"Lessig, Hugh - Picasso Smith - The Big Knockout" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lessig Hugh)

= The Big Knockout
A Picasso Smith story
by Hugh Lessig


Prologue, April 12, 1948

I am sitting at ringside when Fighter A lands a ponderous right to the chin of Fighter B. That's all they meant to me at first: two nameless pugs on the undercard of a fund-raiser for the Police Athletic League.

Fighter B loses his knees. He wobbles toward my side of the ring and I am close enough to smell his sweat. That's how you covered fights in those days. You lugged an Underwood to the ring apron and did a running account that ran in the newspaper the next day.

Fighter B leans against the ropes. His mouthpiece drops onto my copy paper. He falls slowly through the ring until his chin comes to rest against my typewriter. It is a graceful fall, the kind you could set to violins. He closes his eyes like a rambunctious child pretending to be asleep.

"Hey brother," I say. "You'll need a better act than that."

This fight is fixed; I knew as much coming in. Two days ago, a note showed up on my desk predicting it would end in the fourth round, and damn if this wasn't the fourth. The note said bad people were involved, and damn if the bleachers weren't crawling with Cosa Nostra guys in various stages of distasteful dress. These days, people associate The Family with New York but back then, they operated in 25 or 26 cities. San Jose. Buffalo. I guess they liked the weather in Frisco.

"Hey brother," I try again. "How much are you getting for this act?"

People laugh. Fighter B tries to get up. Then his chin quivers uncontrollably and his head flops forward. Suddenly my typewriter is a mess of blood and spit and sweat and I'm starting to think this is not funny. Fighter B looks at me with clear and terrifying eyes.

"Bennies," he says. "Bennnnnn...."

His eyes roll up white and he is gone.

Everyone is laughing now. People huddle around me -- ring people, mostly. A handler puts a towel under the man's chin. He and I stand in the eye of the hurricane that whirls around us. We share this quiet space for a moment.

"What's his name?" I ask.

The handler looks at me with eyes that have seen two wars. "What do you mean, what's his name? You're a reporter. Don't you know his name?"

"I don't normally cover sports," I say truthfully. "I told our sports guy he didn't have to come."

The handler shakes his head and says: "His name is George MacAndrew. He lost the tips of two fingers at Okinawa in 1945. No offense, but he deserves a real sportswriter."

People start elbowing me aside. Cops. Security types. Mob vultures. A large hand comes to rest on my shoulder and tries to push me forward. Someone drags MacAndrew to the center of the ring and I crane my neck to see what's happening. Things are breaking down.

People are smelling trouble.

The large hand pushes harder. I can feel the callouses through my shirt. I turn around and see two familiar people: Police Chief Ronald "Rottweiler" Barnes and his sidekick Lawrence LeStone, commissioner of the Police Athletic League.

The callouses belong to Barnes. He is 300 pounds of rock-solid gristle and hatred. LeStone is probably 300 pounds, too, but he looks like a pillow stuffed into a sausage casing. Years later, I would interview Truman Capote after he wrote "In Cold Blood." Now that I think of it, LeStone reminds me of him, but without Capote's sparkle. Barnes just reminded me of Barnes. There was only one of him.

Now Barnes is in my face, showing teeth. "What's going on? What's wrong with that man? Smith, why the hell are you covering a boxing match?"

LeStone rises on tiptoes and sweats and makes whimpering noises.

MacAndrew's head lolls back and forth like a rag doll. The handler bursts into tears when he sees this. He yells for a doctor the way a Marine might have yelled for a corpsman on Okinawa when he knew it was too late.