“I meant love him like a father. He adopt you?”
“Guess I adopted him. I was about seventeen then, a big tough kid, living with a second aunt. I weighed 185 and I figured I'd go into the ring, make the big money the heavies got. I was working as a shipping clerk and going to night school, taking all the civil service exams I could—I wanted a steady income.”
“Like Joe.”
“With this big difference... I was hungry most of the time.”
“Really hungry? You look like the kind that will always get along,” she said.
“What's got into you?” I asked, lying down and pulling her on top of me. Under the cover I ran my hand over her leg and she said, “Slap me on the can, Matt. That's all I'd need—the he-man touch!”
“What is this?”
“I don't know... sorry... I'm jumpy,” she said, kissing me. She lay across my chest and after awhile said, “You were talking about this Pops.”
“Yeah,” I said, wondering what had come over her. “I went to a gym, began to work out. But I could only go between five and six in the afternoon, after work and before school. Pops was an old-time lightweight—he once fought Wolgast, and Leonard kayoed him when Pops was going out and Benny was starting up. Now, he was a porter at the gym, on the bum, doing anything to make a buck. But he knew boxing—knew it like few guys know it today. He wanted to be a manager, but every time he found a kid to manage, began to teach him, bring him along slow, the kid would get overanxious, leave Pops for the two-bit managers who rushed them into a lot of quick bouts. The kids made small change, took too many beatings, and were usually finished in a year or two. See, Pops never had a contract with them. That's the way he was, said if two men had to be bound together by law, they weren't worth being partners to start.”
“Then he didn't believe in that—protect yourself at all times,” Mady said to the hairs on my chest.
“Well... yeah, Pops sure didn't protect himself with his pugs. But then if a guy is going to rat, what will a contract get you but a lawsuit? Pops watched me working out, began to give me pointers. When I told him I wanted to be a pug he said, 'Why? It's a tough way to make a buck—the worst way.' So I asked him, 'You know an easy way to make the dollar?' That tickled him and he said he liked the way I moved about and if I wanted to, he'd be my manager. We shook hands on it. Every day for ten months I was at the gym and he coached me. During the winter he looked so bad I bought him a suit and an overcoat, told him it was old stuff my uncle was throwing away. And every payday I took him out for a decent supper.
“I was getting pretty good as a boxer and Pops thought I was ready for the amateurs. Had five fights, won them all by knockouts. They'd give me a watch for winning and after every fight we'd 'eat the watch,' as Pops called it... hock it for ten or fifteen bucks. In my sixth fight I got a small cut over my eye and Pops stopped it. I was sore, was beating the guy easily when he threw a lucky punch I didn't pull away from in time. Pops exploded at me. 'Anytime you get a cut eye— even if you're fighting Louis for the championship, I'll stop it! Hell with the fans and the sports writers, you can't buy eyes.' He used to hate the fans something awful.”
“Why?” Mady asked sleepily. “They support fighters.”
“Called them a pack of bloodthirsty animals, cowards scared to fight themselves, and a couple of fancy cuss words. Anyway, I fought this guy a month later.”
“And of course you won?”
“Stop riding me. Kayoed him in one round. When summer came and there wasn't any school, I got a job working nights and started training during the day, with pros, for experience. Big demand for heavies and all the chiseling managers tried to get me away from Pops, but he kept telling them I wasn't ready for money fights yet. I never double-crossed Pops, but I was getting impatient. Kind of frustrating, sparring with guys I knew I could beat, and reading about them getting five hundred or a grand a fight, and I hardly had coffee money. Then... it was a Tuesday. Guess I'll never forget that day. Got a letter in the morning that I was appointed a cop. That same...”
Mady sighed, got off my chest and nestled up to me.
“You listening?”
“Aha.”
“That same day a big-time heavy named Porky Sanders came into the gym on his way East for a fight with Louis. Louis later knocked him kicking in three rounds. Sanders' manager was a shrewd guy with a big in, and he was looking for sparring partners—ten bucks a round. Pops said no dice, and one of the hustlers hanging around said, 'Get old Pops turning dough down. What's the matter, your big boy made out of cut glass? Pops so high and mighty... and thrown out of his fleabag room two weeks ago. Ask Pops where he's been sleeping at nights, Matt? Right on the gym benches!”
“I told Sanders' manager I'd go three rounds, told Pops, 'Hell, might as well see how good I am—one way or the other.' Only time Pops and me had words. Well... Porky was a big name and at first I was too cautious, but when he floored me in the second round, I got mad. I outboxed him, floored him and had him hanging on the ropes, when his manager stopped it. Didn't want his boy cut up, spoil that big payday with Louis. Ranzino was the white-haired lad around the gym that day! As I was dressing and Pops was clucking over me like a mother hen, I told him about getting the cop job, but of course that was out... now. You know what Pops told me?”
Mady sighed, “What?”
“Why, he bawled hell out of me, told me to quit the ring and become a cop! Said I was a cinch to be police department champ, get myself a soft racket. When I argued, Pops shouted, 'Get out of this dirty racket—if you have the chance! Man shouldn't make his living beating people, taking punishment. And they all get their lumps... Louis, Zale, Robinson... they get punishment. The good ones just take less. Man only becomes a fighter because he can't make porkchops any other way. Get out of the game while you have the chance. It stinks! I know.'”
“Hell of it was, Sanders' manager offered Pops five grand for my contract, then offered me the dough when he learned we didn't have it in writing. When I insisted Pops was my manager, he offered the old man three grand for a half interest. I was tempted to take it... five grand and this guy could get me the right bouts. But I kept thinking Pops needed the dough worse than I did and if he could turn it down, so could I. So that was the end of my career as a pug—before it ever started.”
Mady's even breathing told me she was sleeping. I lay there and thought of the time I'd kayoed Max for the department championship a month after I was on the force. Pops had been right, about the soft details. I was made a plainclothes man, given desk jobs... all the time I wanted to train. I was a pretty honest cop, I only took a few bucks in graft—enough to give Pops fifteen a week. I added another ten out of my pay. Pops, that strange old man. Once we were having supper— we always ate together a couple times a week—and I asked how the mugs at the gym were. He winked at me, said, “Them dumb studs. They keep asking me, 'Pops, where's that good heavy you had, the speed kid with the punch?' And I don't say nothing and they laugh and say, wise-like, 'He ran out on ya, become a dumb bull. Old Pops lost hisself another boy.' I don't bother answering 'em, Matt, a because these jerks don't know at long last I've really found me a boy.”