The Significant Seven Page 11

  Hawkins picked up the pitcher of iced tea. He offered it to Taliyah, who declined. He refilled his glass. “Far as I know,” he said, “Doyle has been at least a couple of things around racing in Chicago. What I can’t figure out is what he’s doing on the backstretch now, working for Ralph Tenuta. It just doesn’t seem normal, going from the Monee publicity job to this one. I think there’s something else going on with him.”

  The sun had dropped behind the stand of tall pine trees on the western edge of their property. From in the house Travis could hear his children arguing about which cartoon channel to choose. “Turn that TV off, you two,” he said loudly. Silence ensued.

  Hawkins got up from his the picnic bench and extended his hand to Taliyah. “It’s nothing to get concerned about,” he said. “I’m just a little puzzled at Mr. Doyle’s new, what do you call it, presence, on the backstretch.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  May 25, 2009

  Orth had finished his morning exercises, showered, and eaten breakfast and was relaxing on the small porch of his cabin when he heard the first of what he knew would be a day-long succession of firecrackers being shot off, even a few rifle and pistols being aimed skyward. Memorial Day. Early summer madness and excuse for revelry. Just another day of the week to Orth. Restless now, he went inside his cabin, dressed for town, and got into his black Jeep Cherokee.

  Boulder Junction was jammed with cars and trucks when Orth parked on the side of the road at the edge of this small town. He had intended to grocery shop and pick up a few items at the town’s lone sporting goods store, but decided to delay doing those chores in order to watch some of the parade. It had apparently just begun, its advance guard comprised of small children stomping happily and erratically down Main Sreet, waving small American flags.

  People lined both curbs of the four-block long street. They hailed the marchers, some shouting out greetings at the Nelson Lumber Yard parade entry (“Jesus, Swede, pick up those big feet of yours”), or whistling appreciatively at the town’s “Holiday Queen,” a chubby, deeply tanned girl in tight shorts and a white tee shirt that declared her to be “America’s Next Top Model.” She waved widely from the back of a recently waxed red Ford pickup.

  Main Street here was like the Main Street of many upper Midwest small towns, packed with dark saloons, their walls festooned with deer heads and lengthy stuffed fishes. Wisconsin, home of more than five thousand liquor-license holders, most per capita of any state in the Union, had earned place number one in per-capita binge drinking in a national survey. Badger State residents sported one of the highest incidences of drunken-driving caused deaths in the U. S.

  The parade continued with an eleven-piece band from the local high school. A float came by carrying three aged male horn players and a teenaged female cymbal shaker. The sound they produced, Orth thought, was enough to drive all the county’s birds southward even this far ahead of migration time.

  He was turning away to go to the Pic-and-Save for groceries when he heard the rumble of slow moving motorcycles. Orth looked back. Three cyclists rode in an across-the-street line, two on Harleys, the other on a vehicle emblazoned with the words “Die Hard Chopper.” Each bike’s handlebars held a small U. S. flag. The riders were all men Orth recognized from high school. They wore black leather jeans and boots, black leather vests cut to reveal their flabby upper arms. All had kerchiefs above the dark sun glasses through which they solemnly gazed at the curbside crowds.

  Orth said, “These phony bastards.”

  A heavy-set woman next to him said, “What was that, mister? What did you say? That’s my husband Earl on that Die Hard.”

  “I know Earl Bardwell,” Orth said. “He’s never been closer to a war than on his Game Boy. He’s full of shit with his flag, his biker patriotism. All Earl’s done for this country is take up space. Same with most of this crowd,” he added before striding away toward the store.

  Thinking of the bikers, Orth recalled the man he briefly bunked with when he worked for Agua Negro in Iraq. Gordie Norquist, from Gilroy, California, the “Garlic Capital of the World,” as he often proclaimed. Norquist had captured (or found, Orth suspected) an impressive sword. He dangled it by a thread from the ceiling above the table that held their laptop computer. When Orth first saw this, he said, “What’s that for?”

  Norquist replied, “It’s a weapon of war. It helps me concentrate on my dangerous duties here in Iraq,” he added smugly.

  A week later, having twice observed Norquist sidestep danger in the dark alleys of Sadr City, Orth returned one night and ripped the sword from the ceiling string.

  “All this has made you concentrate on, Norquist,” Orth said as he threw the sword into a corner of the room, “is saving your phony ass. I hate guys like you.”

  Norquist moved out the next day. He must have put out the word on Orth, because Orth roomed alone until Scott Sanderson joined him three weeks later.

  Coming out of the store with his bag of groceries, Orth stopped and looked across the street at a raucous group of young men, well into the supply of beer in their white plastic cooler on the curb. They alternately hooted or applauded the parade marchers. They were getting louder by the minute, this group of alcohol and testosterone-spiked youngsters as they tried to impress each other and the coterie of young women standing behind them, who were smoking cigarettes and looking unimpressed.

  Orth placed his grocery bag down, leaning it against a parking meter, just as the Local VFW’s paltry parade entry approached. Some of the loud punks were deriding the quartet of uniformed oldsters limping down the street, keeping cadence as best they could.

  “Pick it up, you geezers,” one of the youths brayed repeatedly. Orth sprinted across the street and grabbed the loud mouth by the neck. One of the kid’s buddies reached for Orth, who flattened him with a karate chop to the collar bone. “You beer-brained piece of shit,” Orth said, his face inches away from the kid’s, “you got no right mocking those old men who put on the uniforms of their country.” He released the boy with a powerful shove that sent him toppling backward over one of the beer coolers. “Am I clear on that?” The boy, still on his back in the circle created by the young women, mumbled something.

  “I said, am I clear on that?” Orth said.

  “Yes,” the boy managed softly.

  Orth shouted, “What?”

  “Yes. I said yes. Yes.” The boy began to cry. Orth, disgusted both by his attention-drawing actions as much as the youngster’s weakness, slid rapidly through the crowd and back to the street. He ran between the Miss County Snowmobile float and the Seniors Dance Club truck featuring two active couples that any moment threatened to spin their way down onto the street.

  “They must be drinking, too,” Orth said, shaking his head as he took one last look over his shoulder at the careening, aged dancers. He quickly retrieved his grocery bag.

  Still seething when he reached his cabin, Orth got into his running gear and sprinted off into the nearby woods. He ran off most of his anger in the course of the next hour, but not all of it.

  “What a fucked-up fucking country,” he said loudly as he ran, “full of fucked-up idiots.”

  Chapter Twenty

  June 5, 2009

  Doyle picked up Cindy at seven-thirty that Friday night. She came directly out the trailer door as he was parking. Her mother, Wilma, waved at him from the doorway, standing beside Tyler. He waved, too. Doyle had to hustle in order to get out of the car and around to the passenger door so that he could open it for Cindy.

  Doyle had called her the previous Wednesday. “Have you ever seen a live boxing card?” When she said no, Doyle said, “Would you like to?” Her answer was in the affirmative. “I’ve got great seats for the big fight card at the Rosemont Horizon,” he said.

  “This will be a first for me,” Cindy said as she settled into her seat. She wore a gold jersey and black slacks, large silver-colored earrings. For Doyle, who had seen her at wor
k at the track that morning, dressed in dusty jeans and a sweat-stained tee-shirt, she was impressively transformed.

  “Boxing,” Doyle said, “is one of those things that you like a lot or don’t like at all. You can’t really tell until you’ve been there and seen it. But, look, if you find it, well, distasteful, just say so. We can leave and go someplace else.”

  “I appreciate that,” Cindy said. “I heard you were a boxer. Is that right?”

  “Yeah, but not at the level you’re going to see tonight. These are world-ranked, professional fighters. I was, how can I put this,” he said, smiling, “an enthusiastic amateur.”

  “How long did you box?”

  “Junior Boxing Club when I was eight or nine. Golden Gloves five or six years later, AAU bouts when I was in college. By the time I got to the University of Illinois, collegiate boxing had been long banned. That was after a University of Wisconsin kid died as a result of a ring injury.”

  Cindy said, “You don’t look marked up like I thought fighters were.”

  “I kept my chin down and my hands up,” Doyle said. “I still do.”

  ***

  The large Rosemont Horizon parking lot was jammed. Doyle waved a twenty at a valet parker near the main entrance. The man opened their doors and said, “Enjoy.”

  Doyle picked up their tickets at will-call. He told Cindy, “These are courtesy of a friend of mine, Moe Kellman. He’s a big boxing fan. He and I go to a lot of fights together. Moe will be sitting with us tonight. I think you’ll like him. He’s an interesting guy.”

  An usher led them to the third row from the ring, which stood on an elevated platform. Two young Latino lightweights were finishing a three-round exercise in glowering and posing. Just before the final bell, the shorter one landed a perfectly placed right uppercut on the chin of his foe, whose pompadour elevated.

  Doyle seated Cindy next to him. On her other side, Moe stood up, smiling, the lights glinting off what he referred to as his “Isro” haircut, and also off the three impressive-looking rings he wore. He had on a tan leather jacket, brown trousers, a blue button-down collar shirt. His face crinkled as he reached for Cindy’s hand. “Jack wasn’t exaggerating when he told me about you,” Moe said. He looked over Cindy’s head at Doyle. “You brought a knockout to a place where knockouts occur,” he said. They all laughed. Once seated, Moe signaled to a short-skirted, cleavage-displaying waitress responsible for serving this part of the VP section. Cindy ordered a Coke, Doyle a beer.

  “Nothing for me right now, darling,” Moe said.

  They chatted between rounds of the next two preliminary bouts, Cindy surveying this new scene. The 10,500 seat auditorium was almost filled. All the prime seats closest to the ring were occupied, the first row by reporters, announcers, and attendants of the fighters. The balcony, she noticed, was populated primarily by Hispanics, almost all men, every one very much riveted to the action below.

  Several people came by to say hello to Moe. “Good to see you, Commissioner,” Moe said to the head of the Chicago Police Department., introducing the man to Cindy and Doyle. Receiving similarly genial treatment were the manager of one of Chicago’s major hotels, the co-owner of a famed Rush Street steak house, and an alderwoman from Chicago’s Lawndale neighborhood.

  The only visitor not introduced to Cindy and Doyle was an old, stocky man wearing dark sun glasses, a black leather jacket, black tee shirt, dark trousers over black shoes. He was about the same height and age as Kellman. He attempted to embrace the furrier, saying, “You know me, Mosie?” Kellman took the man by his elbow and turned him back into the aisle. They stood there conversing quietly for a several minutes as the ring announcer called up people from Chicago’s bottom tier of celebrities: a radio sports talk show host, a cable channel weatherman, an aged newspaper gossip columnist. Kellman and the man shook hands and separated.

  Kellman returned to his seat. He said apologetically, “I didn’t introduce the last guy to you. You don’t need to know him.”

  Doyle said, “I appreciate that. I know who he is. Mario ‘The Clown’ Aiello. Just got out of federal prison after spending sixteen years for racketeering. I saw his picture in the paper a couple of days ago.”

  Moe frowned. “Mario and I grew up together. Like I said, you don’t need to know him. You ready for another Coke, Cindy? Jack, a beer?”

  Doyle was quiet during the intermission between bouts as Kellman engaged Cindy in conversation. Pretending to peruse the souvenir program, Doyle listened, amused, as the little furrier turned on the charm. When Ms. Cleavage delivered their drinks, Cindy said, “I don’t need a glass, thanks.” But the waitress ignored her, opening the bottles and pouring Doyle’s beer and her soft drink into paper cups.

  “Years ago,” Kellman informed, “the Horizon management decreed that the beer would be sold only in cups. Before that, they’d had to extend this goofy looking net over the boxing ring.”

  Cindy said, “A net? What for?”

  “So that any angry fans in the balcony, unhappy about a fight decision, couldn’t start pelting the ring with beer bottles. The management finally decided to get rid of the net. Actually, it looked like something out of the Coliseum in Rome a thousand years ago back. That’s when they changed to beer cups.”

  The main event was next on the card. It was a heavyweight bout between Rocco Albertani, of Chicago’s suburban Elmwood Park, and Luther Rawlings of Miami, FL. Reading from his program Doyle said to Cindy, “Albertani’s from near here. Had a good amateur career. When he turned pro, a man named Fifi Bonadio became his manager.”

  Cindy said, “Where have I heard that name?” Doyle looked to Kellman, who pretended to be studying his own program. Doyle said, “Bonadio runs a big road construction firm, owns some banks, auto dealerships. Lot of things. He’s a big sports fan. He had a son who was a very good football player at the University of Wisconsin. The lad is now on the Cook County Board of Supervisors.”

  Doyle took a swig of his beer. “Some people say Bonadio is the head man of the Chicago Outfit. I wouldn’t know about that. All I know is that he’s an old friend and current customer, of the man to your immediate left.”

  Kellman pretended not have heard Doyle’s last remark, and Doyle laughed, before saying to Cindy, “Here they come. The guys for the main event.”

  Rawlings shuffled slowly down the aisle first, wearing a long, tattered white robe, his dark face almost obscured by a hood. His appearance was greeted by a smattering of applause. Three minutes later, the public address system began blasting out the theme from the movie “Rocky.” Bouncing down the aisle to a crescendo of cheers and applause was Rocco “The Assassin” Albertani, a ruggedly handsome young man waving his gloved hands above his head to his numerous supporters. “Albertani has won all eleven of his pro fights so far,” Moe told Cindy. “His people, some of them I know, think he has a future.” Doyle heard that and looked sharply at Kellman, who ignored him.

  Cindy said, “Who are you rooting for, Jack?” Doyle watched Rawlings gracefully step between the ring ropes. Rawlings was at least ten years older than the pride of Elmwood Park, who was bouncing around the ring, sweating heavily. Albertani’s weight was announced at two-hundred twelve pounds, Rawlings five pounds lighter. Albertani was on edge. Rawlings shrugged off his old robe and strolled around the ring seemingly as unconcerned as if he was in his living room. The small, carefully trimmed soul patch on his dark black face had more than a touch of gray in it. Rawlings did a few deep knee bends, watching Albertani out of the corner of his eye, before going to the center of the ring for the referee’s instructions.

  Doyle said to Cindy, “I think that, if this is on the up-and-up, Albertani is going to be knocked on his ass. But I would not look for that, to tell you the truth.” Kellman, peering at the fighters and smiling, ignored Doyle’s comments.

  Round one went to Albertani. He moved around energetically, peppering out jabs that Rawlings caught on his gloves. He twice bulled
the older man into the ropes, attempting to pound him with kidney shots that Rawlings blocked with his elbows. The popular local lad being obviously the eager aggressor, ringside experts gave him the round.

  Rounds two and three were much the same. Albertani did most of the work. Rawlings kept dodging or deflecting punches that became increasingly wild as the Pride of Elmwood Park exhibited his increasing frustration. All of Albertani’s previous bouts had ended in first- or second-round knockouts, him doing the knocking out. He was venturing into new territory against Rawlings, a crafty veteran if Doyle had ever seen one.

  With a half-minute to go in the fifth round, Rawlings evidently couldn’t stand it any more. He easily eluded another of Albertani’s wild swings, stepped inside, and chopped a short right to the younger fighter’s exposed jaw. Albertani hit the floor like a carton of frozen lasagna.

  The referee, whose day job was in the Cook County State’s Attorney’s office, began counting, slowly, with a lengthy arm gesture, over the dazed Italian-American hope. Albertani managed to sit up with his right leg caught under him. As he tried to clear his head, drops of sweat flew through the air. Then Albertani began to slowly sink back down to the canvas. As the seconds passed, the crowd was in full voice, imploring their hero to arise. The referee hit five on his exceedingly slow way to ten.

  Doyle leaned across Cindy to tap Moe on the arm. He said, “This makes the Dempsey-Tunney long count look like it was on speed dial.”

  “Shh, Jack,” Moe said.

  Albertani finally struggled to his feet. The bell ending the round immediately rang although Doyle was positive there were at least fifteen seconds left in it. He watched as Rawlings ambled back to his corner. Doyle read the lips of Rawlings’ manager, who angrily said to his fighter, “What the fuck did you do in there? Christ!”

  The sixth and final round of the fight took thirty-seven seconds. Albertani, breathing heavily and still half-dazed, nevertheless charged off his stool at Rawlings and unleashed a looping right hand. Doyle was positive the blow barely missed Rawlings’ chin, but the veteran stumbled backwards and fell on his back to the canvass, arms outstretched, eyes closed. The ref counted him out so rapidly Doyle could hardly get his jacket back on before the fight was declared over. When the ref’s count ended, Rawlings bounced right up. Albertani looked as surprised as anyone at this outcome as he wobbled around the ring, arms raised in jubilation.