Andrew Vachss - Footsteps of the Hawk

Carr gave Ortiz a gunfighter's stare. Ortiz never met his eyes. That was for younger men— Ortiz was working. I could feel the pachuco cross tattoo under the glove on his right hand….I knew it would be there.

The referee nodded to the fighters. Ortiz held out his gloves the way Frankie had, just doing as he was told. Carr slammed his right fist down against them. The crowd cheered, starting early.

The bell sounded. Carr snake–hipped out of his corner, firing a quick series of jackhammer jabs. Ortiz walked forward like a man in slow motion, catching the jabs on his gloves and forearms, pressing.

Carr danced out of his way, grinning. I dropped my eyes to the canvas, watching parallel as Carr's white leather boxing shoes ice–skated over the ring, purple tassels bouncing as Ortiz's black lace–ups plodded in pursuit.

Deep into the first round, Ortiz hadn't landed more than a half–dozen punches. He kept swarming forward, smothering Carr's crisp shots, his face a mask of patience. Suddenly, Carr stopped backpedaling, stepped to the side, hooked off his jab and followed with a smoking right cross, catching Ortiz on the lower jaw Ortiz shook his head— then he stifled the crowd's cheers with a left hook to Carr's ribs.

The bell sounded. Carr raised his hands, took a quick lap around the ring, like he'd already won. Ortiz walked over and sat on his stool. His cornerman held out his hand to take the mouthpiece, splashed some water in the fighter's face, leaned close to say something. Ortiz didn't change expression, looking straight ahead— maybe the cornerman didn't speak Spanish.

Over in Carr's corner, all three of his people were talking at once. Carr was grinning.

The girl in the gold bikini wiggled around again, holding up the round–number card. The crowd applauded. She blew a kiss.

Carr was off his stool before the bell sounded, already gliding across the ring. Ortiz stepped toward Carr, as nervous as a gardener. Carr drove him against the ropes, firing with both hands, overdosing on the crowd's adrenaline. Ortiz unleashed the left hook to the body again. Carr stepped back, drew a breath, and came on again, working close. Ortiz launched a short uppercut. Carr's head snapped back. Ortiz bulled his way forward, throwing short, clubbing blows. Carr grabbed him, clutching the other fighter close, smothering the punches. The referee broke them.

Carr stepped away, flicking his jab, using his feet. The crowd applauded.

The ring girl put something extra into her wiggle between the rounds, probably figuring it was her last chance to strut her stuff.

Halfway through the next round, the crowd was getting impatient— they came to see Carr extend his KO record, not watch a mismatch crawling to a decision.

"Shoeshine, Cleo!" a caramel–colored woman in a big white hat screamed. As though tuned in to her voice, Carr cranked it up, unleashing a rapid–fire eight–punch combo. The crowd went wild. Carr stepped back to admire his handiwork. And Ortiz walked forward.

By the sixth round, Carr was a mile ahead. He would dance until Ortiz caught him, then use his superior hand speed to flash his way free, scoring all the while. When he went back to his corner at the bell, the crowd roared its displeasure— this wasn't what they had come to see.

A slashing right hand opened a cut over Ortiz's eye to start the next round. An accidental head–butt halfway through turned the cut into a river. The referee brought him over to the ring apron. The house doctor took a look, signaled he could go on. The crowd screamed, finally getting its money's worth.

Carr snapped at the cut like a terrier with a rat. Ortiz kept playing his role.

Between rounds, Carr's handlers yelled into both his ears, urging him to go and get it. Ortiz's cornerman sponged his cut, covered it with Vaseline.

The ring girl was really energized now, hips swinging harder than Carr was hitting.

Carr came out to finish it and drove Ortiz to the ropes, firing a quick burst of unanswered punches. Ortiz came back with his trademark left hook, but Carr was too wired to get off–tracked, smelling the end. A right hand landed flush on Ortiz's nose, a bubble burst of blood. Ortiz spit out his mouthpiece, hauled in a ragged breath and rallied with both hands. A quick look of surprise crossed Carr's face. He stepped back, measuring. Ortiz waved him in. Carr took the challenge, supercharged now, doubling up with each hand, piston–punching. Ortiz's face was all bone and blood.

The referee jumped in and stopped it, wrapping his arms around Ortiz.

Carr took a lap around the ring, waving to the crowd.

Ortiz walked over and sat on his stool.

The announcer grabbed the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen! The referee has stopped this contest at two minutes and thirty–three seconds of the eighth round. The winner by TKO, and still undefeated…Cleophus…Cobra… Caaaarrrr! "

The crowd stood and applauded. Carr did a back flip in the center of the ring.

Ortiz's cornerman draped the white robe over the fighter's shoulders.

Ortiz walked back to the dressing room alone.

"That's a real warrior," Frankie said to me. "Carr? He's nothing but a— "

"Not him," Frankie said. "The Spanish guy."

That's when I knew for sure that Frankie was a fighter.

We followed Clarence's green Rover sedan to the Bronx, where they'd drop Frankie off near Arthur Avenue. Through their back window I could see Clarence driving, Frankie in the passenger's bucket seat, the Prof's head between them, probably doing all the talking.

"Meet you at the gym, Slim," the Prof called out his window as the Rover pulled away.

The Prof had a key. Inside, the gym was deserted. Clarence found the light switch. One wall was lined with gym mats. I leaned against one, offering the Prof a smoke before he could snatch one out of my hands.

"You remember that Belinda girl?" I asked him. "The one who Clarence made for a cop in Central Park?"

"Yeah, his pick was slick— and he got there quick. Pulled your coat in time, too. What now?"

"She's been calling. For a long time now."

"So?"

"So she calls Mama's direct, not to the bounce number. Letting me know she knows where to find me."

"What's she want?"

"I don't know. But whatever it is, she's been after it for a while. Anyway, Mojo Mary gave me the word— some street stroller had a job for me. I go to meet her. What she wants me to do is drop her pimp."

"Total him?"

"Oh yeah."

"Damn, man. That old rep died a natural death. Long time ago. Even the players don't be saying it. The street's got its own wire…Some little girl might knock on the wrong door, hear some bullshit rumor, but Mojo Mary…fuck! The ho' is a pro, she knows you don't do contracts."

"Yeah. Anyway, I meet this girl. And she makes her pitch. I blow her off— tell her I don't do work on people. So she throws in some tripe about how her man is doing some kids."

"She read the book, knows the hook. They can call, but you won't fall. What's so strange?"

"Couple of things, Prof. When I go to drop her off, I see another hooker close by. Chunky girl, blonde. I figure, maybe the two are hooked up. You know pimps— that girl–girl stuff really spooks them. Maybe the guy they wanted me to do is really macking them both. Anyway, next, I brace Mojo Mary. She comes across like Little Miss Innocence— she's just trying to toss a job my way, looking out for the commission, okay? Tells me this little girl makes a date, meets her in Logan's. And the blonde hooker is with her. They don't say Word One about me icing her man, just want Mary to pass the message."

"It don't take no rocket scientist to be a ho', bro— all you need is the lips and the hips. Her story's weak, but it don't sound freak."