right?â
âYeah,â Nick said.
Coyle dug a roll of twenties out of his pants pocket. As he peeled off ten of them for Nick, he said, âI canât believe youâre not going to be on the news.â
But TV let the story slide, and the next dayâs L.A. Times gave it maybe two hundred words, identifying Nick as a former boxer working as a fill-in truck driver and letting it go at that. If it hadnât been a busy news day locallyâan eight-year-old girl killed by a stray bullet in South-Central, the new chief of police raising hell about gangs, poor people dying in a hospital that was supposed to heal themâit might have been different. But Nick didnât keep up with the news.
The cops from Robbery-Homicide had him come downtown to give his formal statement. One of them said heâd seen Nick fight, and they all talked boxing, asking him to show them how heâd thrown the punch. He ducked that one by mumbling something about digging up an old Joe Frazier fight on tape if they wanted to see a hook that was really a wrecking ball. Next thing Nick knew, the cops were laughing about how that dumb fucking gangbangerâs head was still ringing. But that didnât spare him from worrying someone would bring up Burgess until he was out of there and on his way home.
A couple of days later Coyle called, sounding like there werenât any flies on him. Said his wife was none the wiser: âIf itâs not Survivor or J. Lo and Ben, she donât want to know about it.â There hadnât been any trouble at work either. Coyle had concocted a story about how he thought he had appendicitis so he called his buddy Nick to cover for him while he went to the clinica on Figueroa.
âLike I just happened to be in the neighborhood?â Nick asked.
âI said you lived around there.â Coyle didnât give Nick a chance to protest. âHey, weâre talking about my brother-in-law here. Itâs not like heâs going to ask for your address.â
âIf you say so.â
âMatter of fact, he wants you to stop by and see him. Next time he has an opening for a driver, you could be at the top of his list, you play your cards right.â
Nick said he would. What the hell, he didnât have anything else going for him.
As soon as he heard someone knock on the door, Nick remembered that the security gate was broken. Going on four months now and the landlord hadnât laid a glove on it. Another knock and he decided that whoever was out there wasnât going away.
He opened the door and found himself staring at a man in a faded Hawaiian shirt that was just right for a day that was sunny and seventy. He was a couple of inches taller than Nick, but his watery blue eyes negated any danger in the size advantage. There was a hopeful smile beneath a badly trimmed gray Fu Manchu mustache that told the world he had worn his hair long before he lost it.
âNick?â the man said.
âYeah.â
âI thought it was you, but there wasnât any name on your mailbox.â The man extended his right hand. âAndy Rigby. From the Times .â
âOh, right. Andy.â Nick shook with him, more polite than glad to have a visitor. âI didnât recognize you. Been a long time.â
âFor both of us,â Rigby said, laughing self-consciously.
Nick thought he smelled alcohol when he invited Rigby in. Pretty early for that. And there was what looked to be a fresh scrape on Rigbyâs forehead, the kind he might have acquired falling off a barstool.
âHowâd you find me?â
âAsked around. I donât live too far from here actually. Over in Venice.â
Nick wondered which of the old fight guys had an address for him. It might have been Cecil. Nick had heard he was back in town.
âStill writing sports?â Nick asked.
âWhenever they let me,â Rigby said.
They were sitting now, Rigby on the sofa,
âYeah,â Nick said.
Coyle dug a roll of twenties out of his pants pocket. As he peeled off ten of them for Nick, he said, âI canât believe youâre not going to be on the news.â
But TV let the story slide, and the next dayâs L.A. Times gave it maybe two hundred words, identifying Nick as a former boxer working as a fill-in truck driver and letting it go at that. If it hadnât been a busy news day locallyâan eight-year-old girl killed by a stray bullet in South-Central, the new chief of police raising hell about gangs, poor people dying in a hospital that was supposed to heal themâit might have been different. But Nick didnât keep up with the news.
The cops from Robbery-Homicide had him come downtown to give his formal statement. One of them said heâd seen Nick fight, and they all talked boxing, asking him to show them how heâd thrown the punch. He ducked that one by mumbling something about digging up an old Joe Frazier fight on tape if they wanted to see a hook that was really a wrecking ball. Next thing Nick knew, the cops were laughing about how that dumb fucking gangbangerâs head was still ringing. But that didnât spare him from worrying someone would bring up Burgess until he was out of there and on his way home.
A couple of days later Coyle called, sounding like there werenât any flies on him. Said his wife was none the wiser: âIf itâs not Survivor or J. Lo and Ben, she donât want to know about it.â There hadnât been any trouble at work either. Coyle had concocted a story about how he thought he had appendicitis so he called his buddy Nick to cover for him while he went to the clinica on Figueroa.
âLike I just happened to be in the neighborhood?â Nick asked.
âI said you lived around there.â Coyle didnât give Nick a chance to protest. âHey, weâre talking about my brother-in-law here. Itâs not like heâs going to ask for your address.â
âIf you say so.â
âMatter of fact, he wants you to stop by and see him. Next time he has an opening for a driver, you could be at the top of his list, you play your cards right.â
Nick said he would. What the hell, he didnât have anything else going for him.
As soon as he heard someone knock on the door, Nick remembered that the security gate was broken. Going on four months now and the landlord hadnât laid a glove on it. Another knock and he decided that whoever was out there wasnât going away.
He opened the door and found himself staring at a man in a faded Hawaiian shirt that was just right for a day that was sunny and seventy. He was a couple of inches taller than Nick, but his watery blue eyes negated any danger in the size advantage. There was a hopeful smile beneath a badly trimmed gray Fu Manchu mustache that told the world he had worn his hair long before he lost it.
âNick?â the man said.
âYeah.â
âI thought it was you, but there wasnât any name on your mailbox.â The man extended his right hand. âAndy Rigby. From the Times .â
âOh, right. Andy.â Nick shook with him, more polite than glad to have a visitor. âI didnât recognize you. Been a long time.â
âFor both of us,â Rigby said, laughing self-consciously.
Nick thought he smelled alcohol when he invited Rigby in. Pretty early for that. And there was what looked to be a fresh scrape on Rigbyâs forehead, the kind he might have acquired falling off a barstool.
âHowâd you find me?â
âAsked around. I donât live too far from here actually. Over in Venice.â
Nick wondered which of the old fight guys had an address for him. It might have been Cecil. Nick had heard he was back in town.
âStill writing sports?â Nick asked.
âWhenever they let me,â Rigby said.
They were sitting now, Rigby on the sofa,
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