Chicago Noir [Anthology]

After he went through August of 1975, and then March of 1972 when he won a Golden Glove amateur title, his eyes grew tired from the microfilm machine. Pinto decided to grab a magazine and sit in the lounge, where the regulars went. In the summer only the old were seen in the library. They were the ones who couldn'’t afford air-conditioning for those brutal August heatwaves. He grabbed an old Newsweek and nodded to a man he knew named Juan. Next to him was Olga. She always had a Sports Illustrated and read slow.

“Hey, champ, how you doin’?” Juan asked.

“Good, you ignorant Boricua. Don’t you know you supposed to be quiet in a library?” Alex said.

“Used to be that way here. No more. This here is uncivilized times we living in. This is a horrible time to be alive. Especially if you’re old,” Olga said.

Alex nodded at her and sat down with a sigh. He read about an earthquake in Sri Lanka and his eyes grew heavy.

“Closing time. Come on, time to go.”

Alex wiped some drool off his face and blinked at the security guard standing over him.

“What time is it?”

“Time to go.”

Alex looked around the empty room and stood up on his shaky legs. He waved to the desk librarian and walked out to the rush hour of North Avenue. The air was a little cooler as he crossed the street and entered Humboldt Park.

When he hit the path he started to jog slowly. He’d do five miles today. He kept up his roadwork. He liked to think he stayed in fighting shape. Tomorrow he would work as a part-time janitor at Brick’s Gym and after his shift he’d do some speed work and punch the heavy bag. He wouldn'’t be getting any more shots at a prizefight, but in this city it paid to stay in shape. Can’t afford to get old and weak, he thought.

As Pinto jogged past the boat pavilion his body tensed as he saw a group of Spanish Cobras sitting on the benches. He knew all about these guys. Pinto had been a regular of the Latin Kings in the 1960s. Back then they stood for defending the Latins of the neighborhood against the whites and the the Chicago Police Department, the toughest white gang of all. Once he got into boxing and the Kings got into dealing drugs, he put the gang life down.

But these Spanish Cobras were a bad gang that caused a lot of trouble in the neighborhood. They mugged, robbed, and sold drugs to their own. He kept his head down and wanted to just move past them.

“Hey, homes. You. The boxer.”

Pinto slowed and looked at the young man approaching him.

“Yeah?” Pinto said, jogging in place looking at the man.

“I hear back in the day you were some fighter. My pops tells me you were almost champ. Long time ago. That you, Alex Pinto?”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“Damn. A pleasure to meet you. I’m Paco.”

Pinto shook his hand and said, “Well, thanks, I got to go.”

“Wait, homes. You want to earn some money?”

Pinto looked down on the ground. “How?”

“Doin’ what you do best, homes. Boxing. We hold smokers out on Cicero. I'’ll pay you $200 you come out this Friday night. It’s good. We tape it and sell tickets and take bets there. You will be a big draw. Big bets on you, papi. People remember you in the ring. You were a legend.”

“Boxing? Really? Who am I fighting?”

Paco smiled at Pinto and said, “A guy about your age. You’ll tear him up. Only thing is, you gotta bring your own gloves. You down?”

Pinto hesitated. That money was a week’s pay for him. It would help. Get him some meat, fresh produce, and a decent bottle of wine. Maybe even a coat for the winter. But boxing? At fifty-five?

“I don’t know. How come I never heard about this?” Pinto said as he moved his weight from foot to foot.

“Hey, it’s our first smoker. Figured we start with the best and work our way down. Could be a regular gig for you.”

Pinto looked at the benches. The other Spanish Cobras were smoking and yelling at a woman walking by. Paco kept his eyes locked on Pinto.

“So what do you say, homes? You down?”

“Give me the address. I'’ll be there.”

“Cool, it starts at 8. Be there like 7:30. You’re the first fight.”

Paco handed Pinto a flyer and walked back to his friends. Pinto put the paper in his back pocket and continued his run. While he circled the lagoon he saw himself in the ring ducking a punch and laying his opponent out. That is how it will go Friday night. A guy my age stands no chance against me, he thought. I’'ve kept myself in shape. I still have the tools.

Pinto finished his run and limped out of the park. He went to a small grocery store and bought a can of beans and a beer. That would be dinner. Under two dollars. He was keeping to his budget.

On Thursday Pinto woke up feeling good. He got out of bed and did a few jumping jacks. He shadowboxed as he reveled in the thought that he would fight once again tomorrow night. There should be some kind of senior league for old boxers, he thought. Tennis and golf had it. Why does age make you put down the things you love? Old men still had basketball and football leagues. Why not boxers?

Pinto spent the day at Brick’s Gym on Mozart Avenue. He swept and mopped the floors. He tightened the ropes on the two rings. He held the heavy bag for a young lightweight. As he went about his chores he asked some of the young boxers if they’d heard of the smoker out on Cicero.

No one had, but they were young and had venues for their boxing skills. Pinto ate a bologna sandwich for lunch and read the flyer again.

THE JOKER SMOKER

SEE THEM FIGHT. SEE THEM BLEED.

BET ON THE BEST. BOO THE BUMS.

ONE BEER AND ONE CIGAR

WITH $15 ADMISSION. 8 P.M.

NO GUNS AND NO KNIVES.

SUPPORT YOUR COMMUNITY.

THE SPANISH COBRAS BOXING LEAGUE

1991 CICERO AVE. IN THE

OLD FLECK MATTRESS FACTORY

Pinto put the flyer away and went to the bathrooms to clean up that mess. As his day ended, Pinto put away his cleaning supplies and went to his locker to tape his hands and put on his boxing gloves.

He went to the speed bag and got a good rhythm going. The bag smacked the wood with a solid whack. Yeah, Pinto thought, I still got it. I can still make that bag sing. He went to a corner and bobbed and weaved while throwing multiple punches. That’s how I'’ll take him out tomorrow, Pinto thought. I'’ll duck and come up and in. Body blows made young men want to quit. No way an older man can take the punishment I can still dish out.

When his workout was over he put his gloves in a bag and went into the office to see his boss, Mr. Rico, for his pay. Two hundred off the books. Enough to pay his rent and eat very lightly.

Pinto entered the office and saw a boxing poster announcing a fight of his from March 17, 1974. That night he knocked out “Irish” Danny Walsh.

“Hey, Alex, you still working out. Good for you,” Rico said from behind his desk.

“Yeah, well, you know I just want to stay in shape.”

Rico laughed and patted his large belly. “Hey, guys our age are too old to fight. Me, I eat what I want and keep this here.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a revolver. “This, Alex, is the fat man’s equalizer. This will stop any young man. Dead in his tracks.”

Pinto smiled as Rico put the gun back in a drawer and then slid his pay envelope across the desk. He thought about asking Rico if he’d heard of the smoker but then just put the envelope in his pocket. Rico was never a boxer. He never had that longing for his youth. To feel his body again and let his juices rip as he beat another man. And he knew Rico would tell him it was a bad idea. Pinto had enough dreams crushed in this life. He kept his own counsel.