the alkies had said. And they all downed another.
Jimmy and Papou were going on about the good old days right now. They had gotten off the subject of hosses and were starting in on boxers. The half-blind alkies were all ears even though most of them had heard the stories before. They sipped their beers and listened quietly like they were in church.
I drained my Orange Crush and leaned in closer so I wouldnât miss a word either.
Jimmy and Papou entertained us with stories about all the fighters Papou had managed. Fighters with funny names like the Cereal Kid, who was crazy about cornflakes. And the Fighting Bricklayer, who was built like a brick outhouse. And Kid Billodeaux, who had broken his hand logging and couldnât make a fist, so he would slap the other guy silly instead of punching him. And Red Conrad, whoâd gotten some disease as a kid and had a gimpy leg and would limp around the ring.
We all laughed at the image of a boxer with a funny limp, as if we were seeing a Charlie Chaplin movie play out right before our eyes.
At long last Jimmy brought up Redâs brother Norman. The Wilton Wraith. Papouâs greatest fighter. One measly fight away from a title shot. A guy who would fight King Kong, he was that game. A guy who had almost gotten himself and Papou and Papouâs little cut man Jimmy killed by some dago gangsters when he wouldnât take a dive like he was supposed to. Papou kept throwing the towel in the ring to get the ref to stop the fight, but crazy Norman kept kicking it out before the ref could see it. Finally Papou went over and threw the towel right on the refâs head and told him he was about as blind as Helen Frickinâ Keller.
The half-blind alkies split a gut and I split a gut and then somebody asked what the hell happened to Norman, where the hell was he now.
Jimmy said Norman was still out in Wilton, but he had himself a new profession. Heâd shoot a bunch of deer and sell them for a C-note to the NewYorkers who drove up wanting to look like Great White Hunters but who couldnât hit the broad side of a barn.
How come Norman never got his title shot? asked another alkie who mustâve been so drunk the last time he heard the story that he forgot the answer.
Ah, he got clobbered by Sammy Slaughter, Papou said. Got clobbered by a nigger.
Powers Gonna Die
F inally, Jimmy said we had to get the hell out of there.
But that didnât mean I was going to get to go home.
Papou had given Jimmy a tip on a horse and it looked like a sure thing. So Jimmy drove on over to the bookie joint.
He parked outside and began to do some last-minute arithmetic on the Racing Form . I stared out the half-open window at the bookie joint. From the outside, it looked like a real rattrap. But I figured that must just be a cover. I imagined it was like those speakeasies in the TV show The Roaring 20âs . Gangsters would do a secret knock on the door of some crappy building and a guard would peer out a window and see if you were a cool customer or a copper. If you were a cool customer, it was open sesame. Behind the crappy door, people would be playing roulette and rolling snake eyes and there would be rolls of cabbage as big as heads of cabbage and I figured some guy who was flush might give a cute little pip-squeak like me a fin for good luck.
Jimmy finished doing his math and opened the door.
âCanât I come in?â I begged, pinching the eagle on Jimmyâs arm. âYou take me in the beer joint and Iâm not even twenty-one.â
âThe bookie jointâs different, dum-dum. No broads allowed.â
I never saw many ladies in the beer joint either. Now and then youâd spot a lady rumhead getting plastered.
But the bookie joint was a whole other story. Even Shirley couldnât go in there. Ever since Jimmy had taught her a few things about handicapping she was picking more winners than he was. But her superior handicapping skills
Jimmy and Papou were going on about the good old days right now. They had gotten off the subject of hosses and were starting in on boxers. The half-blind alkies were all ears even though most of them had heard the stories before. They sipped their beers and listened quietly like they were in church.
I drained my Orange Crush and leaned in closer so I wouldnât miss a word either.
Jimmy and Papou entertained us with stories about all the fighters Papou had managed. Fighters with funny names like the Cereal Kid, who was crazy about cornflakes. And the Fighting Bricklayer, who was built like a brick outhouse. And Kid Billodeaux, who had broken his hand logging and couldnât make a fist, so he would slap the other guy silly instead of punching him. And Red Conrad, whoâd gotten some disease as a kid and had a gimpy leg and would limp around the ring.
We all laughed at the image of a boxer with a funny limp, as if we were seeing a Charlie Chaplin movie play out right before our eyes.
At long last Jimmy brought up Redâs brother Norman. The Wilton Wraith. Papouâs greatest fighter. One measly fight away from a title shot. A guy who would fight King Kong, he was that game. A guy who had almost gotten himself and Papou and Papouâs little cut man Jimmy killed by some dago gangsters when he wouldnât take a dive like he was supposed to. Papou kept throwing the towel in the ring to get the ref to stop the fight, but crazy Norman kept kicking it out before the ref could see it. Finally Papou went over and threw the towel right on the refâs head and told him he was about as blind as Helen Frickinâ Keller.
The half-blind alkies split a gut and I split a gut and then somebody asked what the hell happened to Norman, where the hell was he now.
Jimmy said Norman was still out in Wilton, but he had himself a new profession. Heâd shoot a bunch of deer and sell them for a C-note to the NewYorkers who drove up wanting to look like Great White Hunters but who couldnât hit the broad side of a barn.
How come Norman never got his title shot? asked another alkie who mustâve been so drunk the last time he heard the story that he forgot the answer.
Ah, he got clobbered by Sammy Slaughter, Papou said. Got clobbered by a nigger.
Powers Gonna Die
F inally, Jimmy said we had to get the hell out of there.
But that didnât mean I was going to get to go home.
Papou had given Jimmy a tip on a horse and it looked like a sure thing. So Jimmy drove on over to the bookie joint.
He parked outside and began to do some last-minute arithmetic on the Racing Form . I stared out the half-open window at the bookie joint. From the outside, it looked like a real rattrap. But I figured that must just be a cover. I imagined it was like those speakeasies in the TV show The Roaring 20âs . Gangsters would do a secret knock on the door of some crappy building and a guard would peer out a window and see if you were a cool customer or a copper. If you were a cool customer, it was open sesame. Behind the crappy door, people would be playing roulette and rolling snake eyes and there would be rolls of cabbage as big as heads of cabbage and I figured some guy who was flush might give a cute little pip-squeak like me a fin for good luck.
Jimmy finished doing his math and opened the door.
âCanât I come in?â I begged, pinching the eagle on Jimmyâs arm. âYou take me in the beer joint and Iâm not even twenty-one.â
âThe bookie jointâs different, dum-dum. No broads allowed.â
I never saw many ladies in the beer joint either. Now and then youâd spot a lady rumhead getting plastered.
But the bookie joint was a whole other story. Even Shirley couldnât go in there. Ever since Jimmy had taught her a few things about handicapping she was picking more winners than he was. But her superior handicapping skills
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