For Freddy G, just the fact that Jack had touched the bottle was a cue of more than sufficient proportion. The casino boss reached for a Bloody Mary that waited on the bar. He took a healthy swallow, then gobbled the celery stick, chewing loudly.
One more time, the roar of cannonade rose from the Strip.
One more time, the windows in Freddy’s suite rattled.
So did Freddy.
“Hear that. Jack? Night and fucking day, I hear it. I got the whole show memorized.” He waved his drink in the direction of the window. “Next thing, the captain of the British frigate is gonna start bellowing in that phony Charles Laughton voice of his. The limey bastard’s gonna go down with his ship, gonna sink to the bottom of briny Vegas. Gonna throw in the towel to a bunch of candy-ass pirates, every one of them a ringer for that Fabio asshole. Pumped up on steroids like a bunch of prize Herefords. Waxed chests. Hair like Gorgeous George. And dicks the size of sardines, believe you me.”
Jack fought it, but he knew he couldn’t win. His poker face collapsed in a wide grin.
Freddy finished off his celery, smiling slyly. “Shiver me pectorals and pass that blow-dryer, you old sea dog,” he lisped, his Liberace imitation dead-on as always. “Never knew they had Miz Clairol on the Spanish Main, didja, Matey?”
Jack laughed at that last one and was surprised to find that laughing felt good. “Someday you’re going to get into trouble with that shit, Freddy. These days you’re politically incorrect.”
“Christ on a cross, Baddalach. Liberace himself used to laugh at that one.”
“Yeah, well. That was the fifties. You weren’t so mellow then, remember? You had a temper.” Baddalach shook his head. “You weren’t any funnier back then, you were just scarier.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I’d laugh like a fucking hyena if the alternative was taking a high dive off of Hoover Dam.”
“Go ahead, Jack. Rain on my fucking parade. Kick me when I’m fucking down.”
The smile stayed put on Jack’s face. “Not when I can sink your fucking battleship.”
Two Bloody Marys later, Freddy G settled down to business.
“So,” he said. “Take off the cheaters. Let Papa see.”
Jack sighed but did as he was told, folding his sunglasses and setting them on the table.
“Christ on a cross, will you look at that. Are those your eyelids, boy, or did you get kidnapped by a mob of little old ladies who tried to make a patchwork quilt out of your face?”
“C’mon, Freddy. Give me a break. It’s not that bad. The stitches come out next Tuesday.”
“Your skin’s getting too old for this shit.”
“It was those damn Reyes gloves. Everybody in the business knows they can turn a guy who punches like Twiggy into Jack the Ripper. I swear they’ve got razor blades in ’em. It would have been a different story if the commission would have gone for Everlast. But no. What Sugar Ray Sattler wants, Sugar Ray Sattler gets. Jesus. The guy’s had two title defenses. I had five. And half of mine were in the other guy’s backyard.”
“Yeah, it’s a long, sad story. If you would’ve had those Everlasts, things would have been different.” Freddy shook his gray head. “Face it. Jack. It wasn’t your night. If someone had amputated Sattler’s right hand, you still would have ended up on your butt.”
Jack grinned. “Show a little mercy, huh? Remember, Freddy, I’m in pain. And the truth definitely hurts.”
“How’s the nose?”
“Well, the left nostril kicked in yesterday. That was a relief-all that mouth-breathing was making me feel like an extra from Deliverance. I’m hoping the right will get embarrassed and join in tomorrow.”
“Like hell. You couldn’t breathe through the right side before Sattler kicked your butt. You’ve got a deviated septum, Jack. You ought to get it fixed.”
“Look, I’m not going to pay anyone to break my nose. Some guy gets a free shot at me, I’m the one who’s going to get paid. Especially if he gets to use a hammer.”
Freddy laughed. “Is that a miserable excuse for a segue, my boy?”
“Well, the commission’s still holding up my purse. And I’m sitting on my wallet, Pops. And it sure ain’t causing me any back problems at the present moment.”
Freddy moved behind the bar and freshened his Bloody Mary. Jack rolled the beer bottle back and forth across his aching knuckles. Two weeks since the fight, and it was still murder making a fist. Just a couple years ago he could have sat down at a piano and played a fucking concerto a few days after a twelve-rounder. If he’d happened to know how to play the piano, that is. But these days. . well, these days it seemed his hands always hurt.
Jack gripped the bottle. Hard. Trying to keep it light was turning out to be a much taller order than he’d expected. And there was a good reason for that. Deep down, Jack realized the hidden purpose of this meeting.
Freddy was calling him on the carpet.
Shit. Even Ray Charles could see that.
Jack Baddalach could feel it in his bones. This was going to be the big kiss-off.
The road he’d traveled with Freddy G had been a long one. He’d had most of his fights at the Casbah. Jesus, he’d made his professional debut in the stadium/parking lot behind the casino back in ’78. He’d won his title in the same ring in ’86. But it had been quite a few years since anyone had strapped a belt around his belly, and now that he’d battled a young lion and come out looking like roadkill. . Well, he’d promised himself that the fight with Sugar Ray Sattler would be his last hurrah-win, lose, or draw. It had been easy, saying that before the fight, believing he could walk away from it all.
Winning would have made it easy. If it hadn’t made him hungry all over again, of course. And a draw he could have lived with. But losing. .
And there was no question that he’d lost. Badly. The ref had counted ten over him. And if it wasn’t bad enough getting KO’d by some candyass nicknamed Sugar, there was the humiliation that came after that.
Jack didn’t remember it, not really. But thanks to the magic of videotape, he’d seen it a dozen times. Sattler’s asshole promoter, he of the electric hair and audiophile-quality bullshit, had jumped in Jack Baddalach’s bloody face after the fight, barking, telling Jack that he was nothing but a washed-up pug. He opined that Jack Baddalach was an embarrassment to the pugilistic brotherhood, nothing less than a fraud. Him, a guy who’d never laced on a pair of gloves in his life, an ex-numbers runner with a big mouth. And when Jack shoved the promoter, the guy started in on Jack’s skin tone, saying that Jack’s complexion was the only reason he’d made the connection with a class act like Sugar Ray Sattler.
In light of the words that followed, that comment was actually polite. Quaint, in its own way, like calling Jack a great white hope.
The barrage that crossed the pay-per-view airwaves that evening was rattler-mean and gutter-nasty. Even though Jack didn’t remember any of it, he saw what was coming when he watched the tape. First he sighed. Then he shook his head. His lip twisted into a disgusted smirk. And all the while, the promoter kept on yapping.
Once more, the word complexion reared its ugly head. As the promoter spat the second syllable, Jack launched the best left hook of his career. It landed flush, and the promoter bit off the final syllable and a quarter-inch of overworked tongue. Going down, he looked like a side of beef that happened to be wearing a tuxedo.