11/22/63 Part 70

11.

The ring announcer, wearing a tux and a pound of hair tonic, trotted to center ring, yanked down a mike on a silver cord, and gave the fighters' stats in a rolling carny-barker's voice. The National Anthem played. Men yanked off their hats and put their hands over their hearts. I could feel my own heart thudding rapidly, at least a hundred and twenty beats a minute and maybe more. The auditorium was air-conditioned, but sweat was rolling down the back of my neck and humidifying my armpits.

A girl in a swimsuit strutted around the ring in high heels, holding up a card with a big number 1 on it.

The bell clanged. Tom Case shuffled into the ring with a resigned expression on his face. d.i.c.k Tiger bounded happily to meet him, feinted with his right hand, then unleashed a compact left hook that decked Case exactly twelve seconds into the fight. The crowds-the one here and the one in the Garden, two thousand miles away-let out a disgusted groan. The hand Sadie had rested on my thigh seemed to spring claws as it tensed and dug in.

"Tell that ten to say goo'bye to his friends, beautiful," the chubby cigar-smoker said gleefully.

Al, what the f.u.c.k were you thinking?

d.i.c.k Tiger retreated to his corner and stood there bouncing nonchalantly on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet while the ref commenced the count, sweeping his right arm up and down dramatically. On three, Case stirred. On five he sat up. On seven he took a knee. And on nine he rose and lifted his gloves. The ref took the fighter's face in his hands and asked a question. Case replied. The ref nodded, beckoned to Tiger, and stepped aside.

The Tiger Man, perhaps anxious to get to the steak dinner waiting for him at Sardi's, rushed in for the kill. Case didn't try to escape him-his speed had left him behind long ago, perhaps during some tank-town fight in Moline, Illinois, or New Haven, Connecticut-but he was able to cover up . . . and clinch. He did a lot of that, resting his head on Tiger's shoulder like a tired tango dancer and pounding his gloves weakly on Tiger's back. The crowd began to boo. When the bell rang and Case plodded back to his stool with his head down and his gloved fists dangling, they booed louder.

"He stinks, beautiful," the chubby man remarked.

Sadie looked at me anxiously. "What do you think?"

"I think he made it through the first, anyway." What I really thought was that someone should stick a fork in Tom Case's sagging b.u.t.t, because to me he looked almost done.

The chick in the Jantzen did her thing again, this time holding up a 2. The bell clanged. Once again Tiger bounded and Case plodded. My guy continued to move in close so he could clinch whenever possible, but I noticed he was now managing to deflect the left hook that had devastated him in the first round. Tiger worked on the older fighter's gut with piston-like shots of his right hand, but there must have been quite a lot of muscle left under that flab, because they didn't seem to affect Case very much. At one point, Tiger pushed Case back and gestured with both gloves in a come on, come on gesture. The crowd cheered. Case only stared at him, so Tiger moved in. Case immediately clinched. The crowd groaned. The bell rang.

"My granny could give Tiger a better show," the cigar-smoker grumbled.

"Maybe," Sadie said, lighting her third cigarette of the fight, "but he's still on his feet, isn't he?"

"Not for long, sugar. The next time one of those left hooks gets through, it's gonna be Case closed." He chortled.

The third round was more clinching and shuffling, but in the fourth, Case let his guard drop slightly and Tiger hit him with a barrage of lefts and rights to the head that brought the audience to its feet, roaring. Akiva Roth's girlfriend was with them. Mr. Roth himself retained his seat, but did trouble himself enough to cup his ladyfriend's a.s.s with a beringed right hand.

Case fell back against the ropes, shooting rights at Tiger, and one of those blows got through. It looked pretty feeble, but I saw sweat fly from the Tiger Man's hair as he shook his head. There was a bewildered where-did-that-come-from expression on his face. Then he moved in again and went back to work. Blood began oozing from a cut beside Case's left eye. Before Tiger could increase the damage from a trickle to a gush, the bell rang.

"If you hand over that ten now, beautiful," the pudgy cigar-smoker said, "you and your boyfriend will be able to beat the traffic."

"Tell you what," Sadie said. "I'll give you one chance to call it off and save yourself forty dollars."

The pudgy cigar-smoker laughed. "Beautiful and a sensayuma. If that long tall helicopter you're with treats you bad, sugar, come home with me."

In Case's corner, the trainer was working frantically on the bad eye, squeezing something from a tube and moos.h.i.+ng it around with the tips of his fingers. It looked like Crazy Glue to me, except I don't think that had been invented yet. Then he slapped Case in the chops with a wet towel. The bell rang.

d.i.c.k Tiger bored in, jamming with his right and hooking with his left. Case dodged one left hook, and for the first time in the fight, Tiger launched a right uppercut at the older man's head. Case managed to pull back just enough to keep from taking it full on the jaw, but it connected with his cheek. The force of it distorted his entire face into a horror-house grimace. He staggered back. Tiger came at him. The crowd was up again, bellowing for blood. We rose with them. Sadie's hands were over her mouth.

Tiger had Case pinned in one of the neutral corners and was hammering him with rights and lefts. I could see Case sagging; I could see the lights in his eyes dimming. One more left hook-or that cannon-shot right-and they would go out.

"PUT IM DOWN!" the chubby cigar-smoker was screaming. "PUT HIM DOWN, d.i.c.kY! KNOCK HIS BLOCK OFF!"

Tiger hit him low, below the belt. Probably not on purpose, but the ref stepped in. While he cautioned Tiger about the low blow, I watched Case to see how he would use this temporary respite. I saw something come into his face that I recognized. I had seen Lee wearing the same expression on the day he'd been giving Marina h.e.l.l about the zipper of her skirt. It had appeared when Marina had come back on him, accusing him of bringing her and the baby to a peegsty and then twirling her finger around her ear in a you're-crazy gesture.

All at once this had stopped being just a payday to Tom Case.

The ref stepped aside. Tiger bored in, but this time Case stepped to meet him. What happened during the next twenty seconds was the most electrifying, terrifying thing I have ever seen as part of an audience. The two of them simply stood toe-to-toe, slugging each other in the face, the chest, the shoulders, the gut. There was no bobbing, no weaving, no fancy footwork. They were bulls in a pasture. Case's nose broke and gushed blood. Tiger's lower lip smashed back against his teeth and split; blood poured down both sides of his chin, making him look like a vampire after a big meal.

Everyone in the auditorium was on their feet and screaming. Sadie was jumping up and down. Her fedora fell off, exposing the scarred cheek. She took no notice. n.o.body else did, either. On the huge screens, World War III was in full swing.

Case lowered his head to take one of those bazooka rights, and I saw Tiger grimace as his fist connected with hard bone. He took a step backward and Case unloaded a monster uppercut. Tiger turned his head, avoiding the worst of it, but his mouthpiece flew free and rolled across the canvas.

Case moved in, throwing haymaker lefts and rights. There was no artistry to them, only raw, angry power. Tiger backpedaled, tripped over his own feet, and went down. Case stood over him, seemingly unsure what to do or-perhaps-even where he was. His frantically signaling trainer caught his eye and he plodded back to his corner. The ref commenced his count.

On four, Tiger took a knee. On six, he was on his feet. After the mandatory eight-count, the fight recommenced. I looked at the big clock in the corner of the screen and saw there were fifteen seconds left in the round.

Not enough, it's not enough time.

Case plodded forward. Tiger threw that devastating left hook. Case jerked his head to one side, and when the glove had flown past his face, he lashed out with his right. This time it was d.i.c.k Tiger's face that distorted, and when he went down he didn't get up.

The pudgy man looked at the tattered remains of his cigar, then threw it on the floor. "Jesus wept!"

"Yes!" Sadie chirruped, resetting her fedora at the proper insouciant slant. "On a stack of blueberry pancakes, and the disciples said they were the best they ever ate! Now pay up!"

12.

By the time we got back to Jodie, August 29 had become August 30, but we were both too excited to sleep. We made love, then came out to the kitchen and ate pie in our underwear.

"Well?" I said. "What do you think?"

"That I never want to go to another prizefight. That was pure bloodl.u.s.t. And I was up on my feet, cheering with the rest. For a few seconds-maybe even a full minute-I wanted Case to kill that dancing all-full-of-himself dandy. Then I couldn't wait to get back here and jump into bed with you. That wasn't about love just now, Jake. That was about burning."

I said nothing. Sometimes there's nothing to say.

She reached across the table, plucked a crumb from my chin, and popped it into my mouth. "Tell me it's not hate."

"What's not?"

"The reason you feel you have to stop this man on your own." She saw me start to open my mouth and held up a hand to stop me. "I heard everything you said, all your reasons, but you have to tell me they are reasons, and not just what I saw in that man Case's eyes when Tiger hit him in the trunks. I can love you if you're a man, and I can love you if you're a hero-I guess, although for some reason that seems a lot harder-but I don't think I can love a vigilante."

I thought of how Lee looked at his wife when he wasn't mad at her. I thought about the conversation I'd overheard when he and his little girl were splas.h.i.+ng in the bath. I thought about his tears outside the bus station, when he'd held Junie and nuzzled beneath her chin before rolling off to New Orleans.

"It's not hate," I said. "What I feel about him is . . ."

I trailed off. She watched me.

"Sorrow for a spoiled life. But you can feel sorry for a good dog that goes rabid, too. That doesn't stop you from putting him down."

She looked me in the eyes. "I want you again. But this time it should be for love, you know? Not because we just saw two men beat the h.e.l.l out of each other and our guy won."

"Okay," I said. "Okay. That's good."

And it was.

13.

"Well look here," said Frank Frati's daughter when I walked into the p.a.w.nshop around noon on that Friday. "It's the boxing swami with the New England accent." She offered me a glittery smile, then turned her head and shouted, "Da-ad! It's your Tom Case man!"

Frati came shuffling out. "h.e.l.lo there, Mr. Amberson," he said. "Big as life and handsome as Satan on Sat.u.r.day night. I bet you're feeling bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this fine day, aren't you?"

"Sure," I said. "Why wouldn't I? I had a lucky hit."

"I'm the one who took the hit." He pulled a brown envelope, a little bigger than standard business-size, from the back pocket of his baggy gabardine slacks. "Two grand. Feel free to count it."

"That's all right," I said. "I trust you."

He started to pa.s.s over the envelope, then pulled it back and tapped his chin with it. His blue eyes, faded but shrewd, sized me up. "Any interest in rolling this over? Football season is coming up, as is the Series."

"I don't know jack about football, and a Dodgers-Yankees Series doesn't interest me much. Hand it over."

He did so.

"Pleasure doing business with you," I said, and walked out. I could feel their eyes following me, and I had that by now very unpleasant sense of deja vu. I couldn't pinpoint the cause. I got into my car, hoping I would never have to return to that part of Fort Worth again. Or to Greenville Avenue in Dallas. Or place another bet with another bookie named Frati.

Those were my three wishes, and they all came true.

14.

My next stop was 214 West Neely Street. I'd phoned the landlord and told him August was my last month. He tried to talk me out of it, telling me good tenants such as myself were hard to find. That was probably true-the police hadn't come once on my account, and they visited the neighborhood a lot, especially on weekends-but I suspected it had more to do with too many apartments and not enough renters. Dallas was experiencing one of its periodic lows.

I stopped at First Corn on the way and plumped up my checking account with Frati's two grand. That was fortunate. I realized later-much later-that if I'd had it on me when I got to Neely Street, I surely would have lost it.

My plan was to dummy-check the four rooms for any possessions I might have left behind, paying particular attention to those mystic points of junk-attraction beneath sofa cus.h.i.+ons, under the bed, and at the backs of bureau drawers. And of course I'd take my Police Special. I would want it to deal with Lee. I now had every intention of killing him, and as soon after he returned to Dallas as I possibly could. In the meantime, I didn't want to leave a trace of George Amberson behind.

As I closed in on Neely, that sense of being stuck in time's echo chamber was very strong. I kept thinking about the two Fratis, one with a wife named Marjorie, one with a daughter named Wanda.

Marjorie: Is that a bet in regular talk?

Wanda: Is that a bet when it's at home with its feet up?

Marjorie: I'm J. Edgar Hoover, my son.

Wanda: I'm Chief Curry of the Dallas Police.

And so what? It was the chiming, that was all. The harmony. A side effect of time-travel.

Nevertheless, an alarm bell began to ring far back in my head, and as I turned onto Neely Street, it moved up to the forebrain. History repeats itself, the past harmonizes, and that was what this feeling was about . . . but not all it was about. As I turned into the driveway of the house where Lee had laid his half-a.s.sed plan to a.s.sa.s.sinate Edwin Walker, I really listened to that alarm bell. Because now it was close. Now it was shrieking.

Akiva Roth at the fight, but not alone. With him had been a party-doll in Garbo sungla.s.ses and a mink stole. August in Dallas was hardly mink weather, but the auditorium had been air-conditioned, and-as they say in my time-sometimes you just gotta signify.

Take away the dark gla.s.ses. Take away the stole. What do you have?

For a moment as I sat there in my car, listening to the cooling engine tick and tock, I still had nothing. Then I realized that if you replaced the mink stole with a s.h.i.+p N Sh.o.r.e blouse, you had Wanda Frati.

Chaz Frati of Derry had set Bill Turcotte on me. That thought had even crossed my mind . . . but I had dismissed it. Bad idea.

Who had Frank Frati of Fort Worth set on me? Well, he had to know Akiva Roth of Faith Financial; Roth was his daughter's boyfriend, after all.

Suddenly I wanted my gun, and I wanted it right away.

I got out of the Chevy and trotted up the porch steps, my keys in my hand. I was fumbling through them when a panel truck roared around the corner from Haines Avenue and scrunched to a stop in front of 214 with the leftside wheels up on the curb.

I looked around. Saw no one. The street was deserted. There's never a bystander you can scream to for help when you want one. Let alone a cop.

I jammed the right key into the lock and turned it, thinking I'd lock them out-whoever they were-and call the cops on the phone. I was inside and smelling the hot, stale air of the deserted apartment when I remembered that there was no phone.

Big men were running across the lawn. Three of them. One had a short length of pipe that looked to be wrapped in something.

No, actually there were enough guys to play bridge. The fourth was Akiva Roth, and he wasn't running. He was strolling up the walk with his hands in his pockets and a placid smile on his face.

I slammed the door. I twisted the thumb bolt. I had barely finished when it exploded open. I ran for the bedroom and got about halfway.