Tom Schreck - On the Ropes

He opened his, handed me one, and toasted me.

“You know what Billy Conn said when they asked him why he went for the knockout when he had Louis beat through twelve rounds?” Smitty asked.

“No.”

“What’s the point of being Irish if you can’t be stupid?”

“I’ll drink to that,” I said.

Smitty took a pull off of the Schlitz and let his body fall into the chair by the window. “You know you’ll get suspended,” he said matter-of-factly.

“New York won’t find out, Smitty.” I figured fighting in Kentucky kept me off the radar.

“Son, it made the news.”

“Aw shit…” I said.

“Duffy, can I tell you something, straight up?” Smitty sat up in his chair and looked me in the eye.

“Sure, Smitty.”

“That was one hell of an impressive piece of work you did tonight,” Smitty said. Then he started to laugh so hard the Schlitz came out of his nose.

We laughed most of the night.

Smitty and I were back up in Crawford by Sunday afternoon. The incident didn’t make the local papers but some of the boxing websites were making a big deal about it. Suggs was an up-and-comer, so for hardcore fight fans it meant something. If it had been just me fighting another professional opponent, it probably would’ve stayed off the radar. It was only a matter of time until the New York Athletic Commission caught wind of it, and once they did, I’d probably have to answer for my actions. If I had known I would’ve got in trouble, it wouldn’t have meant not doing it-I’m glad I did it. Besides, the state I was in at the time wasn’t exactly my right mind. Geez, I was starting to make the same excuses my clients did.

What I hadn’t counted on was my purse being held up. If you flagrantly foul your opponent, the promoter can get away without paying you. Now that might have entered into my thought process-maybe. Seven grand is a lot of money to me. I just should’ve broken his jaw without spitting on him was all.

Being home brought back all the things that were on my mind before I left for the fight. One of the reasons I love fighting is that it interrupts what you’re thinking about. You really can’t think of anything else while you’re fighting. The process of fighting jumbles up the usual pattern of what I obsess on so when I’m done boxing I have a fresher point of view.

I got to thinking of what Kelley had warned me about in Walanda’s case. Though I wasn’t about to apply for a PI license, “Duffy for Hire” had kind of a nice ring to it. Spenser for Hire was a retired fighter and his girlfriend had a dog, though it was one of those yuppie pointer dogs. It certainly wasn’t a kick-you-in-the-nuts, unmistakably masculine hound like Al.

I really didn’t have any plans to do the whole private eye thing, but I did want to find out what I could so maybe I could sleep better at night. The first thing I wanted to do was to check things out at the county jail.

I had a quasi-legitimate reason for going to the jail. We get quite a few referrals from the jail’s counseling programs. I’ve had a standing offer from the caseworker to come sit in on her group. Her name was Jane Wishburn and she was a tough-as-nails recovering heroin addict who had seen it all and been through most of it in her forty-something years. Jane was wiry thin and had long prematurely gray hair. Her face showed the mileage, but in a way that made you respect her. She was attractive in that way but certainly didn’t have what you’d call classic good looks.

Jane’s therapy style wasn’t complicated. She once told me that when you do a session with an addict all you really need to know is one word and the word was “bullshit.” No matter what an addict says, just say “bullshit” when they’re through and 99 percent of the time you’ll be on target. Jane didn’t get bogged down in a lot of touchy-feely stuff. Considering the population of people she worked with, avoiding the touchy-feely was probably a pretty good strategy.

I showed up at the jail half an hour before the group started. I had checked with Jane and she told me it was no problem to sit in. On the way in, I emptied my pockets, took off my shoes and let the disinterested guard wave the wand over me. They checked out my five dollar bill, my sixty-one cents, my paper clip, and my wadded-up Wal-Mart receipt and waved me in.

Jane met me just outside the entrance and we walked through a series of very large metal doors to her office. She had a desk in a small classroom-type area and there were hardback chairs aligned in a circle waiting for the inmates. Jane’s desk was made from a dark metal and it had nothing but a cardboard blotter on it. Next to the wall there was a set of shelves with what looked like old and tattered self-help books.

Another disinterested guard escorted eight women into the room. They all wore green Dickies and white, orange, or black T-shirts. Some had on the jail-issued Keds or black work boots, while others had on their own Nikes or Reeboks. Most of the women had that rode-hard-and-put-away-wet look to them. This wasn’t the crowd that fussed over exfoliating and moisturizing at night and toning in the morning.

Going to group was semi-optional, meaning they didn’t have to go, but if they did, it would help take off a third of the time they had to do. That’s what Jane had to work with, but she was good at putting the tough ones through their paces. The inmates may not turn around when they leave, but they definitely leave with a different level of insight than when they came in. I’ve heard some women describe the experience as taking the fun out of getting high.

The women in this group were almost exclusively into crack and alcohol. The weird thing about addiction is that when you say that someone’s using crack and alcohol, the alcohol gets mentioned as an afterthought. The fact is, alcohol was there before the crack, often is there after they stop the crack, and all by itself it causes a world of problems.

This is the group Walanda was in before she was murdered. There was a good chance that at least some of the women in this group were in the group with her and would know something about what happened. The group happened to be made up of women between the ages of seventeen and forty. The seventeen-year-old was Sherrie, a Latina who could have passed easily for fourteen. The thirty-two-year-old was Marcie, a white woman with summer teeth-you know, some were here, some were there-who had been in and out of county jail since she was Sherrie’s age. There was Katherine, Rebecca, and Rosie, three black women in their twenties, who were big and loud and intimidating. The remaining three women were the creepiest. They were Lori, Stephanie, and Melissa, and they were tough white women who looked to be in their late thirties. They all wore black T-shirts to go with their Dickies.

The three in black stayed to themselves and spoke to each other in the kind of way that was designed to exclude the others. They exuded evil, not that the rest of the crew would have been mistaken for charm school graduates.

“We have Duffy Dombrowski from Jewish Unified Services with us today,” Jane said. “Many of you will be referred there after you get out.” That was the extent of my introduction. The group looked underwhelmed.

“All right-who wants to get started today?” Jane said.

Sherrie had that deer-in-the-headlights look to her. Clearly, this was her first time in and she was scared to death. Jane picked up on it.

“Sherrie,” Jane said. “You look like you better talk. What’s going on?”

“I… I… oh God!” Sherrie burst into tears and dropped her face into her hands.

The three in black giggled and threw each other mocking looks. Jane’s concentration was with Sherrie.