.

A girl in a gold bikini wiggled the perimeter, holding up the round–number card. The crowd applauded. She blew a kiss.

Carr was off his stool before the bell sounded, already gliding across the ring. Ortiz stepped toward Carr, as excited as a gardener. Carr drove him against the ropes, firing with both hands, overdosing on the crowd's adrenaline. Ortiz unleashed the left hook to the body again. Carr stepped back, drew a breath, and came on again, working close. Ortiz launched a short uppercut. Carr's head snapped back. Ortiz bulled his way forward, throwing short, clubbing blows. Carr grabbed him, clutching the other fighter close, smothering the punches. The referee broke them.

Carr stepped away, flicking his jab, using his feet. The crowd applauded.

The ring girl put something extra into her wiggle between the rounds, probably figuring it was her last chance to strut her stuff.

Halfway through the next round, the crowd was getting impatient—they came to see Carr extend his KO record, not watch a mismatch crawling to a decision.

"Shoeshine, Cleo!" a caramel–colored woman in a big white hat screamed. As though tuned in to her voice, Carr cranked it up, unleashing a rapid–fire eight–punch combo. The crowd went wild. Carr stepped back to admire his handiwork. And Ortiz walked forward.

By the sixth round, Carr was a mile ahead. He would dance until Ortiz caught him, then use his superior hand speed to flash his way free, scoring all the while. When he went back to his corner at the bell, the crowd roared its displeasure—this wasn't what they came to see.

A slashing right hand opened a cut over Ortiz's eye to start the next round. An accidental head–butt halfway through turned the cut into a river. The referee brought him over to the ring apron. The house doctor took a look, signaled he could go on. The crowd screamed, finally getting its money's worth.

Carr snapped at the cut like a terrier with a rat. Ortiz kept playing his role.

Between rounds, Carr's handlers yelled into both his ears, urging him to go and get it. Ortiz's cornerman sponged his cut, covered it with Vaseline.

The ring girl was really energized now, hips pumping harder than Carr was hitting.

Carr came out to finish it, driving Ortiz to the ropes, firing a quick burst of unanswered punches. Ortiz came back with his trademark left hook, but Carr was too wired to get off–tracked, smelling the end. A right hand landed Hush on Ortiz's nose, a bubble–burst of blood. Ortiz spit out his mouthpiece, hauled in a ragged breath and rallied with both hands. A quick look of surprise crossed Carr's face. He stepped back, measuring. Ortiz waved him in. Carr took the challenge, supercharged now, doubling up with each hand, piston–punching. Ortiz's face was all bone and blood.

The referee jumped in and stopped it, wrapping his arms around Ortiz.

Carr took a lap around the ring, waving to the crowd.

Ortiz walked over and sat on his stool.

The announcer grabbed the microphone. "Ladies and gentleman! The referee has stopped this contest at two minutes and thirty–three seconds of the eighth round. The winner by TKO, and
still
undefeated…Cleophus…Cobra…
Caaaarrrr!"

The crowd stood and applauded. Carr did a back flip in the center of the ring.

Ortiz's cornerman draped the white robe over the fighter's shoulders.

Ortiz walked back to the dressing room alone.

"That's a real warrior," Frankie said to me.

"Carry He's nothing but a —"

"Not him," Frankie said. "The Spanish guy."

That's when I knew for sure that Frankie was a fighter.

"You never saw white ones before, did you?" The curator was a plump young woman, thick glossy hair piled carelessly on top of her head, soft tendrils curling on her cheeks. Wearing a white smock, no rings on her fingers, nails square–cut. A pretty, bouncy woman, full of life, in love with her work.

I shook my head, waiting. I hate this part of the business. They always have a reason for what they want done—I don't need to hear it.

"Actually, white alligators aren't all that rare. It's just that when they're born in the wild, they don't have much chance of survival. A grown alligator is a fearsome thing—it really has no natural enemies. But the mother alligators don't protect the babies once the eggs hatch. One old legend sap that a baby alligator who actually manages to survive all its enemies and grow to full size spends the rest of its life getting even. That's why they're so dangerous to man."

I nodded again.

"You don't talk much, do you?"

"That's part of the service," I said. Catching her dark eyes, letting her feel the edges of the chill.

We walked past the bear pit. Grizzlies, Kodiaks, brown bears, black bears, all kinds. But the polar bear was in a separate area just around a sharp corner in the path. Prowling in circles, watching.

"How come the polar bear can't be with the others? He needs colder water or something?"

"She. That's a mama bear. Polar bears are solid animals. They don't mix well. And when they have cubs, they attack anything that approaches."

"Show me where it's been happening."

We strolled over to the African Plains enclosure. Somebody had been sneaking into the zoo at night. It started with stoning a herd of deer. Then they shot one of the impalas with a crossbow. The animals didn't die. Whoever did it came back again. And a cape buffalo lost an eye.

"It's just a matter of time before he kills one of our animals," the curator said.

"He doesn't want to kill them. He wants them to hurt. Wants to hear them scream."

White dots blossomed on her cheeks. "How do you know?"

"I know them."

"Them?"

"Humans who do this."

Her hands were shaking.

"Nature can be hard, but it's never cruel. Survival of the fittest—that's how a species grows and protects itself. But animals never kill for fun."

"Neither do I," I said. Reminding her.

She reached in her pocketbook and handed me a thick envelope. "This is my own money. I couldn't go to the Board for help. They tried hiring security guards, but it kept happening. I can't have the animals tortured like this."

"I'll take care of it."

She fumbled in her purse. "You'll need a key. To get in after dark."

I waved it away. "Whoever's doing this didn't need a key."

The curator took a deep breath. Making up her mind, getting it under control. "I believe there have to be laws. Nature has its laws, we're supposed to have ours, too. But I don't want—I mean, you promised."