The Bad Man and the Boxer

When Basilone Thompson’s fight manager died suddenly of a drug overdose, it came as a surprise. The Big Bass had never known his manager to indulge in so much as a marijuana cigarette.

When a new manager showed up unannounced at his apartment in the Bronx one day, he was grateful, but skeptical.

He answered the light knock on the door.

The man in the hallway was dressed neatly in a suit and tie, with a fedora pulled low on his brow. “Hey, kid. You’re the Big Bass, ain’t’cha? I got the right place?”

Thompson nodded. “Yes sir. What can I do for you?”

The man surprised him by admitting himself. He removed his hat and looked around the living room. “You can do better than this. You know that, right?”

Thompson closed the door. “I ain’t sure what you mean, sir. Who are you again?”

“I’m gonna be your new manager. We heard what happened to Billy, and we know you’re a rising star. You just need some guidance.”

“Guidance?”

“Sure, sure. You know, bigger fights. Better fights. More money.” He looked around the living room again. “A better standard of living.” Then he looked back at Thompson. “You know.”

“Yeah. Well, that’d be nice and all, but I ain’t even started lookin’ for a new manager yet, so—”

“What’s goin’ on, Bas?” It was Rebecca Thomson, Basilone’s wife. She had just come in from the hallway. Her hand lay protectively on the right shoulder of Lester, their four year old son.

The boy drew closer to his mother’s side as she looked at the man in the suit, then back at her husband. “You didn’t tell me we had company.”

“We were just talkin’ a little business, Becky. Mr.—” He paused and looked at the man.

“Potrano,” the man said, and smiled at Rebecca. “Eddie Potrano. I’m gonna be your husband’s new fight manager.”

Rebecca looked at her husband again and frowned. “I thought you were thinkin’ about getting’ out of fightin’.”

“I was, baby. I mean, I am. Ain’t no harm in hearin’ what the man’s got to say though. Is there?”

She looked at Potrano, then back to her husband. “Well, I’m off to work. I think I’ll drop Johnny by Sissie’s place on the way.” She glanced at Potrano again, then back to her husband. “That way you two can talk.”

“Aw baby, now you don’t have to—”

With Johnny in tow, she crossed the room. “No, it’s all right.” She tiptoed to kiss her husband on the cheek, then looked him in the eyes. “Just be sure, Bas. Whatever you decide, just be sure.”

When Potrano left that day, he had a new client. In fact, Basilone Thompson was also his only client.

Bas thought maybe he had died and gone to Heaven. Despite what he occasionally heard around the gym about the Mafia in general and even Eddie Potrano in particular, all the fights were clean.

And they were all against good opponents. Bas continued to train hard as his confidence grew. And he continued to defeat all comers.

Then, not quite a year later, Eddie came walking into Silverman’s Gym.

He lit a cigarette and watched almost a full round as Thompson finished off his sparring partner. When it was over, he gestured with the hand holding the cigarette. “Hey, good work there, Bas. Good work. Hey, listen, c’mere. You got a minute?”

“Sure, Eddie. Lemme just get showered and changed.” Usually, “got a minute” meant they were going to lunch and an extended meeting.

But Eddie wagged one hand at him. “Nah, hey, this won’t take long,” he said as Bas climbed through the ropes and dropped from the platform to the hardwood floor. “Walk with me, would’ja?”

Thompson grabbed a towel from a ringside table and wiped down his face and throat, then draped the towel around his neck. As he walked alongside Eddie toward the locker room, he grinned. “I’m feelin’ better every day, Eddie. Know what I mean?” He gestured back toward the ring. “That could’a been Gonzales in there, and I still would’a wiped the floor with him.”

Carlos “Chico” Gonzales was the number four contender for the heavyweight crown. Thompson was ranked ninth.

Thompson grinned with anticipation. “So what’s up, Eddie? We gonna land a fight with him soon?”

Eddie glanced up at him. “Better. We’ve got Irilio Mendocini, twenty days from right now.”

Thompson frowned. “Mendocini? Ain’t he—”

“Number two contender, Bas. Number two. And get this—you’re favored. All the books have you up fifteen to one.”

Thompson arched his eyebrows. “Really?”

“Yeah. Apparently those guys been payin’ attention. Whatever. This is the payoff we been waitin’ for.” We’re gonna clean up, Bas. You think you been doin’ good? You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

Thompson frowned. “But how we gonna clean up if I’m so heavily favored? How you gonna get the odds down?”

Eddie stopped just short of the locker room door and looked up at him. “That’s just it, kid. I ain’t.”

“What? That don’t make no sense, Eddie.”

“It makes perfect sense. You’re gonna give him hell for nine rounds, see. But about halfway through the tenth, you’re gonna get caught with a uppercut or somethin’ like that, you know. And you’re gonna drop like you was shot.”

Thompson laughed. “Yeah, right. You know nobody’s gonna buy that, not even as a joke. Ain’t nobody ever put me on the canvas.”

But Eddie wasn’t grinning. He glanced back toward the ring, then back at Thompson. Quietly, he said, “Hey, there’s a first time for everything, am I right?”

Thompson looked at him for a moment, then frowned again. “Wait. You’re serious?”

Everything he’d heard about Eddie Potrano came rushing back.

He took a step back and raised his gloves. “Hold on, Eddie. Slow down, man. I’m a contender. I ain’t gonna take no fall. The payoff comes when I nail the champ to the canvas, man.”

Potrano frowned. “Hey, whaddayou, think you’re special? Eh? You think Jackson’s gonna let you waltz in and take his crown?”

“Nah, man, but I’m good. I’ll put that chump down inside of five rou—”

“How you think you won all them fights, Bas? Think. Every one of ‘em was ranked higher than you. How you think you did all that?”

Thompson knew how he did it. Of the seven fights since Potrano had been his manager, he laid down four of his opponents with a monstrous right cross, the likes of which hadn’t been seen in a generation. All the papers said so. Two went to Lala Land via his short, vicious left hook. Only one had been a decision—a unanimous decision—and that guy looked as if he’d been the guest of honor in a train wreck.

“I won them fights, Eddie. Fair and square. I won every one’a them damn fights.”

Potrano laughed. “Yeah, right. Grow up, my friend.”

Thompson just looked at him. Finally, quietly, he said, “I ain’t throwin’ no fight.”

Potrano’s laughter faded to a smile, then disappeared. “You will, and you’ll make it look convincing. You understand?”

Thompson started to turn away for the locker room, but Potrano grabbed his arm, then moved around in front of him. He flicked what remained of his cigarette against the wall outside the locker room. Then he pointed at Bas. His voice a quiet growl, he said, “You don’t wanna upset my boss, boy. You do that, bad things are gonna happen.”

Boy?

Thompson glared at Eddie. “Shit, you can’t hurt me, man. You or your boss. I’m your meal ticket.” He shouldered his way past the man. “‘Sides, I’ll snap you in half.”

From behind him, Eddie called out, “I’ll be in touch, Thompson. Twenty days. You’ll do what’s right or you’ll learn what hell is.”

For almost three weeks, Bas didn’t see Eddie Potrano.

Probably his feelings were hurt. Bas had never defied him before. But this—taking a fall—it just wasn’t in his makeup.

And he thought about those other fights Eddie mentioned. Not one of them was a set up. Bas had hurt like hell for days after each one of them, mostly in his shoulders and elbows from the jarring his joints took when he landed the blows.

Still, the man wouldn’t walk away from a sure thing. Eddie was far too greedy for that. And if Basilone Thompson was anything, it was a sure thing. 

Finally Eddie surprised him with a visit on the evening of the fight. The trainer was taping Bas’ fists when Eddie walked in. As usual, he had a cigarette between his lips near the corner of his mouth.

He pinched it between the index finger and middle finger of his left hand and gestured toward Bas. “How you feelin’, Thompson?”

Bas nodded. “Good. I’m good, Eddie. Hey, maybe after I wipe the floor with this guy we can—”

“Don’t forget what I said, a’right?” Eddie turned, flipped his cigarette into the corner of the room, and walked out.

The fight went on as scheduled. Almost.

Shortly after the middle of the eighth round, Bas caught Mendocini with a body shot that folded him in half. The crushing right cross followed as if it were scripted.

Mendocini spun away hard to his own right. When he landed face down near a neutral corner, he was fast asleep.

For a moment, even as the referee tugged and pushed at him, Bas stood over him.

That damn sure wasn’t no fall, was it?

As Bas walked toward the other neutral corner to await the outcome, he glanced ringside to Eddie’s chair.

But Eddie wasn’t in it.

Behind him, the referee counted, “One. Two. Three.”

Not a big deal. Probably he went to the bathroom or something.

“Four.”

Bas would rather his wife was here anyway, but she didn’t like to watch him fight. She didn’t like seeing him get hurt, and she didn’t like watching as he hurt other people.

“Five. Six.”

Several times, usually during minor arguments, she asked when he was going to turn his fists on her. But he would never do such a thing. Never. Under any circumstances.

Still, I kind’a wish she was here. It’d be nice to celebrate a little.

“Seven.”

But there was always Eddie. He probably went to the bathroom. Probably he’d be back any minute. He would want to see the referee raise Bas’ gloved fist in victory.

He leaned on the ropes and looked up the left aisle.

Nothing.

“Eight.”

He shifted his gaze to the other aisle.

There he was. Eddie was at the top of the right aisle, almost to the lobby.

“Nine.”

Bas raised his gloves high over his head. He yelled, “Hey, Eddie!”

But Eddie didn’t look back.

“Ten.”

Then the referee was tugging on him and gesturing, trying to get him into the center of the ring.

Bas cast a final look up the aisle just in time to see Eddie disappear through the curtain. He turned and walked to the center of the ring.

The referee grabbed his right wrist. When the loudspeaker filled the arena with his name, the referee hoisted Bas’ fist into the air.

It was his last fight.

When Eddie got home that night, he let himself in quietly.

His wife and son lay dead on the living room floor.

Each had suffered a single gunshot wound to the head.

As he knelt over their bodies, Eddie Potrano stepped out of the hallway. In his hand was a revolver. “I tried to tell you Bas.”

Bas rose, unsteadily, to his feet. His brow was furrowed with anguish. “How could you do this, Eddie? You— You were my friend.”

“Hey, it was only business. That’s all. And now it’s all over, eh? Like I said, I tried to warn you.”

Bas looked at him. He nodded, then looked down at his wife and son again.

He knelt, slid his big arms under his wife and picked her up, then laid her gently on the couch.

Eddie frowned. “Hey, whaddayou doin’?

Bas said, “You gonna shoot me, Eddie, go on ahead. I gotta do what’s right.” Then he knelt, picked up his four year old son, and laid him in the crook of his wife’s arm. He stepped back and looked at them for a moment. “There. That’s how they’re supposed to be. Peaceful like.”

“Hey, sorry Bas, y’know? But like I said, I tried to warn—”

And Bas’ big right hand closed on his throat. “Shut up!” Squeezing. “Shut your damn mouth!” Hard.

Potrano said, “Bas!” and his breath stopped. He slowly brought up his revolver and shoved it hard against Bas’ abdomen.

Bas twisted to his left just as Eddie squeezed the trigger.

A fire tore through Bas’ side, but it only made him angrier.

He grabbed Eddie’s right hand with his left and squeezed, crushing his fingers around the revolver as if they were putty. When he released the man’s hand with a jerk, the revolver clattered away across the hardwood floor. Eddie’s right hand hung limp and useless at his side

Maintaining his grip on Eddie’s throat, Bas started walking forward, slowly backing Eddie to the wall. His fingernails dug deep as he steadily increased the pressure.

With his left hand, Eddie tugged hard at Bas’ hand and fingers. Then his wrist.

To no effect.

His eyes grew wide as he clawed wildly at Bas’ forearm.

He might as well have been clawing at steel cables.

He swung wildly at Bas’ face, but missed by inches.

When Eddie’s back contacted the wall, horror filled his eyes.

Bas began to lift him from the floor, still increasing the pressure on his throat.

The big man leaned in close, his lips a fraction of an inch from Eddie’s nose, and glared into the man’s bulging eyes. “You hear me, Eddie? I told you if you was gonna shoot me you ought’a go on ahead and do it, didn’t I? Yeah. Yeah I did.” He jerked hard at the man’s throat, pulling him away from the wall, then slamming him back against it again.

Again he glared into Eddie’s eyes. “See, Eddie? This shit works both ways. See? Nah, you don’t see nothin’, Eddie. But like you keep sayin’, I tried to warn you.”

With a screaming growl of animal rage, he closed his fist and twisted it violently to the right, then let the body drop.

Eddie Potrano’s larynx angled away from the base of his throat. Behind it, for a second, his spine was in view.

Blood pumped into cavity, quickly filling it and spilling down the sides of Eddie’s neck to the floor. The cavity filled again. The level of blood receded, then filled again and bubbled as Eddie fought to breathe.

Bas cleared his throat, harshly, then spat through the hole.

“Go to hell, Eddie. You go to hell.”

He turned and looked at his wife, his baby.

There was nothing left for him here.

Nobody and nothing.

He walked out.

* * * * * * *