Champagne, three bottles.
He checked his watch. It was almost seven. He put on some good clothes and shaved twice. He brushed his teeth vigorously, thinking of Cristobel.
Chapter 17
They got to the Sherrington hotel in time for the first fight. He flashed his press pass at the door. The attendant checked his list and told Frye it wasn’t good anymore. Frye mumbled apologies, went to the ticket window, and came up with two ten-dollar seats way in the back.
The doorman took their tickets with a sigh.
“Where can I find Mr. Mack?”
“Never heard of him. Try the directory.”
On fight-night the ballroom houses the ring, and rows of chairs pressed all the way to the walls. Frye stepped inside. His stomach fluttered a bit, and he felt good at the lights and the ring and the ropes and the general carnival atmosphere. Cristobel took his arm.
He worked his way to the third-to-last row, from which the ring looked like a bright sugar cube. He checked his program. Stinson was in the white, out of Bakersfield; Avila in the red, out of Sonora, Mexico. At the bell they moved toward each other with the slowness of men wading through water.
Frye stood. “I’m going to find Mack.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sorry. I’ll be back in just a minute.”
He found the Elite listing in the lobby directory, and took an elevator to the eighth floor. Suite 816 was at the end of the hall, just across from the stairway. A small brass plaque said ELITE MANAGEMENT — PRIVATE. Frye knocked and waited; knocked again. The door was locked. He waited a moment longer, then headed back to the arena.
Cristobel smiled at him. “When you said a minute, you weren’t kidding. No dice?”
“None.”
He lifted his Bushnells and focused on the ring. Avila was a sinewy Latin, pesky, hard to hit. Stinson looked Irish, with heavy hands and thick calves. The kind of fighter who’ll run out of gas about the tenth, Frye guessed, if he hasn’t put his man away. But if he catches you with the right, you eat canvas. He’d seen Avila last year: The kid couldn’t be more than twenty.
He turned the binoculars ringside to see who’d gotten his old seat. It was Edison.
On one side of him was Lucia Parsons. On the other was Burke and his cowboy hat. Next to him was Paul DeCord. They all held gigantic beers.
Frye said nothing. He just looked through the binoculars and wondered what in hell his father was doing with Lucia Parsons and a man who kept spying on Bennett. He gave the glasses to Cristobel and looked down at the floor for a moment, thinking.
When he looked at the ring again, Stinson caught Avila with a right cross, then a left to the chin. Avila folded in the middle and plopped butt-first to the canvas. Frye could see he wouldn’t be getting up soon.
“Want to meet my dad?”
“A little early for that, don’t you think?”
“I didn’t know he’d be here tonight.”
She gathered up her purse and beer. “I didn’t know I would either. But why not?”
The ringside crowd thinned between bouts. Edison spotted him, blinked, then smiled. He gave Frye a Mafia bear hug and kiss, his standard public greeting. “The hell you doing here? And what’s this?”
Frye introduced Cristobel. Edison eyed her like a jeweler might a diamond. Frye was introduced to Lucia Parsons, who looked prettier and more substantial in real life than she was on TV. Burke grinned, said “Haw, Chuck,” and flagged the waitress to get Frye’s drink order. Paul DeCord remained in his seat, lost to his program.
“I didn’t know you covered these things anymore,” said Edison.
“I’m free-lancing tonight.”
“Gotta make a buck, I guess. You familiar with Lucia’s work?”
Frye regarded Lucia Parsons. Dark wavy hair, cut just above the shoulders. Green eyes, good skin. Conservative suit. Just enough jewelry to imply more at home.
“I heard your speech yesterday,” he said. “Are you planning another trip to Hanoi now?”
“We met our Phase-Three goal at that rally,” she said. “I’ll be going over again very soon.”
Frye noted that Lucia’s private voice was exactly like her public one: calm, confident, unassuming.
“I was impressed,” he said. “I’ll be even more impressed if you can get some solid proof that there are MIAs still alive over there.”
Lucia smiled. “You and the rest of the world. When Phase Four begins, I think a lot of people will be impressed, Chuck. But thank you. I’m a real fan of your articles, by the way. Your boxing pieces are actually superior to those in the Times.”
“Their only fight writer hates the sport. Papers don’t pay enough attention to boxing anyway.”
Burke tipped back his hat and shook his head slowly. “You can say that again, Chuck. It’s the only game around that amounts to much fun anymore. I read every one of your ditties. You gave a damn about the sport, and it showed.”
“Well, thanks.”
Burke took off his hat and smiled at Cristobel. Frye watched his eyes stray to her neck, then back up again. “Cristobel. Spanish name?”
“My father was German, my mother Mexican.”
“One helluva interesting combo,” said Burke.
Lucia was about to say something to Frye when three women closed in around her, offering their hands, introducing themselves.
Edison shook his head. “Everywhere she goes it’s like that. They mob her.”
How do you know? Frye thought.
“I got to thinking about your job, Chuck,” said Burke. “Your pop here filled me in. And I’ll be damned if I don’t know that Mack character. I come to so many of these fights, I couldn’t help but run across him. Tough little pecker. Didn’t surprise me at all he got his panties in a bunch like that.”
“I’d sure like to talk to him. That’s why I came.”
“Well, he’s here most of the time. Don’t see him tonight, though. Might try his office up on floor eight. Elite something.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Rollie?” Burke smiled, first at Frye, then at Cristobel “Shorter than you, gray hair, fifty or so. Just a regular sort of fella.”
“If you see him, tell him I’d really like to talk.”
“Sure enough.”
Lucia introduced Frye to Paul DeCord, who offered a friendly smile as they shook hands. Frye saw an alertness in the eyes, behind the glasses that sat crookedly on his nose. But there’s something about that face, Frye thought, that tells you it’s got nothing to hide. Not the same face he wore to his drops with Nguyen Hy. Or the one he brought to the Lower Mojave Airstrip.
“You’re a writer, I hear,” said Frye.
DeCord chuckled. “I’m doing some research on the refugee community for Health and Human Services. So I do my share of writing.”
“Photography, too?”
“Occasionally.”
Frye considered. “I guess you know Stanley Smith.”
“I’m familiar with his work. My own has a completely different focus.”
“Are you interested in the MIAs?”
DeCord looked over Frye’s shoulder, then refocused on his face. “On a personal level only. Burke and Lucia are just good friends. Are you?”
“At this point, Li’s my main MIA.”
“I can understand that,” said DeCord.
Frye watched his father watch Lucia. Something like pride showed on his face, something like dumb admiration. The last time Frye had seen Edison look that way, it was at his favorite spaniel.
Edison caught him, mid-study. He smiled, a little sheepishly.
“Take a walk with me, will you, Pop? We should talk.”