Run With the Hunted (24 page)

“Listen, Jack, there are other things besides fighting. When I met you, I admired you for what you were.”

“I was a fighter. There
aren't
any other things besides fighting. That's what I am—a fighter. That's my life, and I'm good at it. The best. I notice you always go for those second raters … like Toby Jorgenson.”

“Toby's very funny. He's got a sense of humor, a real sense of humor. I like Toby.”

“His record is 9, 5, and 1. I can take him when I'm dead drunk.”

“And god knows you're dead drunk often enough. How do you think I feel at parties when you're laying on the floor passed out, or lolling around the room telling everybody, ‘I'M GREAT, I'M GREAT, I'M GREAT!' Don't you think that makes me feel like an ass?”

“Maybe you are an ass. If you like Toby so much, why don't you go with him?”

“Oh, I just said I liked him, I thought he was
funny
, that doesn't mean I want to go to bed with him.”

“Well, you go to bed with me and you say I'm boring. I don't know what the hell you want.”

Ann didn't answer. Jack got up, walked over to the couch, lifted Ann's head and kissed her, walked back and sat down again.

“Listen, let me tell you about this fight with Benson. Even you would have been proud of me. He decks me in the first round, a sneak right. I get up and hold him off the rest of the round. He plants me again in the second. I barely get up at 8. I hold him off again. The next few rounds I spend getting my legs back. I take the 6th, 7th, 8th, deck him once in the 9th and twice in the 10th. I don't call that a split. They called it a split. Well, it's 45 grand, you get that, kid? 45 grand. I'm great, you can't deny I'm great, can you?”

Ann didn't answer.

“Come on, tell me I'm great.”

“All right, you're great.”

“Well, that's more like it.” Jack walked over and kissed her again. “I feel so good. Boxing is a work of art, it really is. It takes guts to be a great artist and it takes guts to be a great fighter.”

“All right, Jack.”

“‘All right, Jack,' is that all you can say? Pattie used to be happy when I won. We were both happy all night. Can't you share it when I do something good? Hell, are you in love with me or are you in love with the losers, the half-asses? I think you'd be happier if I came in here a loser.”

“I want you to win, Jack, it's only that you put so much emphasis on what you do …”

“Hell, it's my living, it's my life. I'm proud of being best. It's like flying, it's like flying off into the sky and whipping the sun.”

“What are you going to do when you can't fight anymore?”

“Hell, we'll have enough money to do whatever we want.”

“Except get along, maybe.”

“Maybe I can learn to read
Cosmopolitan
, improve my mind.”

“Well, there's room for improvement.”

“Fuck you.”

“What?”

“Fuck you.”

“Well, that's something you haven't done in a while.”

“Some guys like to fuck bitching women, I don't.”

“I suppose Pattie didn't bitch?”

“All women bitch, you're the champ.”

“Well, why don't you go back to Pattie?”

“You're here now. I can only house one whore at a time.”

“Whore?”

“Whore.”

Ann got up and went to the closet, got out her suitcase and began putting her clothes in there. Jack went to the kitchen and got another bottle of beer. Ann was crying and angry. Jack sat down with his beer and took a good drain. He needed a whiskey, he needed a bottle of whiskey. And a good cigar.

“I can come pick up the rest of my stuff when you're not around.”

“Don't bother. I'll have it sent to you.”

She stopped at the doorway.

“Well, I guess this is it,” she said.

“I suppose it is,” Jack answered.

She closed the door and was gone. Standard procedure. Jack finished the beer and went over to the telephone. He dialed Pattie's number. She answered.

“Pattie?”

“Oh, Jack, how are you?”

“I won the big one tonight. A split. All I got to do is get over Parvinelli and I got the champ.”

“You'll whip both of them, Jack. I know you can do it.”

“What are you doing tonight, Pattie?”

“It's 1:00 a.m. Jack. Have you been drinking?”

“A few. I'm celebrating.”

“How about Ann?”

“We split. I only play one woman at a time, you know that, Pattie.”

“Jack …”

“What?”

“I'm with a guy.”

“A guy?”

“Toby Jorgenson. He's in the bedroom …”

“Oh, I'm sorry.”

“I'm sorry, too, Jack, I loved you … maybe I still do.”

“Oh, shit, you women really throw that word around …”

“I'm sorry, Jack.”

“It's o.k.” He hung up. Then he went to the closet for his coat. He put it on, finished the beer, went down the elevator to his car. He drove straight up Normandie at 65 m.p.h., pulled into the liquor store on Hollywood Boulevard. He got out and walked in. He got a six-pack of Michelob, a pack of Alka-Seltzers. Then at the counter he asked the clerk for a fifth of Jack Daniels. While the clerk was tabbing them up a drunk walked up with two six-packs of Coors.

“Hey, man!” he said to Jack, “ain't you Jack Backenweld, the fighter?”

“I am,” answered Jack.

“Man, I saw that fight tonight, Jack, you're all guts. You're really great!”

“Thanks, man,” he told the drunk, and then he took his sack of goods and walked to his car. He sat there, took the cap off the Daniels and had a good slug. Then he backed out, ran west down Hollywood, took a left at Normandie and noticed a well-built teenage girl staggering down the street. He stopped his car, lifted the fifth out of the bag and showed it to her.

“Want a ride?”

Jack was surprised when she got in. “I'll help you drink that, mister, but no fringe benefits.”

“Hell, no,” said Jack.

He drove down Normandie at 35 m.p.h., a self-respecting citizen and third ranked light-heavy in the world. For a moment he felt like telling her who she was riding with but he changed his mind and reached over and squeezed one of her knees.

“You got a cigarette, mister?” she asked.

He flicked one out with his hand, pushed in the dash fighter. It jumped out and he lit her up.

—
S
OUTH OF
N
O
N
ORTH

I found her room at the top of the

stairway.

she was alone.

“hello, Henry,” she said, then,

“you know, I hate this room, there's

no window.”

I had a terrible hangover.

the smell was unbearable,

I felt as if I was going to

vomit.

“they operated on me two days ago,”

she said. “I felt better the next

day but now it's the same, maybe

worse.”

“I'm sorry, mom.”

“you know, you were right, your father

is a terrible man.”

poor woman. a brutal husband and

an alcoholic son.

“excuse me, mom, I'll be right

back …”

the smell had seeped into me,

my stomach was jumping.

I got out of the room

and walked halfway down the stairs,

sat there

holding on to the railing,

breathing the fresh

air.

the poor woman.

I kept breathing the air and

managed not to

vomit.

I got up and walked back up the

stairs and into the room.

“he had me committed to a mental

institution, did you know

that?”

“yes. I informed them

that they had the wrong person

in there.”

“you look sick, Henry, are you all

right?”

“I am sick today, mom, I'm going

to come back and see you

tomorrow.”

“all right, Henry …”

I got up, closed the door, then

ran down the stairs.

I got outside, to a rose

garden.

I let it all go into the rose

garden.

poor damned woman …

the next day I arrived with

flowers.

I went up the stairway to the

door.

there was a wreath on the

door.

I tried the door anyhow.

it was locked.

I walked down the stairway

through the rose garden

and out to the street

where my car was

parked.

there were two little girls

about 6 or 7 years old

walking home from school.

“pardon me, ladies, but would you

like some flowers?”

they just stopped and stared at

me.

“here,” I handed the bouquet to the

taller of the girls, “now, you

divide these, please give your

friend half of them.”

“thank you,” said the taller

girl, “they are very

beautiful.”

“yes, they are,” said the other

girl, “thank you very

much.”

they walked off down the street

and I got into my car,

it started, and

I drove back to my

place.

My mother had died a year earlier. A week after my father's death I stood in his house alone. It was in Arcadia, and the nearest I had come to the house in some time was passing by on the freeway on my way to Santa Anita.

I was unknown to the neighbors. The funeral was over, and I walked to the sink, poured a glass of water, drank it, then went outside. Not knowing what else to do, I picked up the hose, turned on the water and began watering the shrubbery. Curtains drew back as I stood on the front lawn. Then they began coming out of their houses. A woman walked over from across the street.

“Are you Henry?” she asked me.

I told her that I was Henry.

“We knew your father for years.”

Then her husband walked over. “We knew your mother too,” he said.

I bent over and shut off the hose. “Won't you come in?” I asked. They introduced themselves as Tom and Nellie Miller and we went into the house.

“You look just like your father.”

“Yes, so they tell me.”

We sat and looked at each other.

“Oh,” said the woman, “he had so
many
pictures. He must have liked pictures.”

“Yes, he did, didn't he?”

“I just love that painting of the windmill in the sunset.”

“You can have it.”

“Oh, can I?”

The doorbell rang. It was the Gibsons. The Gibsons told me that they also had been neighbors of my father's for years.

“You look just like your father,” said Mrs. Gibson.

“Henry has given us the painting of the windmill.”

“That's nice. I
love
that painting of the blue horse.”

“You can have it, Mrs. Gibson.”

“Oh, you don't mean it?”

“Yes, it's all right.”

The doorbell rang again and another couple came in. I left the door ajar. Soon a single man stuck his head inside. “I'm Doug Hudson. My wife's at the hairdresser's.”

“Come in, Mr. Hudson.”

Others arrived, mostly in pairs. They began to circulate through the house.

“Are you going to sell the place?”

“I think I will.”

“It's a lovely neighborhood.”