1. Toronto 1961
1
Toronto 1961
The gloved fist arced upward floating toward me in slow motion. Mesmerized, I stared helplessly. My body seemed to have shut down and awaited the inevitable. The fist exploded against my chin. I wobbled on jelly legs squeezing air through bruised ribs. My arms hung limp at my hips. Too heavy. So heavy. A sweet one-two to the gut zapped whatever life I had left. The world went dark and woozy. Somewhere below the belt, I felt my knees buckle. Slowly, I crumpled to the canvas. Life disappeared. Breath whistled out of my nostrils, roaring in my ears--an ancient nag on a trip to the glue factory.
Sully stood over me and looked down. “Pathetic,” he said.
My business partner, Birdie, chuckled but didn’t comment.
“Thanks,” I wheezed. “That was great.” And tried to push myself to a sitting position but fell back on my rump.
“Stop with the fags and come to the gym more often,” Sully barked. “Then we’ll really get you into shape. Don’t be an idiot.”
To give me a hand, Sully dumped a bucket of ice water over my head.
“Jeezus,” I gasped. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I did,” Sully retorted.
Sully hailed from Galway and had been a serious middleweight contender in his day. Now he ran his own gym on King Street. “Hit the showers Mo before I pound you again.”
“I’m ready,” I muttered. Birdie guffawed. For some reason, he enjoyed seeing me humiliated.
The phone in Sully’s office jangled. He turned to answer it. I called it an office but it consisted of a metal desk set against a wall near the ring. By this time, I’d managed to lift my head off the canvas. I glanced at Birdie who smiled hugely then shook his head giving me his tsk tsk expression.
“Thanks for the support,” I said and staggered to my feet. The world pivoted around me.
“You’re welcome,” he replied.
Sully returned. He tossed me a towel.
“That was Callaway,” he said. “You’re wanted.”
When the cops called, you gotta get a move on. I hobbled into the showers. Ten minutes later, I emerged from the locker room dressed. At least, I think I had my pants on the right way.
The Chevy sat parked at the curb. As we walked toward it, I lit a Sweet Cap. Catching Birdie’s eye, I said, “Don’t tell Sully.” I unlocked the driver’s side, then slid over and popped the button. Birdie folded his six-foot seven frame into the passenger’s seat. My head had just begun to clear.
Birdie glanced over.
“I’m fine,” I replied. “I only see three of you.”
Birdie grunted.
“Relax.” I gunned the engine and ripped away from the curb. A Sunday driver two blocks down honked in irritation.
It was an early evening in late May, just approaching dusk. I rolled the window down and felt the warm air stream in. “Where we going?”
Birdie read out the address he jotted down while I was getting cleaned up. I jerked a bit.
“What’s he doing in Yid town?” I asked.
Birdie shrugged. “Guess we’ll be finding out soon enough.”
