Million Dollar Baby (33 page)

I get to the dining room and who’s at the table next to Ernie is Vincenzo’s goombahs from the gym in L.A. These are the same dead-eyes I thought I recognized in the old-town crowd. They’re with three bamalam Frenchy-looking gals out of some fashion magazine. They’re all smiles and flirty with Ernie, but I can see they been told by the goombahs to stay away from Danyell. They leave when I get there, leave half their mineral water on the table. The gooms don’t even give me a nod.

I ask Danyell to leave us alone. “Ernie, what’s the deal here?”

“Ain’t none. They said they came up from Rome. They were in here looking for rooms when they saw me. I didn’t remember them.”

“I remembered them. You didn’t remember them?”

“I never talked to them before, for Chrissakes.”

“Ernie, if there’s anything you should talk to me about, you should say it now.”

“What the hell, ain’t nothin’ to say.”

The weigh-in was held at the Peugeot dealership near stretches of crumbly brick walls and ghosty railroad tracks. TV was there, flashbulbs up the ass. We hit 147 on the button, 66.8 kilos. Lagalla was 66.4 kilos, 146. The weights’re announced in German and Italian and English. The crowd applauded like they’re surprised the fighters make weight. They applaud in France same way.

Lagalla’s 26 years old and five feet 11 inches tall, to Ernie’s five-nine. Ernie by now’s almost 31. Lagalla had a slight upper body but powerful legs, which he depends on. He was pretty, like today’s movie stars, but his eyes were tired, and he made hardly no eye contact. Like I say, he was a cupcake, but the guineas in his corner were badass old-timers out to win. The fight is for the next day. That night, Inge flew in. All of us had a big meal, with German desserts and ice cream. I want Ernie to gain six, eight pounds. Before we go to sleep, I have Ernie eat again. All day long I have him drinking water, taking potassium.

I woke up early like always. I told Ernie to sleep in. I went down for breakfast alone. Danyell slept in late too. Everything is nice and smooth. I took a long walk after I ate, smoked a $18 Montecristo and then went back up to the room to check on Ernie. It’s nine o’clock by now and time to check his shit. He’s half asleep, he says he already done it.

“Let’s go eat.”

He looks sleepy when we’re downstairs and picks at his food. Eat, I tell him.

“I’m getting tired of this German food, man.”

“Let’s go get some pastry in old town. We’ll take a cab,” I said, not wanting to walk him before the fight.

Same thing in old town, except he says to excuse him while he goes to the can. I start to go with him, but it’s a one-unit stall and people looking at us are going to think the wrong thing.

Ernie was funny with his food later on, and there’s dark around his eyes, and there’s no shine to them. I weighed him in the hotel kitchen, and he’s at 146, a whole pound down.

“It’s title-fight nerves.”

“Are you drinkin’ your water?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

The fight’s at 11 o’clock that night. At five I made him eat. Thick soup and good German bread, and pasta and fish. I sat there while he swallowed, had him drink hot tea. I go up with him while he takes a nap, read some more about Leipzig. The promoter came by to check on us. I went downstairs and tell him everything is fine. He wanted to see Ernie, but I tell him Ernie’s sleeping. That gets the promoter happy. I was starting to feel good too.

When I go back to the room, it smells sour in there.

“What’s the stink?”

“One of the old broads came in to straighten up, and then she puked in the John, fuckin’ drunk.”

“But you’re okay, right?”

“In the pink.”

The arena was packed, as much to see Willyboy as us for the title. Our fight came up right after Willyboy won his, and we had to stand through three national anthems. Before that there’s the introductions of some German fighters, and then all of a sudden there’s Vinnie Vincenzo up in the ring taking bows. He’s got his face on, like he’s ready to kick both fighters’ ass at the same time, like in the movies. The crowd loves it. Before the fight, Lagalla weighed 154, gained eight pounds. Ernie was at one fuckin’ 45. Then he goes to the can again. Now he weighs less. He flushed before I could see. From the smell I can tell it’s loose.

I’m thinking he’s scared to death, was why he was shitting himself, and now I’m scared he’ll go dog on me. By now his dark circles are almost black. But when I look at him close in the eye, he’s calmer than I’d ever seen him.

So now I’m the guy with the loose ass.

Danyell helped me in the corner, not that there was that much to do. Ernie went out good in the first round, bobbing, weaving, working his way in. Went good to the body, just like the plan, and Lagalla’s backing up. Ernie’d catch and counter, slip and bang. He had Lagalla’s knees jerking up under his chin. But Lagalla’s scoring too, and Ernie’s face is turning colors, getting peachy. Then Lagalla gets off a shot. Ernie’s wobbling across the ring, but we still won the first.

At the end of the second, Ernie goes down from a body shot. The bell saves us. In the corner, I jump his ass. “What’s this shit?”

“Caught me with a good shot.”

“Lagalla ain’t got a good shot!” About the middle of the third, Ernie flat runs out of gas. His legs’re mush, his hands are down, and Lagalla’s doing a tarantella on his head. In the corner, I hit Ernie with the wet towel, with ice down his dick, with adrenaline inside his lips and up his nose, but all he can do is gasp. Only thing ain’t happened is he’s cut, but Lagalla couldn’t cut you with a razor.

Fourth round’s ham-’n’-egger time. Ernie’s tongue is hanging out, but he makes it to the bell. In the fifth, the shit happens, and it’s a disgrace. Lagalla knocks Ernie out with a chicken shit tap to the liver. It’s all in slow motion, like in a silent dream when you’re punching some unknown thing and you can’t hurt it. Cameras’s flashing, everybody’s yelling. I feel like I got no stomach.

The Italians are singing and dancing, and the Germans are raising their fists and hollering for a Willyboy fight. Lagalla and his corner came over to shake hands. Ernie’s smiling, trying to talk guinea. I look across the ring. Three rows back Vincenzo and the gooms are together. Not a smile between them, not even a smirk. Business.

I got to kill somebody.

The postfight party was at Lagalla’s hotel. I had no party in me. Ernie didn’t care if I went or not, but Inge and Danyell drag me along. Loud, lousy music, musicians who look like roadkill. Ernie is dancing with one of the three Frenchy broads, Vincenzo’s dancing with another, and Lagalla’s with number three. Inge’s not happy with what she sees. She taps me to dance.

Inge rubbed it up on me. She said, “I still do not understand how Lagalla could win.”

“Lagalla didn’t. Ernie lost.”

I left her in the middle of the dance floor and got a cab back to the hotel. I tore up our room. I figure it’s that shit, or even booze, but I’m a dummy. Hidden deep in Ernie’s gear bag is two bottles. Labels’s in English. That tells me he brought the bottles from home. A small brown bottle, ipecac. And a green one, like a soda-pop bottle, magnesium citrate. Ipecac is to make him puke. Magnesium citrate, which is like salty 7-Up, is to make him shit quick. Ernie made himself sick to make his dive look real. Hollywood.

I tore some small pieces off the labels. I stuck the bottles back where they were and put the room back the way it was. I carry stuff I left in Ernie’s room over to Danyell’s and pack my bags.

Once a fight’s over, promoters want you gone, so our driver picked us up at 6:30 for our eight o’clock flight out of Leipzig. The others had stayed up all night, checked all their luggage and slept most of the way home. We cleared customs in Dallas, and Danyell got off to see his family. Ernie ate like a horse when the stews brought the zapped food around, then crapped out again. The Dallas-Los Angeles flight was near empty, and we were able to pull up the armrests in the middle section of seats and stretch full out. I don’t sleep 30 seconds.

As we come in to land at LAX, I sat on the outside seat next to Inge, who was in the middle. Ernie was in the window seat, all of us strapped in to land. He was rested and happy, like we was the ones who won the title. I leaned across Inge, I motion to Ernie. He leans in.

“You awake?”

“Yeah, I’m awake, what the hell.”

“Then I’m just gonna tell you this once, Ernie, so listen good.”

“Yeah?”

“You gonna have to kill me, understand?”

Ernie went pale. Inge looked at me like I just jumped out of the plane. I show Ernie pieces of the labels from the medicine bottles.

Ernie lied through his teeth. “I was bloaty from the kraut food, man, and afraid we’d have to call off the fight.”

“You don’t hear right, Peachy? You got to kill me, or I got to kill you, unerstanI’msay? And your buddy Vinnie can’t save you.”

Ernie got rabbit eyes again. I told Inge to leave us alone.

Ernie tried to get his balls back. “You don’t tell her nothin’.”

“No. You don’t tell me nothin’.”

I nodded at Inge and she went to a seat across the aisle where she can see and hear. I tell Ernie what I know.

He said, “So what? It’s my life.”

“It was our title. How much did you get? Don’t fuckin’ lie.”

He shrugged. “Seventy-five clear. In Inge-baby’s name.”

“Does Inge know this?” I looked over at her.

Inge shook her head hard, her face was mad.

“She knows now,” Ernie said. He blew a kiss at Inge and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. He held up a small black book done in morocco leather. He flashed the plastic bank card inside it.

“Banco Milano-Zurigo, Svizzera. Seventy-five Gs American.” He slipped the bank stuff back into his jacket and starts eating peanuts. “Banco Milano-Zurigo, Svizzera … that’s Bank of Milan-Zurich, Switzerland. I learned that from Nunzio. Ha.”

“Dummy shit-for-brains, why didn’t you tell me you wanted to do business? I couldda got us 200,000, maybe three. Both of us wouldda made money.”

“Naw.” Ernie talks to me like I’m nothing. “See, our contract’s almost up, you and me. Vinnie’s gonna be my new manager, bring in a Italian trainer from New York. Willyboy beats Lagalla, then I beat Willyboy for a couple of million. Then I retire a champ and go into film with Vinnie. Form our own company.”

“Ach,” said Inge. She headed up the aisle and never looked back.

I said, “Wise guy, what makes you think Vinnie won’t dump you again?”

“Ehy, my man Vinnie? We’re cut from the same stick.”

Everybody was off the plane by now, and the stews were collecting blankets. I stood up and stepped back. I tell Ernie one third of his 75 thou is mine. He stands up, changing colors.

“Bullshit, old man, that money is my blood money.”

“Then like I say, you gotta kill me, you scumbag dago piece a shit.”

Ernie did what I knew he’d do. He came with his big wide left hook, his jaw sticking out. I crack him with a quick right-hand lead that snapped his chin back past his shoulder. I come right back with a sweet little tight left hook, like a hook’s supposed to be. Both shots catch him on the way in before that hook of his ever gets to me. I stand there clean, but he goes airborne into the bulkhead next to the window and slumped unconscious on his knees and face. Spit and blood’s drooling from him. My hands is killing me, but I yank the prick back to the aisle by his movie-star hair. I’m about to pound on him some more, when all of a sudden there it is. My way to kill him.

First, I went for that pretty bank book. Next, I pull my kit down from the overhead and take out my silver flask of Hennessy. I propped Ernie’s mouth open with my thumb and tilted his head back. I pour the raw cognac in, and it runs down his throat. Now his eyes is open, and he sees me looking at him, and he sees what I done to him, and he sees what I helped him do to himself. That’s when he starts to howl like a dog, and he keeps on howling as I made my way to the front of the plane.

Inge was waiting at the top of the ramp, her eyes dancing, a curly little smile on that mouth. She tried to link her arm with mine, but I pulled away. Red bush on her or not, I told her that I don’t want nothing what’d been that close to Peachy. She winced like I slapped her with a dead cat.

“Here,” I said.

I handed her the bank book. At first, she didn’t understand, but when she saw her name and the numbers inside, she looked at me like I’m Martin Luther. I walked her down to Swissair. Last time I see her, she’s buying a ticket for Zurich and tapping her foot.

When I’m at the luggage place, Sophia came over. She don’t know what I did to her brother yet. Her hand is out to touch me. But my heart’s used up, and I got to back away.

There’s no blood in her face. “Papa said Ernie went into the tank, is that right?”

“All the way to the bottom.”

She’s got the look of the Madonnas on my wall. It’s the same face my mother’s got most of her life. I want to wipe away Sophia’s tears, but she’s part of Peachy.

Besides, I’m thinking about that bell ringing at 5:30 every day. And about that hot plate. And I’m thinking about this new boy who come into the gym a couple of weeks ago. From Louisville. This heavyweight.

“B
UTCHERIN’ WAS
done while the deceased was still alive,” Junior said.

See, we was at the gym and I’d been answering a few things. Old Junior’s a cop, and his South Texas twang was wide and flat like mine. ’Course he was dipping, and he let a stream go into the Coke bottle he was carrying in the hand that wasn’t his gun hand. His blue eyes was paler than a washed-out work shirt.

“Hail,” he said, “one side of the mouth’d been slit all the way to the earring.”

See, when the police find a corpse in Texas, their first question ain’t who done it, it’s what did the dead do to deserve it?

Billy Clancy’d been off the police force a long time before Kenny Coyle come along, but he had worked for the San Antonia Police Department a spell there after boxing. He made some good money for himself on the side—down in dark town, if you know what I’m saying? That’s after I trained him as a heavyweight in the old
El Gallo,
or Fighting Cock gym off Blanco Road downtown. We worked together maybe six years all told, starting off when he was a amateur. Billy Clancy had all the Irish heart in the world. At six-three and two-twenty-five, he had a fine frame on him, most of his weight upstairs. He had a nice clean style, too, and was quick as a sprinter. But after he was once knocked out for the first time? He had no chin after that. He’d be kicking ass and taking names, but even in a rigged fight with a bum, if he got caught? Down he’d go like a longneck at a ice house.