Hemingway's Girl (6 page)

Mariella knew about the fight in Bahama Village later that night and wanted to see
whether she could turn her wages into a small fortune. While she wondered whether
Papa would be at the fight, she changed into her father’s old shirt and pants, and
hung her work dress in the servants’ closet next to her apron.

On her way out Mariella called good-bye to Isabelle, walked
down the stone path, and stepped out onto the sidewalk, setting out for Sloppy Joe’s
for a bite to eat and a beer. She wondered whether she’d see Hemingway there, and
whether he’d be as friendly to her in public as he was at home.

The previous evening, Mariella had gone to the market to make sure her mother and
sisters had enough for dinner, and told her mother she’d be late on Friday night.
Eva had looked as if she wanted to question Mariella, but must have thought she wouldn’t
like the answer and cut herself off. Eva didn’t approve of gambling, and while Mariella
felt guilty going against her mother’s wishes, she thought it was their best chance
to pay down their mounting bills without stealing.

The sky still held the red from the day at the top of Duval Street, but the rest of
the street was shadowed. She found a newsstand and bought a pack of cigarettes that
she intended to leave at Mark’s boat stand, when she heard Hemingway’s voice.

“Daughter.”

Mariella turned and saw Hemingway in the midst of his mob, stumbling into the bar.
He waved them on and joined her in the street. She tried to hide her pleasure at his
recognition of her, but it was impossible not to smile at him. She turned away from
him to hand her money to the vendor and shoved the pack in her pocket.

“You should quit,” he said.

“Why don’t you ask me to stop breathing while you’re at it?”

“I used to smoke, but it’s a dirty, expensive habit.”

“It settles my nerves,” she said.

He laughed.

“Where you headed tonight?” he asked.

She didn’t want to say she’d planned on going to Sloppy’s, because it was well-known
to be his turf.

“Just looking for a bite to eat before the fight,” she said.

“What fights d’you watch?” he asked.

“Yours.”

“How’d you know about my Friday-night fights?”

“I live here, don’t I?”

“I don’t think you should be running around those places,” he said. “Not safe for
a young, pretty girl like you.”

Mariella pulled a baseball cap out of her pocket, twisted up her long hair, and pulled
the brim down over her face.

Papa laughed. Then he reached out and pulled off the hat.

“Leave it down for now,” he said. “Don’t hide that gorgeous head until you have to.
Come on; I’ll buy you dinner.”

She shrugged and followed him into the bar, trying to act cool, though she didn’t
feel it. When they stepped into Sloppy Joe’s, half the bar erupted in a greeting to
him. The bartender, Skinner, slapped two scotch-and-sodas on the counter, while Joe
kicked a tourist out of Papa’s usual chair and slid it out for him. When he saw Mariella
at Papa’s side he pushed another guy out of the seat next to Papa’s and winked at
her.

Mariella sat next to Hemingway and felt his leg on hers at the crowded bar. She tried
to ignore the heat it caused her and motioned at the drinks before him.

“You’re one to talk about bad habits,” she said.

He gave her a look out of the corner of his eye, threw back one of the glasses, and
smiled at her.

“It settles my nerves,” he said.

Chuck Thompson leaned on the bar next to Mariella.

“Is this pig hitting on you already?” said Chuck. “Jesus, Papa, one week and you’ve
got her at the bar.”

“Little young for ya,” said a thin man with glasses. He held out his hand to Mariella.
“They call me Dos, but you may call me John.”

Mariella shook it. Hemingway shooed him away like a fly.

“Sorry about bringing you around all the riffraff tonight,” said Papa, “though the
crowd’ll only get worse once we get to the fight.”

“Gee, Sloppy’s, then a boxing match,” said Joe. “How romantic.”

Skinner loafed back to the group at the bar. “Romance? Should I mix up some Papa Dobles?”

Papa rolled his eyes. Mariella looked at him with a question in hers.

“Some stupid drink he made up for me,” said Hemingway. “I’m happy with my scotch-and-soda,
thank you, but get the lady anything she wants.”

“Beer’s fine,” she said.

“Good girl,” said Papa. “You can always tell the tourists by the fancy, fruity drinks
with umbrellas.”

“And the way they come on to Papa,” said Skinner. He nodded into the crowd, and a
tall, leggy redhead walked over to Hemingway with an unlit cigarette hanging from
her mouth. She had on a shade of red lipstick that clashed with her hair, and a black-and-white
polka-dot dress that had to have been painted on. She carried a coconut filled with
a hot-pink drink, stabbed with an umbrella. She leaned on the bar between Mariella
and Papa, her cheap perfume worse than the smell of the booze and bodies around it.

“Got a light?” she asked.

Papa looked at her for a moment, then over at her friends, a trio of equally clownlike
tourists smiling, smoking, and nudging one another. He looked back at her without
a smile.

“Seems you could have asked one of your friends for a light rather than sticking your
ass in my girl’s face and bugging me.”

She jumped back from the bar as though she’d been slapped, took the cigarette out
of her mouth, and looked over at Mariella as if she’d just noticed her. Mariella felt
the woman’s eyes travel over her dark skin, old work clothes, and dirty fingernails,
but she sat up straighter, because she knew Papa was by her side. Besides, she knew
that even in her work clothes and with no makeup, she outshone the hussy.

“If I’d’a known that’s your type, I wouldn’ta wasted my time,” said the tourist. She
turned and started back to her table.

As she pivoted, she slipped on the ice melting on the floor around the bar and landed
on her rear end. The mob turned and stifled their laughs as the woman stood shakily
and glared back at them. Mariella smiled at her and nodded at the floor.

“Mind the ice, there,” she said. “They don’t call it Sloppy’s for nothin’.”

It was nine o’clock by the time they finished dinner. Dos and Chuck headed home, and
Joe had to stay at the bar, so that left Papa and Mariella on their own.

She’d enjoyed the company of Papa’s friends. They were coarse but kind, and accepted
her immediately. She understood why her father liked Hemingway, and it made her feel
good that he’d stuck up for her in the face of that floozy.

On the way to the fight, they talked about previous champs and knockouts. He didn’t
know the lineup tonight, but they’d find out soon enough.

The Blue Goose was a bordello upstairs, a gambling hall downstairs, and had a yard
used for cockfights and boxing. It was populated by a sweaty, surly, poor crowd. Mariella
adjusted her hat, rolled down her sleeves, and slouched a little.

“How do I look?” she asked.

“Like a gorgeous little mouse trying to hide in a lion’s den. Stick to my side.”

He pulled her into him and kept his arm around her waist.

“That’s better,” he said.

His hand was large and she could feel his strength. She felt her attraction to him
slam against her feelings of guilt. All the tension made her dizzy, which forced her
to lean into him. They
walked up to the ring, where he engaged a large black man in a noisy, enthusiastic
conversation.

“Why don’t you call tonight?” asked the man.

“You take it, Randall. I’m just here to watch.”

“It’ll be a good night. Some soldier, Gavin something, is gonna fight Bear.”

“How big’s the soldier?” asked Papa.

“Not at all. Middleweight, but with a well of strength. He knocked out Shine two weeks
ago.”

“This I’ve gotta see.”

Mariella forced herself away from Hemingway’s side while he talked, and scanned the
crowd. She found the soldier. He stood alone, lacing up his gloves with a stern look
on his face—if that face could make a stern look. Its boyishness made that impossible,
in spite of a deep scar like a line drawn down the right side of it. His dark hair
was cut close to his head, and he was sweating. He had a large tattoo on his right
forearm of the numbers
11-11-18,
and what looked like a tattoo of a grenade on his left arm—but it was hard to tell
because it was also badly scarred. Mariella guessed that he was just under six feet
tall and about one hundred eighty pounds. Lean but solid. He caught her looking at
him, and she looked away, but he’d seen her. She looked back after a moment, but he
was gone.

“Mr. Hemingway.” Mariella and Papa turned and the soldier stood at her side. “Gavin
Murray.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and turned toward the shadows under the ring.
“It’s good to meet you,” said Gavin.

“Pleasure’s all mine. You know what you’re up against tonight?”

“I’ve got an idea,” said the soldier. “Odds are eight to one against me in there.”

“I’ll bet against you, too, but I’d love to see an upset,” said Hemingway. “Bear took
a knockout last week.”

“What about your friend? Who’s
he
betting on?”

Mariella felt herself sweating. She wanted to keep a low profile so she could come
back safely as a boy. She met the boxer’s eyes, though, and knew he knew her secret.
She felt herself bristle and stood to her full height. What could the boxer do to
her, anyway? Women were allowed to be there. They just typically weren’t, unless they
were working.

“You,” said Mariella. They both looked at her, surprised that she made no attempt
to disguise her voice. “So you’d better win, ’cause I need the money.”

Immediately, she felt upset with herself for being so impulsive. Bear wouldn’t lose
to this soldier. When would she learn to hold her tongue? She felt the anxiety in
flutters in her stomach, but feigned confidence.

The way the boxer looked at her made her think he knew her thoughts. He smiled at
her with one corner of his mouth and crinkles around his eyes. She saw that his eyes
were blue and looked lit from inside. His eyebrows arched and he didn’t show his teeth.
She couldn’t help but smile back.

“I’ll win,” he said. “You’ll see.”

The official called for the boxers to enter the ring, and Gavin disappeared with a
nod. Mariella and Hemingway made their way to the bleachers, which looked as if they
wouldn’t hold the weight of the crowd. They found a seat in the front.

Mariella gasped when she saw Bear step up in the ring. He
seemed to have grown since the last fight, but she knew it was because he was standing
side by side with Gavin instead of Tiny Tim. His shoulders were massive, and had to
be to hold up his neck. His eyes were small slits, and his dark brown skin shone with
sweat. Gavin’s face was blank. She hated to think of what would happen to his face
once Bear finished with him.

“Cocky little son of a bitch,” said Hemingway under his breath. Mariella looked at
him with surprise and then back at the ring. He sounded jealous, but that couldn’t
be. She looked at Papa again and he met her eyes. They stared at each other until
the official’s voice rose. He pointed to Bear and said over the crowd, “This here’s
four-time champ Big Bear from Bahama Village.” The crowd roared. “Six feet, one inch.
Two hundred ten pounds.” There was more cheering and hooting. Bear rolled his arms
and tap-danced his feet. Some of the men in the bleachers started stomping, and Mariella
felt the risers sway under her.

“And here we have Gavin Murray. Six feet even, one hundred ninety pounds, Argonne
vet, and brigade champ.” Booing could be heard over the cheers. Gavin knocked his
gloves together. Mariella was relieved that Bear wasn’t much bigger than Gavin, but
also knew that twenty pounds could make a big difference in force and strength. She
wondered why Bear had seemed so much bigger than Gavin, but thought it must have been
due to the massive spread of his neck and shoulders.