“Fortunately, a hedge broke his fall. Right now it looks like a broken collarbone and some cuts and bruises. They’ll be taking him to St. Johns Hospital in Santa Monica. Do you need the address?”
“No. I know where it is. I’ll be right there.”
Nathan Burk hung up the phone and gazed at the TV: Jackie Robinson was trying to score from first on a Gil Hodges single. “He’s rounding third,” the announcer cheered, “and he’s heading for the plate. Here comes the throw from Mantle and—”
“Safe,” Nathan Burk whispered, his fists clenched, barely able to breathe. “Let my boy be safe.”
Because there were no eyewitnesses and Gene refused to cooperate with the investigation by the police, Tomlinson could not be linkeddirectly to the “accident.” Nevertheless, Mr. Lockridge suggested to Tomlinson’s Uncle Luke that, “given the circumstances, it might be better for everyone if you withdrew Clay from Emerson and sent him to one of the other junior high schools in the district. That way he’ll get a fresh start.”
“I can’t handle the boy,” Luke Tomlinson said, and he decided instead to ship his nephew back to Indiana. And for the next two years Clay was in and out of trouble, spending a six-month stretch at Clinton, a boys’ reformatory in Terre Haute that was later to claim Charles Manson as one of its alumni.
“After Gene had his cast removed, he took the trolley into Hollywood and told my dad he wanted to learn how to fight. That was on a Monday,” Burk told PK after they passed the Santa Monica Pier. They were in a snarl of traffic, and he had to raise his voice over the crash of the waves and the radios playing in the cars around them. “That afternoon there was a speed bag and a heavy bag installed in the back room of Yesterday’s Pages. The next day he went into training with my cousin Aaron.”
Timmy said, “I used to go up there with Ray and watch, and at first it was pretty hilarious to see this tubby kid and this old drunk rope-skipping down Hollywood Boulevard and shadowboxing in the store windows.”
“Gene was overweight but he wasn’t clumsy,” Burk assured PK, “and he picked up stuff quick, too, because Aaron was a helluva teacher when he wasn’t up the street at Ernie’s getting bombed on gin.” Burk glanced toward the ocean; then his head went back and he began to laugh. “You should’ve been there when he taught Gene how to throw a left hook.”
“We just got through seeing River of No Return at the El Rey,” Timmy said, and he was laughing now as his mind went back to that Sunday. “We were walking down the block, and all of a sudden we heard Aaron shouting, ‘Rotate your hips! Rotate your hips! Leverage! Leverage!’ I said to Ray, ‘Is he teaching Gene to fight or fuck?’ We didn’t know what the hell was going on. Then we walked into the backroom of Yesterday’s Pages and saw that Aaron had all these pictures of fighters pasted on the walls, pictures of these famous left-hook artists from the past that he tore out of back issues of Ring magazine. Guys like Stanley Ketchel and Benny Leonard and Ike Williams. And there was Aaron with his shirt off, skinny as a string bean, his pants slippin’ down over his butt, firing left hooks at the heavy bag. And each time he would throw a punch he would shout, ‘Rotate your hips!’ Bam! Bam! Bam! I couldn’t believe it and neither could Ray, because Aaron hit that sucker so hard it felt like the store was shaking.”
Burk said, “Aaron trained my brother for a couple of months, but he knew, like I knew, that sooner or later Gene would have to find out if he could execute—you know, take care of himself against someone punching back, not a bag. So one day he took me and Gene and Tim downtown to the Main Street Gym.
“There was this colored guy, Lee Calhoun, who was working out for the Golden Gloves or something, and Aaron knew his trainer, and he asked him if he’d let his fighter spar a few
“No. I know where it is. I’ll be right there.”
Nathan Burk hung up the phone and gazed at the TV: Jackie Robinson was trying to score from first on a Gil Hodges single. “He’s rounding third,” the announcer cheered, “and he’s heading for the plate. Here comes the throw from Mantle and—”
“Safe,” Nathan Burk whispered, his fists clenched, barely able to breathe. “Let my boy be safe.”
Because there were no eyewitnesses and Gene refused to cooperate with the investigation by the police, Tomlinson could not be linkeddirectly to the “accident.” Nevertheless, Mr. Lockridge suggested to Tomlinson’s Uncle Luke that, “given the circumstances, it might be better for everyone if you withdrew Clay from Emerson and sent him to one of the other junior high schools in the district. That way he’ll get a fresh start.”
“I can’t handle the boy,” Luke Tomlinson said, and he decided instead to ship his nephew back to Indiana. And for the next two years Clay was in and out of trouble, spending a six-month stretch at Clinton, a boys’ reformatory in Terre Haute that was later to claim Charles Manson as one of its alumni.
“After Gene had his cast removed, he took the trolley into Hollywood and told my dad he wanted to learn how to fight. That was on a Monday,” Burk told PK after they passed the Santa Monica Pier. They were in a snarl of traffic, and he had to raise his voice over the crash of the waves and the radios playing in the cars around them. “That afternoon there was a speed bag and a heavy bag installed in the back room of Yesterday’s Pages. The next day he went into training with my cousin Aaron.”
Timmy said, “I used to go up there with Ray and watch, and at first it was pretty hilarious to see this tubby kid and this old drunk rope-skipping down Hollywood Boulevard and shadowboxing in the store windows.”
“Gene was overweight but he wasn’t clumsy,” Burk assured PK, “and he picked up stuff quick, too, because Aaron was a helluva teacher when he wasn’t up the street at Ernie’s getting bombed on gin.” Burk glanced toward the ocean; then his head went back and he began to laugh. “You should’ve been there when he taught Gene how to throw a left hook.”
“We just got through seeing River of No Return at the El Rey,” Timmy said, and he was laughing now as his mind went back to that Sunday. “We were walking down the block, and all of a sudden we heard Aaron shouting, ‘Rotate your hips! Rotate your hips! Leverage! Leverage!’ I said to Ray, ‘Is he teaching Gene to fight or fuck?’ We didn’t know what the hell was going on. Then we walked into the backroom of Yesterday’s Pages and saw that Aaron had all these pictures of fighters pasted on the walls, pictures of these famous left-hook artists from the past that he tore out of back issues of Ring magazine. Guys like Stanley Ketchel and Benny Leonard and Ike Williams. And there was Aaron with his shirt off, skinny as a string bean, his pants slippin’ down over his butt, firing left hooks at the heavy bag. And each time he would throw a punch he would shout, ‘Rotate your hips!’ Bam! Bam! Bam! I couldn’t believe it and neither could Ray, because Aaron hit that sucker so hard it felt like the store was shaking.”
Burk said, “Aaron trained my brother for a couple of months, but he knew, like I knew, that sooner or later Gene would have to find out if he could execute—you know, take care of himself against someone punching back, not a bag. So one day he took me and Gene and Tim downtown to the Main Street Gym.
“There was this colored guy, Lee Calhoun, who was working out for the Golden Gloves or something, and Aaron knew his trainer, and he asked him if he’d let his fighter spar a few
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