At the defense table, Teddy was quietly raging. So there was a Judas after all. Maybe even someone who’d stood alongside him when he was battling it out on the streets and spilling the blood of real men. Here it was all being settled in little brown rooms and corridors by men with shiny hair and asthma sprays. Another hot flash from the medication washed over him and he found himself on the verge of tears. It was those goddamn female hormones they were giving him. Bad enough he couldn’t get it up anymore, but now he was finding he could barely control his emotions.
“Fuck this,” he erupted. “I can’t face my own accuser? This is worse than the Nuremberg trials.”
The judge leaned over the bench. “Mr. Marino,” he said. “Are you comparing yourself to Nazi war criminals?”
Nazis? What the fuck? Teddy looked down at his shoes. “I meant those Rosenbergs,” he mumbled.
What was the difference?
“Mr. Marino,” said the judge, “I understand that you’re not feeling well, but I won’t tolerate another outbreak like that in my courtroom.”
“My client understands, Your Honor.” Burt patted Teddy on the back.
The judge flipped a few more pages in his calendar. “I have a date open right after Thanksgiving,” he said, checking one more time with his clerk. “Is that all right with you, Mr. Nevins?”
“Yes, it should be,” said the young prosecutor.
“And how about you, Mr. Marino? Can you live with that?”
“Do I have a choice?” asked Teddy.
52
“FUCK, NO!!”
Three and a half hours before the fight, Frank Diamond was trying to get me to put on a white sweatshirt with the letters B.U.M. stenciled in blue on the front.
“It’s part of the endorsement deal,” he patiently explained. “This is one of the major sportswear companies in the country right now. And our agreement was that everyone in Barton’s corner would wear one.”
“You’re just trying to make me look like an asshole.”
He grinned and ignored the obvious rejoinder. “Fine,” he said. “Don’t wear the shirt. But then you won’t be allowed into his corner during the fight.”
So I went along and put on the B.U.M. shirt, even though I suspected Frank didn’t have an endorsement deal and was just doing it to embarrass me.
In fact, I was going along with most things he said that day, because I knew he had so much to teach me.
I was rushing around the hotel suite like a little dog, yapping at Frank’s heels, trying to absorb all this information while I had the chance.
“So when am I going to get my advance?” I asked. “We agreed you’d give me a third of the money up front.”
“All good things to those who wait,” he said calmly, resting a telephone against the side of his shaved head. He made a call downstairs. “Darden, bring up the briefcase from the cage. Mr. Barton’s distinguished manager is here.”
I guess Frank was annoyed about having to deal with me at this level, but what could he do? I had leverage on him because of what happened with Rosemary and his fighter.
“So let me make sure we have this straight,” I said, slipping on my suit jacket over the B.U.M. sweatshirt. “You’re going to give me five hundred thousand dollars now and a million later?”
Before Frank could answer, there was a knock at the door and in walked a local manager named George Rollins, who had a fighter in one of the preliminaries. George, a heavyset black guy with wet eyes and a nasty scar on his chin, started pounding the glass coffee table and demanding more money for his fighter, thinking he had Frank over a barrel because he was coming to him on such short notice.
But Frank just draped himself over one of those elegant velvet couches and crossed his legs like Prince Edward as he sipped his tea. “Why George, I’m absolutely astonished,” he said languidly.
“Well, that’s the way it gots to be.” George was chewing tobacco and for some reason, pouring Oil of Olay lotion on his hands. “I ain’t lettin’ my boy fight for no twelve hundred dollars.”
“But you’re coming to me at the last moment with this proposal.” Frank tilted back his bald head and his steam-shovel jaw, looking down his nose at George with obvious disdain. “I’m afraid I’ll have to give your spot on the card to Anthony here, who has his own stable of fighters.”
I just smiled, going along with the story.
George began sweating and chewing his tobacco double-time, realizing he was about to let his fighter’s one shot at national TV exposure slip away. “Well, maybe we could work it out another way,” he said, putting the bottle of Oil of Olay back into his vest pocket.
“Yes indeed,” said Frank, not missing a beat. “In like circumstances, I’ve heard of promoters actually forcing managers to pay to put their fighters on a bill. But, you know, I wouldn’t inflict that on you. Let’s just say we’ll call it even.”
In other words, the fighter would now be getting in the ring for free. George left the suite quickly, before he felt the breeze telling him he’d given up his trousers too.
“That was amazing.” My mouth was hanging open. “You cut that guy in two without spilling a drop of blood on the carpet.”
“It’s just standard negotiation.” He couldn’t be bothered to smile.
Again I was reminded there wasn’t that much difference between these so-called legitimate people from Wall Street and the wiseguys like Teddy and my father.
“I hope you’re not going to try the same thing with me.” I tried to close my jacket so it would cover part of the B.U.M on my sweatshirt.
Frank said nothing and made another phone call. Twenty minutes later, one of his aides arrived in the suite, carrying a briefcase with the name of the casino embossed in gold on the front. He handed it to me and I felt my heart swell, almost like the veins and arteries had erections.
But then I popped the briefcase open and saw it was filled with chips from the casino.
“What the fuck is this?”
Frank covered the mouthpiece of the phone and glanced over at me with total indifference. “It’s a tradition I have with local managers. I always like to take the pre-fight payment directly from the casino’s cage. Don’t worry. You can go downstairs afterwards and have it converted.”
He went back to his phone conversation with somebody on the Japanese stock exchange. I quickly counted there was only three hundred thousand dollars’ worth of chips; as Elijah’s co-manager, I was entitled to just twenty percent, or sixty thousand. Barely enough to cover my debt to Teddy. There’d be nothing for my wife and kids, either. Forget Danny Klein and Rosemary.
“Where’s the rest of it?” I stood up and took a step toward Frank.
“Yoshiki, let me call you back,” he said into the phone. “Yes. Do mo arigato.”
“There’s only three hundred thousand dollars here.” I pointed to the open briefcase. “We agreed to five hundred thousand up front.”
“Right. You lose a third off the top to taxes.”
“That still leaves about three hundred thirty thousand.”
“Of course,” said Frank with huffy impatience.“And some of that goes toward the accrued expenses that managers are expected to share in. Scoring judges, cost of printing tickets, overhead for keeping the arena open.”
“What about the million you owe me after the fight?” I heard my voice cracking.
“We’ll see how much of that is left.” He stood up and walked across the room to a silver tea service on the marble-topped bar. For a big man, he glided gracefully in his Gucci loafers. “Remember, you have to pay for the legal fees, the attending physicians, and the cost of laying cable. I wouldn’t expect the back end to be more than one hundred and twenty thousand dollars if I were your fighter. Subject to taxes, of course.”