“Why?” Mary asked. Her head was buried in the Connolly exhibits, which she read as the cab lurched from one stoplight to the next. “We don’t have enough to do?”
“Work isn’t everything. We should get out a little. See things that are different. A different way of life.”
“Catholics aren’t interested in different, okay?”
“Come on-”
“In fact, we hate different. Different threatens us.”
Judy smiled as the cab pulled up in front of a concrete building about ten stories tall. The upper floors looked dark and vacant, but the first floor was a block-long expanse of glass. A wire cage covered the glass and had trapped every passing handbill and hamburger wrapper. The cabbie, a young man with a shaggy red beard, snapped down the meter’s red flag. “That’s ten bucks, even,” he said over his shoulder.
Mary cracked the window. “This is it?”
“Sure. It’s one of the best gyms in Philly.”
“There’s no sign.”
“Don’t need no sign. It’s almost as famous as Smoke’s.”
“Smoke’s?”
“Smokin’ Joe Frazier’s.” The cabbie glanced at Mary in the rearview. “Philly’s a great boxing town, you’ll see. How long you girls here for?”
Mary bristled. “Take that back. I’m a native Philadelphian.”
Judy handed the driver the fare. “We’re tourists, up here.”
“Thanks,” he said. “You want I should come back, pick you up? It’s a bitch to get a cab this far up.”
“I knew that,” Mary said.
“I’ll get her out now,” Judy told the cabbie, who laughed.
Two muscular black men were sparring in a ring that was the heart of the gym. Red leather headgear obscured their features and sweat glistened on their shoulders as they hustled around the blue canvas, behind ropes covered with red and blue velveteen. Centered over the ring hung four strips of fluorescent lights, illuminating the dark faces of the men who stood around. They cheered or winced at each punch, alive with the thrill of the match. The harder the punch, the more animated they got, but Mary flinched as she watched. To her, boxing was assault and battery with tickets.
She looked away, around the gym. Glossy mirrors covered the walls and wrinkled boxing posters blanketed any leftover space. Speedbags hung like teardrops of leather from plywood stands and a brown heavy bag spun slowly on a chain in the far corner. Boxing gloves of gold and silver hung on the far wall; the air smelled of perspiration, stale cigarettes, and filth. Mary hovered behind Judy’s broad shoulder. “We don’t belong here,” she muttered. “We’re lawyers. We should be making commercials.”
“Stop complaining. We’re on a secret mission.”
“We’re the only whites and the only women. How secret can it be?”
“Follow me.” Judy pushed her way to the middle of the crowd to get a better view of the fight. She felt instantly intrigued by the skill of the contest, the movement of the fighters, the whistle of gloves through the air. She couldn’t tear her eyes from the ring.
Huddling behind her, Mary squinted at the ring, where one boxer slugged the other so hard his head snapped back like a bullwhip. She gave up being adult, much less professional, and covered her eyes. “Did he kill him?”
“Not yet.”
“I hate this. Let’s run away.”
“No.”
“I’ll meet you outside. In the suburbs.”
“You will not.” Judy grabbed Mary’s hand and scanned the crowd for Star. She picked him out quickly, recognizing him from the posters around the gym. Starling “Star” Harald was larger in person than his photo, if that were possible. “There he is.”
“Where?”
“The hulk in the back row,” Judy said, and Mary looked. Star was huge, almost superhuman, even at a distance. He wore a black silk shirt with a black sportjacket that was big in the shoulders even without shoulder pads. He stood apart from the crowd and there was an aloof air about him-the aura of a star, but a dark one. Mary thought he’d be handsome if he weren’t so remote, but emotional distance was probably a job requirement for a man who could kill with his fists. “Now can we go?”
“No,” Judy said over her shoulder, and felt Mary’s hand clutch her dress as she made her way around the ring through the crowd, ignoring stares both curious and lecherous. It was less noisy in the back row, and Judy wedged boldly next to Star. “Are you Star Harald?” she asked. “My name’s Judy Carrier.”
Star’s expression remained unchanged, his concentration riveted on the sparring match in the ring.
“My friend and I are lawyers in the murder case involving your manager, Anthony Della Porta. We represent Alice Connolly.”
Star didn’t even like the sound of the bitch’s name. He kept his eyes on the fight.
“Anthony Della Porta was your manager, wasn’t he?”
Star didn’t answer. The kid in the red shorts was throwing his jab but he couldn’t connect. Kid didn’t train hard enough. Kid had no discipline. No respect for himself.
“Did you know the woman Della Porta lived with? Her name was Alice Connolly.”
Star didn’t say anything. The kid’s trainer should tell him to move his fuckin’ feet, but he didn’t know shit. Even Browning, the fat fuck Star just signed with, knew more than him. Star folded his arms and his biceps bulged under the custom jacket.
“I see you have muscles. Do you have manners?”
Star snapped his head around and his eyes bored into Judy. He wasn’t Tyson, so he didn’t tag her, but he thought about it. “I talk if I want to talk.”
Mary tugged at Judy’s dress for a warning. Antagonizing a prizefighter didn’t seem like a good idea, but Judy was from California, where they did self-destructive things all the time.
“Fine,” Judy said. “I’ll ask a question, and you answer if you want to answer. Did you know Alice Connolly?”
“I know she killed Anthony, tha’s all I have to know,” Star said matter-of-factly, and Judy hid her alarm at his response.
“How do you know that?”
“I jus’ know.”
“Did Della Porta tell you anything that would make you think that?”
Star shook his head. He didn’t like the chick calling Anthony by his last name.
“What makes you say Connolly did it?”
Star didn’t say anything. Bitch was givin’ him attitude. He watched the kid in the ring stagger back to his corner.
“Did you tell the cops what you think?”
Star shook his head, no.
“Why not?”
“Didn’t ax.”
Judy thought for sure the cops would have interviewed Star. His manager had been killed and the police didn’t question him about it? “The D.A. didn’t ask you to testify? Will you testify?”
Star shook his head again. Testify, go to court. Shit. He had the situation under control. He hadn’t got the word it got done yet, but he knew it would be. Without another word, Star turned his back on the lawyer and walked away, into the throng.
Judy moved to follow him, but Mary held her in place with a fistful of shirt. “This is me, saving your life.”
“But he’s getting away.”
“That’s because he’s bigger and faster than you.”
Judy watched Star disappear into the locker room. “He can run but he can’t hide.”
“He can do what he wants. That’s why they call him a heavyweight. Now let’s go,” Mary said, and pushed Judy safely toward the exit.
23
Bennie had squandered an hour wrangling on the telephone with functionaries from the bar’s licensing authority before she reached the aforementioned Mr. Hutchins. “Look, Mr. Hutchins,” she said, “you require twelve credit hours a year, is that right? Ten hours of substantive courses and two of ethics.”
“Yes, that’s correct,” said Mr. Hutchins, a nice man if you liked those just-following-orders types.
“And I’m in Group Four, so I should have had my credits completed by August.”