“What is it?”
“John’s Cousin,” I said.
“How endearing.”
“I’m a big fan,” I said. “But anyway, the reason I called you—”
“You want to write a biography of that boxer.”
“He battled racism,” I said.
“I’m intrigued. We need books for boys. With real stories about gritty people who struggled and triumphed.”
“I could do that for you,” I said. “No sweat.”
“No sweat?”
“Look,” I said. “I’ve never written anything like this before, but I feel a passion welling up in me. Before he forgot everything, my father was what he liked to call a ‘wordslinger.’ Also, I was accepted into a name college, though I was unable to attend.”
“That’s wonderful,” said Cassandra. “And sad. The last part is sad. The last two parts, I think.”
“No matter,” I said. “I mean, here we are now. You guys pay money up front, right?”
“Sometimes,” said Cassandra. “Listen, I don’t usually do this, but since you’re a friend of Leo, why don’t we meet for a drink tomorrow evening and you can tell me about this project.”
“Better bring your checkbook,” I said.
“Oh, you’re a riot,” laughed Cassandra.
* * *
Ever since Gary’s band, the Annihilation of the Soft Left, had broken up, I’d been eyeing his beautiful twelve-string Rickenbacker guitar. He didn’t seem to play it much, and I thought maybe I could sell the thing for a decent amount of cash. The way Cassandra had talked, the book contract looked like a done deal. I’d buy Gary’s guitar back once I got the advance the next night. I just needed something to tide me over.
A twelve-string Rickenbacker in a hard-shell case is a vexingly heavy object to ferry about the city in summer heat. I knew my feverish mien and the jones stink rising out of the holes in my T-shirt might aversely affect the guitar shop’s initial offer, but the guy at the counter seemed impressed with the make and year of the instrument.
“Sweet,” he said. “Great condition. People are playing these again. That guy from the Annihilation of the Soft Left plays one.”
“Never heard of them,” I said. “But I don’t know much about today’s scene. How much can you give me?”
The guy named a figure. I had to steady myself on the counter.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I accept. Let’s do it.”
“Great,” said the guy. “Just give me the papers, and we can take it from there.”
“Papers?”
“Ownership. You have to prove ownership. A receipt is fine.”
“Tell me,” I said. “Is that the policy in all the guitar stores around here?”
“Bet your ass.”
“Think I have to go,” I said, closed the case and slid it off the counter.
“Think you fucking better,” said the guitar store guy.
The Rickenbacker was even heavier on the walk home, but life is funny, because as I shoved the guitar back into Gary’s closet, I kicked over a rotted duck boot and a wad of bills rolled out. It was as though Gary secretly wanted me to hijack his property and try to pawn it or else just steal money from him outright. I went up the street to the doorway where the huge man stood in his leather vest and leather half gloves and two leather fanny packs under his enormous belly. One fanny pack had the boy, the D, the dope. The other had the stuff we agreed to call the girl, the coke, though sometimes it was just powder for helping babies poop.
This guy had stabbed a customer several weeks ago, but he was always pleasant with me. I liked this spot. It was safe and convenient. It beat Cups. Cups was a few blocks away. Bad things happened at Cups. I preferred Fanny Packs.
“Thanks,” I said.
Gary was still not home, so I sat on the futon and tried to focus on some basic facts about Marvelous Marvin Hagler. I remembered a lot, but I needed to remember more. I wondered if my stepmother had ever delivered on her threat, thrown out those boxing magazines. I needed to do some research, and I didn’t even know the location of the nearest library. The only books I read were the ones I found near trash bins. Right now I was muscling through an anthology of Korean poetry and a tract on management theory from the early 1970s.
I called my father, and my stepmother answered.
“Hey,” I said. “Remember those boxing magazines we used to have? Like crates of them?”
“Why, you want to shoot them in your arm?”
“Please,” I said. “You’re not being fair.”
“I’m not being fair?”
“I’ve made some mistakes. I’ve changed. I’m doing research for a book project, believe it or not.”
“Not.”
“It’s about Marvelous Marvin Hagler.”
“Who’s that?”
“You should know. You’re married to a sportswriter.”
“I’m married to a carrot.”
“A what?”
“A zucchini.”
“You’re drunk.”
“A vegetable medley. That’s your father. Your mother was lucky to get out.”
“Put him on,” I said.
“Your father?”
“Yes, put him on.”
I heard some fumbling, some hard breathing.
“Dad?” I said. “Is that you? Can you hear me? It’s me. Your son.”
The breathing softened, a distant surf.
“Dad,” I said, “Marvelous Marvin Hagler. Any thoughts? Didn’t you cover a few of his fights?”
“Yeah. I fucked her after the fight,” said my father. “It was the road. That’s how we did it.”
“No,” I said. “Hagler.”
“Name your price, Chief.”
There was more fumbling, and I heard my father say, “Sales call.”
My stepmother came back on the line. “How’s the research going?”
“Well,” I said, “if you find any magazines…”
“Don’t worry,” said my stepmother, “I won’t.”
* * *
Maybe I could meditate, trek deep within myself. Perhaps some truths about Marvelous Marvin Hagler lay entombed there, along with memories of my mother before she got sick and my father before he left her and got married and then got married again and then started to forget everything, such as his son and his wives and the rare fury of Marvelous Marvin Hagler. For instance, here was an indelible fact: Hagler’s mother never called him Marvelous. He added that, legally, later.
Then again, maybe the point of this book wasn’t facts at all. Children didn’t need facts. Children needed books for boys about gritty people who struggled and triumphed over steep odds. Maybe my next book would tell the story of me. I had been struggling, but now my hour of triumph had arrived. Triumph was about to caress my shoulders, coo into my ear. I didn’t even know if triumph was a man or a woman, or if this was my way of battling God in my mind.
I went out to the street and found somebody who knew the location of the nearest library.
* * *
We met for drinks at an outdoor café on a gritty, struggling side street in midtown. They had umbrellas over the tables so you could squint and maybe pretend you were somewhere pretty. I took a seat and ordered an Irish coffee, the closest thing to a speedball on the menu. Some mounted cops sauntered by, eyed me as their roans pinched off hot loads near the curb.
Those bright, mulchy mounds, they looked so full of life, the excess of life.
Cassandra had described herself with the usual telephonic vagueness, blondish this, bluish that. I had a corner table, a good view of the café, so I jumped when I felt a hand on my neck.
“It’s me. Cassandra.”
She was a less delicate version of her brother. A much older man in a charcoal suit stood beside her.
“Hi,” I said, half stood. “Please, have a seat. How did you recognize me?”
“Wasn’t hard.”