Sam Wolkowitz’s mouth came up, but it still looked like he was sneering.
“A proposition?” he said. “I hope this isn’t another one of those complicated arrangements that you suggested we try in Anaheim last year.”
“Oh no, not like that!” John B. said with a laugh so hearty it made his eyes bulge and his knees bend.
For all I knew, John B. had suggested they try going to bed with the same hooker in Disneyland. I smiled like I’d been along for the ride.
“No, this is serious.” John straightened up. “You know, my brother and I been talking about this opening you got coming up with the fight this fall.”
“Hmm,” said Sam. His face was like a blank computer screen.
“You know, he’s been training awful hard, my brother.” John B. dipped his head in admiration. “And when he was at his best, there wasn’t another like Elijah. He had people come up to him, every airport, every city, just to tell him he was the greatest inspiration to their lives. So we was wondering if like you might be interested in, like him, you know, fighting on that bill, seeing as you had the other man dropping out.”
John B. finally noticed that Sam wasn’t jumping up and down with enthusiasm. “Well John,” he said in a pointy nasal voice, “as I am sure you are aware, that was not just a regular bout we had to cancel. It was a world-class title fight. It doesn’t make sense from a business standpoint to substitute a fighter like your brother.”
“Oh,” said John B., squaring off into a boxing stance that didn’t look right on him. “I know what you’re worried about. You’re worried about all that booll-shit they say about brain damage. But it ain’t true. You want the CAT scan? You want a doctor’s report? We can get that to you.”
“You’re missing the point.” Wolkowitz held up two fingers like goalposts. “Strictly speaking, the decision to give Elijah the fight is not ours to make.”
“Well then who are we supposed to talk to?” I asked.
Sam Wolkowitz gave me a look that was supposed to cut me dead. Lips pressed together, eyes turned slightly away. It was a look that must’ve sent people crawling out of the executive suites on their hands and knees. But I’d seen my father stick an ice pick into somebody.
“Excuse me,” Sam said. “But who are you?”
“Oh, this here is my business partner.” John looped an arm around my shoulders. “Anthony’s just helping us out with our organization.”
“I’m just looking out for everybody’s best interest.”
Sam checked me out like a butcher inspecting a bad piece of meat. “John,” he said, without taking his eyes off me, “I thought surely you’d understand we can’t put a champion in the ring with a fighter who’s no longer ranked in the top ten. We couldn’t sell a noncompetitive fight like that. Our markets wouldn’t take it.”
“So how do we get our guy ranked?” I asked.
Sam’s mouth turned into a thin line of disapproval. “Well, John,” he said. “As I’m sure you know, that decision would be up to the World Boxing Federation.”
“And who do we talk to there?”
Wolkowitz raised one eyebrow and looked from me to John B., as if asking, “Is this guy for real?” A couple of minutes ago he’d thought I was some gay flirt.
“The head of the WBF is Mr. Pedro Hoyas Ospina.” Wolkowitz examined his buffed nails. “A great advocate and a very dear personal friend. I often go down to visit him at the headquarters in Panama. The common view—and I’m not saying I agree or disagree—is that he controls the ranking system. I believe he’ll be appearing on the panel today.”
Wolkowitz nodded toward the stage at the front of the ballroom, where various fighters and casino executives were taking seats on a long wooden dais with a blue-and-gold Doubloon banner hanging off the front.
“So you’re saying that if we get to this Ospina, we got a shot at the fight?” I asked Wolkowitz.
“I’m not saying
“A proposition?” he said. “I hope this isn’t another one of those complicated arrangements that you suggested we try in Anaheim last year.”
“Oh no, not like that!” John B. said with a laugh so hearty it made his eyes bulge and his knees bend.
For all I knew, John B. had suggested they try going to bed with the same hooker in Disneyland. I smiled like I’d been along for the ride.
“No, this is serious.” John straightened up. “You know, my brother and I been talking about this opening you got coming up with the fight this fall.”
“Hmm,” said Sam. His face was like a blank computer screen.
“You know, he’s been training awful hard, my brother.” John B. dipped his head in admiration. “And when he was at his best, there wasn’t another like Elijah. He had people come up to him, every airport, every city, just to tell him he was the greatest inspiration to their lives. So we was wondering if like you might be interested in, like him, you know, fighting on that bill, seeing as you had the other man dropping out.”
John B. finally noticed that Sam wasn’t jumping up and down with enthusiasm. “Well John,” he said in a pointy nasal voice, “as I am sure you are aware, that was not just a regular bout we had to cancel. It was a world-class title fight. It doesn’t make sense from a business standpoint to substitute a fighter like your brother.”
“Oh,” said John B., squaring off into a boxing stance that didn’t look right on him. “I know what you’re worried about. You’re worried about all that booll-shit they say about brain damage. But it ain’t true. You want the CAT scan? You want a doctor’s report? We can get that to you.”
“You’re missing the point.” Wolkowitz held up two fingers like goalposts. “Strictly speaking, the decision to give Elijah the fight is not ours to make.”
“Well then who are we supposed to talk to?” I asked.
Sam Wolkowitz gave me a look that was supposed to cut me dead. Lips pressed together, eyes turned slightly away. It was a look that must’ve sent people crawling out of the executive suites on their hands and knees. But I’d seen my father stick an ice pick into somebody.
“Excuse me,” Sam said. “But who are you?”
“Oh, this here is my business partner.” John looped an arm around my shoulders. “Anthony’s just helping us out with our organization.”
“I’m just looking out for everybody’s best interest.”
Sam checked me out like a butcher inspecting a bad piece of meat. “John,” he said, without taking his eyes off me, “I thought surely you’d understand we can’t put a champion in the ring with a fighter who’s no longer ranked in the top ten. We couldn’t sell a noncompetitive fight like that. Our markets wouldn’t take it.”
“So how do we get our guy ranked?” I asked.
Sam’s mouth turned into a thin line of disapproval. “Well, John,” he said. “As I’m sure you know, that decision would be up to the World Boxing Federation.”
“And who do we talk to there?”
Wolkowitz raised one eyebrow and looked from me to John B., as if asking, “Is this guy for real?” A couple of minutes ago he’d thought I was some gay flirt.
“The head of the WBF is Mr. Pedro Hoyas Ospina.” Wolkowitz examined his buffed nails. “A great advocate and a very dear personal friend. I often go down to visit him at the headquarters in Panama. The common view—and I’m not saying I agree or disagree—is that he controls the ranking system. I believe he’ll be appearing on the panel today.”
Wolkowitz nodded toward the stage at the front of the ballroom, where various fighters and casino executives were taking seats on a long wooden dais with a blue-and-gold Doubloon banner hanging off the front.
“So you’re saying that if we get to this Ospina, we got a shot at the fight?” I asked Wolkowitz.
“I’m not saying
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