Profit out. They’d
simply walked a few blocks at first, giving Joseph time to explain why he’d
chosen the old man as a potential mentor.
That was simple: Joseph’s
mother had brought the younger, enigmatic and handsome Eugene Profit into
Joseph’s world through her passion for the old black and whites – particularly
the films starring her idol, Sidney Poitier.
Joseph’s mother had been giving
her son her usual monologue, of how brave the young black actor had been to
take on such powerful roles at a time when the industry would ordinarily see
Joseph’s forefathers as incapable of portraying anything other than bellboys or
hoods or servants. Hell, the actor hadn’t even had the right to vote by the
time he was receiving his nomination for an Oscar. And Joseph’s mother truly
believed that the actor and those as brave as him had been instrumental in
their battle for equal rights.
A casual comment about
Poitier’s co-star, a beautiful young white girl, had started Joseph on the path
to allying himself with the ex-champion of the World.
“Such a sweet looking thing,
and such a shame she died so young, leaving her handsome champion all alone…”
This was so different a
statement from the one he was used to hearing that a teenage Joseph Ruebins had
pressed his mother to tell him all. She had.
And only hours after
discovering that an ex-pro, a World Champion no less, could be living
practically on his doorstep, Joseph found himself spinning through countless
reels of microfiche, late that afternoon, at the local library. Within minutes
of reading about the old champ’s heroics, Joseph had decided that he wanted
this amazing yet tragic boxer to lead him towards a world title fight.
Eventually his determination
had won.
Profit started to help Joseph,
just a few hours a week to begin with, in the gym, showing him how to throw
solid jabs and teaching him the important techniques of defence. By the end of
their first year, their fragile partnership had blossomed into Profit working
Joseph’s corner full time, and the old fighter looking upon Joseph as the son
he’d never had.
Now, as Joseph looked upon the
sleeping ex-fighter, he understood that Profit had become his guardian angel,
there to protect him, and see that success and all its hidden dangers didn’t
destroy this son of his.
It almost had.
Joseph felt his eyelids grow
heavy. He closed them and listened to the rhythmic breathing of the man at his
side. Less than a minute passed before Joseph was asleep.
Chapter
Fifteen
Detective Thomas Carter flipped his cell phone shut,
ending his brief conversation with Captain Mendoza. He returned to Tyler’s
side, and both stood looking down at Joseph Ruebins’ physician.
The desk he sat behind looked
way too big for him, took up almost the entire room, and left just enough space
for both the detectives to fill the compact office. The desk, though big enough
to perform open-heart surgery upon, had very little on display apart from a
brass name plaque, which read: ‘Doctor Martin Greenwood’ , and a pencil
and penholder.
“So, Doctor Greenwood, what can
you tell us about Joseph Ruebins’ condition?” Carter asked.
Greenwood turned to the window
of his office for a moment, the expression on his face sombre. Clearing his
throat, he said. “Truthfully, I’m still not sure.”
“Meaning?”
“Until all our tests have been
completed, I cannot give you – or Ruebins – a satisfactory diagnosis. Or
prognosis, for that matter.”
Carter leaned over, placing his
hands flat against the desk. “Doctor, is it at all possible that Joseph Ruebins
is faking this whole episode?”
Greenwood grinned slightly.
“Nothing’s impossible, Detective. The brain is a very complex organ. Joseph may
be suffering from anything as mundane as a mini-stroke, or experiencing a
series of schizoid embolisms.”
“No, that’s not what I mean.”
Carter said, shaking his head. “Is it possible
simply walked a few blocks at first, giving Joseph time to explain why he’d
chosen the old man as a potential mentor.
That was simple: Joseph’s
mother had brought the younger, enigmatic and handsome Eugene Profit into
Joseph’s world through her passion for the old black and whites – particularly
the films starring her idol, Sidney Poitier.
Joseph’s mother had been giving
her son her usual monologue, of how brave the young black actor had been to
take on such powerful roles at a time when the industry would ordinarily see
Joseph’s forefathers as incapable of portraying anything other than bellboys or
hoods or servants. Hell, the actor hadn’t even had the right to vote by the
time he was receiving his nomination for an Oscar. And Joseph’s mother truly
believed that the actor and those as brave as him had been instrumental in
their battle for equal rights.
A casual comment about
Poitier’s co-star, a beautiful young white girl, had started Joseph on the path
to allying himself with the ex-champion of the World.
“Such a sweet looking thing,
and such a shame she died so young, leaving her handsome champion all alone…”
This was so different a
statement from the one he was used to hearing that a teenage Joseph Ruebins had
pressed his mother to tell him all. She had.
And only hours after
discovering that an ex-pro, a World Champion no less, could be living
practically on his doorstep, Joseph found himself spinning through countless
reels of microfiche, late that afternoon, at the local library. Within minutes
of reading about the old champ’s heroics, Joseph had decided that he wanted
this amazing yet tragic boxer to lead him towards a world title fight.
Eventually his determination
had won.
Profit started to help Joseph,
just a few hours a week to begin with, in the gym, showing him how to throw
solid jabs and teaching him the important techniques of defence. By the end of
their first year, their fragile partnership had blossomed into Profit working
Joseph’s corner full time, and the old fighter looking upon Joseph as the son
he’d never had.
Now, as Joseph looked upon the
sleeping ex-fighter, he understood that Profit had become his guardian angel,
there to protect him, and see that success and all its hidden dangers didn’t
destroy this son of his.
It almost had.
Joseph felt his eyelids grow
heavy. He closed them and listened to the rhythmic breathing of the man at his
side. Less than a minute passed before Joseph was asleep.
Chapter
Fifteen
Detective Thomas Carter flipped his cell phone shut,
ending his brief conversation with Captain Mendoza. He returned to Tyler’s
side, and both stood looking down at Joseph Ruebins’ physician.
The desk he sat behind looked
way too big for him, took up almost the entire room, and left just enough space
for both the detectives to fill the compact office. The desk, though big enough
to perform open-heart surgery upon, had very little on display apart from a
brass name plaque, which read: ‘Doctor Martin Greenwood’ , and a pencil
and penholder.
“So, Doctor Greenwood, what can
you tell us about Joseph Ruebins’ condition?” Carter asked.
Greenwood turned to the window
of his office for a moment, the expression on his face sombre. Clearing his
throat, he said. “Truthfully, I’m still not sure.”
“Meaning?”
“Until all our tests have been
completed, I cannot give you – or Ruebins – a satisfactory diagnosis. Or
prognosis, for that matter.”
Carter leaned over, placing his
hands flat against the desk. “Doctor, is it at all possible that Joseph Ruebins
is faking this whole episode?”
Greenwood grinned slightly.
“Nothing’s impossible, Detective. The brain is a very complex organ. Joseph may
be suffering from anything as mundane as a mini-stroke, or experiencing a
series of schizoid embolisms.”
“No, that’s not what I mean.”
Carter said, shaking his head. “Is it possible
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