“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“I’m sure you will,” said Cassandra. “This is Timothy. He’s our editor in chief. When I told him about your idea, he really wanted to come along.”
“The more the merrier!” I said.
“Hello,” said Timothy. He spoke tightly. I sensed awkwardness between them, perhaps a dispute about who would bask longer in the reflected glory of my publication.
Cassandra ordered iced teas.
“So,” she said. “About this book thing.”
I knew this was my moment. This was the way of the world, the opposite of the way of our apartment. You had to speak your dream. It wasn’t enough to do a thing. You had to sell the notion of doing it. This was what they meant by the marketplace of ideas.
“The book,” I said. “The book. It is for children, as you know, for all children, but with an emphasis on the boy. Because there are no stories for the boy. Stories for the girl are too sweet and sticky. Everything’s a colossal lie about bunnies and rainbows and butterflies. But the boy needs the truth of us as meat, to bathe in the blood of our meat war.”
Timothy squinted in his ice-cream chair.
“I think I know what you mean,” said Cassandra, “but I’m not sure I would put it that way.”
“You’re the expert,” I said, drank down the rest of my Irish coffee. It really didn’t compare.
“Yes,” said Cassandra. “I am.”
“I’m just the lowly writer,” I said. “The humble scribe. But I do know one thing. Marvelous Marvin Hagler is somebody the boy would do well to remember. As an exemplar. Hagler grew up poor in Newark, New Jersey, where he witnessed the ’68 riots firsthand. A social worker helped move his family to Brockton, Massachusetts. Do you know who that social worker was? The mother of the revolutionary poet and playwright Amiri Baraka. How is that for doozy-grade historical confluence.”
“Amiri Baraka?” said Cassandra.
Timothy looked rather ashen.
“These are the facts. That’s all. I went to the library. They’ve got something called microfiche. One night in Brockton young Marvin is beaten up by a local tough named Dornell Wigfall. The next day, Marvin goes to the gym. The rest is legend. He shaves his head and becomes the fighter nobody wants to fight. Finally he gets his title shot, from a Brit called Minter. Minter says no black man will ever take his belt. So Hagler flies to Albion’s shores and gives that limey a New England beat down. The crowd throws bottles into the ring. Hagler flees for his life. It’s victory, but a tricky kind of victory. He has many more celebrated bouts. Sugar Ray Leonard. Roberto Duran. His third-round KO of Thomas ‘the Hitman’ Hearns, the Kronk Gym prodigy, is considered by many to be—”
“Stop!” cried Timothy. “What are you doing?”
“Daddy, please,” said Cassandra.
“I can’t fucking listen to this anymore. Have you seen Leo today?”
“Leo?” I said.
“John’s cousin,” said Cassandra.
“Yeah, I saw him. Not today. Wait, I don’t understand.”
“What are you kids doing to yourselves?” said Timothy, his gray eyes greased with tears.
“Daddy,” said Cassandra.
“That’s great,” I said. “Father and daughter working at the same publishing house.”
“I’m a lawyer,” said Timothy.
“Sorry?” I said.
“We’re planning an intervention,” said Cassandra. “For Leo. We’re gathering information for it.”
“How much is he doing?” Timothy said.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t really know the guy.”
“He talked like you were close,” said Cassandra.
“I’m not sure what to tell you,” I said. “I’ll help any way I can.”
“Help yourself!” said Timothy. “Save yourself, young man. Dear God, go to your family. You are about to die. Don’t you see this?”
“Sometimes,” I said.
The man shook and crossed his arms.
“Daddy,” said Cassandra. “Daddy, we can go now.”
“What about the book?” I said.
“The book.”
“The advance?”
“The advance,” said Cassandra. “Here’s your advance.”
She pulled bills from her bag, tossed them onto the table.
“Pay for the drinks. Whatever is left is your advance. But don’t ever contact me again. And stay away from Leo. Seriously. You are never to be in his presence again. My husband works for the district attorney. Don’t cross me, or people will put you in the river. Let’s go, Daddy.”
My editor led her sobbing father away.
“One more thing,” she called over her shoulder. “Boxing is barbaric, and you are a sick little parasite. What do you know about sweat and blood? Bet you’ve never even been punched in your life. I’m serious about Leo. Stay away!”
* * *
I scored down at Fanny Packs and headed back to the apartment. Gary and John and John’s cousin had gathered on the futons.
“I saw your sister,” I said to John’s cousin.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You gave me her number.”
“Right. For your book.”
“I was robbed!” said Gary, giggling.
“He did lose one bout,” I said to Gary. “Early in his career. Lost it fair and square. To Willie ‘the Worm’ Monroe. The Worm took him in Philly.”
“The Worm!” cried Gary.
“The defeat was soon avenged,” I said. “And here’s one more thing, and then I’ll shut up. They did an MRI on Hagler’s skull. It was abnormally thick. It was basically a helmet.”
“Cool,” said John.
“My sister likes your idea?” said John’s cousin.
“I don’t think so. She’s got some other things on her mind.”
“Like what?”
“Like you.”
“Me?”
“She’s going to intervene. Your dad, too. They’re planning the big ambush. They’ve got the maps out. They’re watching you through scopes. Somebody will give the signal.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re Leo, right?”
“Of course I’m Leo.”
“The van will pull up. Men will pour out. Or maybe your sister will just take you out for a nice meal. All the people you’ve ever felt judged by will be there.”
“What?”
“You’re going to rehab, Reverend.”
“I was rehabbed!” said Gary.
“Shit,” said John’s cousin. “Not again.”
“What about me?” said John.
“They didn’t mention you,” I said. “I think you’re on your own.”
* * *
Supplies ran low, and I went back to Fanny Packs. The big guy was gone. There was police tape across the doorway, a dark, wet splash on the wall. I hit other spots, blocks and blocks away, but they were closed. The Laundrymat: closed. Pillbox: closed. Rumpelstiltskin: closed. Scooter Rat was nowhere. Ditto the Old Lady of the Sealed Works. That left Cups.
Cups was near the river in a crumbly walk-up. The light was on in the hallway and I could see people huddled near the banister. I started up the stoop when a hand shot out and grabbed me.
“Hey.”
He was a big kid, lumpy in the folds of his sweatshirt. He rubbed his stubble-covered head.
“I’m stuck here, bro,” he said. “I’m on lookout. I need a bag, you know? Just buy me a bag while you’re in there.”
He pressed a ten-dollar bill into my hand.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Yeah, you know. Just get me a bag.”
“Boy?”
“What? Get me a bag of dope.”
“Okay,” I said, shrugged, went inside.
I waited behind a man who stank of subway station elevators and a soulful-looking woman in fishnet sleeves. The thing about Cups was you never saw the guys with the cups. They stayed upstairs, invisible puppeteers. The Styrofoam containers bobbed down on strings. The lookouts on the stoop and the rooftops called their codes, for the cops, for the all clear.