say, I do it for fun.' He touched at the
corner of his puffed eye with one fingernail.
'You said you were going to tell me something about the
vigilante murders,' I said.
'It's gang bangers. They fighting over who's gonna deal tar in
the projects. Tar's real big again, Mr. Robicheaux. Lot of people don't
want to mess with crack anymore.'
'How do you know it's the gangs, Zoot?'
'I get around. I got friends in the projects—the St.
Thomas,
the Iberville, the Desire. They all say there ain't no vigilante.'
'Is there a particular murder you have information about?'
He thought for a moment. 'Yeah, last spring,' he said. 'A
dealer got thrown off the roof acrost from our school. The gang bangers
said he was working the wrong neighborhood.'
He watched my face expectantly.
'Are there any names you want to give me?' I said.
'I'm just telling you what my friends say. I ain't got no
names.'
'You come from a good home, Zoot. You think you should be
hanging around gang bangers?'
'I got the friends I want. People don't tell me who I hang
with.'
'I see. Well, thanks for the information.' I stood up to
leave.
'Ain't you gonna he'p out?'
'I'm afraid I don't have a lot to work with here.'
'Mr. Robicheaux, my mama's gonna lose her job.'
I sat back down. 'Where's your dad?'
His eyes became unfocused, then he looked over at the jukebox
as though he had just noticed it.
'I ain't got one. Why you ax that?' he said.
'No reason. Your mother's a tough lady. Stop worrying about
her.'
'Easy for you to say. You ain't there when she come home,
always telling me—'
'Telling you what?'
'I ain't nothing but a big drink of water, I gotta be a
man
,
I gotta stop slouching around like somebody pulled my backbone outta my
skin.' He rolled up a paper napkin in his palm and dropped it in his
plate. 'It ain't her fault. They get on her case where she works, then
she just
got
to get on mine. But I'm tired of it.'
For the first time I noticed how long and narrow his hands
were. Even his nails were long, almost like a girl's.
'You feel like putting your trunks back on?' I said.
'What for?'
'Take a walk with me to the drugstore, then we'll head back to
the gym and talk about clocks and bombsights.'
'What?'
'Gome on, I'm over the hill. You—dump me on my
butt, Zoot.'
We went into the drugstore on the corner, and I bought a
rubber ball, just a little smaller than the palm of my hand, and
dropped it in the pocket of my slacks. Then we crossed the street to
the gym, and Zoot put on his trunks again and met me in an alcove with
padded mats on the floor and a huge ventilator fan bolted into the
wire-mesh windows. I hung my shirt on a rack of dumbbells and slipped
on a pair of sixteen-ounce gloves that were almost as big as couch
pillows.
Advice is always cheap, and the cheapest kind is the sort we
offer people who have to enter dangerous situations for which they are
seriously unprepared or ill-equipped. I probably knew a hundred
one-liners that a cut-man or a trainer had told me in the corner of a
Golden Gloves ring while he worked my mouthpiece from my teeth and
squeezed a sponge into my eyes ('Swallow your blood, kid. Don't never
let him see you're hurt… He butts you again in the clench,
thumb him in the eye… He's telegraphing. When he drops his
right shoulder, click off his light').
But very few people appreciate the amount of courage that it
takes to stand toe-to-toe with a superior opponent who systematically
goes about breaking the cartilage in your nose, splitting your eyebrows
against the bone, and turning your mouth into something that looks like
a torn tomato, while the audience stands on chairs and roars its
approval of your pain and humiliation.
'Let's try to keep two simple concepts in mind,' I said. 'Move
in a circle with the clock. You got that? Circle him till he thinks
you're a shark. Always to the left, just like you're moving with the
clock.'
'All right…' He started circling with me, his gym
shoes shuffling on the
corner of his puffed eye with one fingernail.
'You said you were going to tell me something about the
vigilante murders,' I said.
'It's gang bangers. They fighting over who's gonna deal tar in
the projects. Tar's real big again, Mr. Robicheaux. Lot of people don't
want to mess with crack anymore.'
'How do you know it's the gangs, Zoot?'
'I get around. I got friends in the projects—the St.
Thomas,
the Iberville, the Desire. They all say there ain't no vigilante.'
'Is there a particular murder you have information about?'
He thought for a moment. 'Yeah, last spring,' he said. 'A
dealer got thrown off the roof acrost from our school. The gang bangers
said he was working the wrong neighborhood.'
He watched my face expectantly.
'Are there any names you want to give me?' I said.
'I'm just telling you what my friends say. I ain't got no
names.'
'You come from a good home, Zoot. You think you should be
hanging around gang bangers?'
'I got the friends I want. People don't tell me who I hang
with.'
'I see. Well, thanks for the information.' I stood up to
leave.
'Ain't you gonna he'p out?'
'I'm afraid I don't have a lot to work with here.'
'Mr. Robicheaux, my mama's gonna lose her job.'
I sat back down. 'Where's your dad?'
His eyes became unfocused, then he looked over at the jukebox
as though he had just noticed it.
'I ain't got one. Why you ax that?' he said.
'No reason. Your mother's a tough lady. Stop worrying about
her.'
'Easy for you to say. You ain't there when she come home,
always telling me—'
'Telling you what?'
'I ain't nothing but a big drink of water, I gotta be a
man
,
I gotta stop slouching around like somebody pulled my backbone outta my
skin.' He rolled up a paper napkin in his palm and dropped it in his
plate. 'It ain't her fault. They get on her case where she works, then
she just
got
to get on mine. But I'm tired of it.'
For the first time I noticed how long and narrow his hands
were. Even his nails were long, almost like a girl's.
'You feel like putting your trunks back on?' I said.
'What for?'
'Take a walk with me to the drugstore, then we'll head back to
the gym and talk about clocks and bombsights.'
'What?'
'Gome on, I'm over the hill. You—dump me on my
butt, Zoot.'
We went into the drugstore on the corner, and I bought a
rubber ball, just a little smaller than the palm of my hand, and
dropped it in the pocket of my slacks. Then we crossed the street to
the gym, and Zoot put on his trunks again and met me in an alcove with
padded mats on the floor and a huge ventilator fan bolted into the
wire-mesh windows. I hung my shirt on a rack of dumbbells and slipped
on a pair of sixteen-ounce gloves that were almost as big as couch
pillows.
Advice is always cheap, and the cheapest kind is the sort we
offer people who have to enter dangerous situations for which they are
seriously unprepared or ill-equipped. I probably knew a hundred
one-liners that a cut-man or a trainer had told me in the corner of a
Golden Gloves ring while he worked my mouthpiece from my teeth and
squeezed a sponge into my eyes ('Swallow your blood, kid. Don't never
let him see you're hurt… He butts you again in the clench,
thumb him in the eye… He's telegraphing. When he drops his
right shoulder, click off his light').
But very few people appreciate the amount of courage that it
takes to stand toe-to-toe with a superior opponent who systematically
goes about breaking the cartilage in your nose, splitting your eyebrows
against the bone, and turning your mouth into something that looks like
a torn tomato, while the audience stands on chairs and roars its
approval of your pain and humiliation.
'Let's try to keep two simple concepts in mind,' I said. 'Move
in a circle with the clock. You got that? Circle him till he thinks
you're a shark. Always to the left, just like you're moving with the
clock.'
'All right…' He started circling with me, his gym
shoes shuffling on the
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