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See You in Hell

Mark Scott

    Rico watched his opponent from across the ring as his trainer told him, “Clinch if you gotta, but stay off the damned ropes!”
    The bell clanged and Castillo was still kneeling with his back to Rico. With his right glove Castillo touched his fore-head, chest, and then his left shoulder. Rico could have rushed him, after all the referee had just told them to, “protect yourself at all times.” But Rico waited until Castillo finished his sign of the cross and was en guard. They touched gloves and then Castillo came at Rico in a crouch, throwing punches like a buzz-saw.
    Castillo had a sledgehammer left hook, old-school Mexican style, and Rico circled to his own left to keep out of range of that gancha izquierda. Castillo was a bleeder and this night should have been an easy-money six-rounder for Rico Mazzetti. But his people had put down some serious money on a fourth round knockout.
    “He’s strong as a bull,” Rico said in his corner.
    Tony Fucelli said, “Yah won that round easy, Rico. Just stay away from his left hook.”
    Rico won the first three rounds easily but Castillo was nowhere near being knocked out. The bell rang and Rico said in his corner, “My left glove is too tight, it’s cutting my circulation.”
    Fucelli said, “I taped ‘em like always.”
    “Can you at least cut the tape? It’s wound too tight.”
    “Turn towards me.” Fucelli cut the tape from around the glove’s laces, as Rico hunched his shoulders forward to shield the operation from the referee’s eyes.
    The exposed lace was what Rico wanted. In a clinch, Rico used the old Fritzie Zivic trick of scraping the laces of the glove across Castillo’s eyebrows, turning him so the referee couldn’t see. A small cut opened over Castillo’s right eye and Rico peppered jabs at it. The blood poured and the referee stopped the fight with half a minute to go in the fourth round.

    The next day Rico heard that Castillo had been hit by a truck when he left the Hungry Pussycat lounge over in the Bronx. The prognosis wasn’t good, and Rico felt bad about it, like maybe Castillo didn’t see the truck because of his hurt eye.
    The telephone rang at the house in Bensonhurst that Rico rented and lived in with his girlfriend. “Yeah, I heard about Castillo. Horrible, just horrible.”
    At the other end of the line Fucelli said, “Castillo wants you to go visit him in the hospital.”
    “Me?”
    “Yeah, he made a special request. It’d be real bad luck if you didn’t go, with a special request and all.”
    “Damn,” Rico said. But he knew Fucelli was right. He tried to remember if he’d said a Hail Mary in the last few days. “I’ll go right away.”
    Castillo had tubes coming and going, hooked up to a monitor that didn’t look too hopeful, as far as Rico could figure it from the irregular bleeps of light. Castillo had his left arm in a cast and his right cheek was so swollen it seemed like a grapefruit. “I wanted to tell you something before I go,” he muttered with difficulty.
    “Where do you think you’re going all shot up and with those tubes in you?”
    “The same place you’re going. To hell. You and your family cheat, steal, and even kill to get what you want. But el senor keeps score.” For a few moments Rico thought Castillo had taken his last breath. The monitor almost flat-lined, but then suddenly registered a sign of life. Castillo’s earthly race was not quite run. “I’ve killed three people myself,” the fallen fighter said. “And only one happened in a boxing ring. I thought I would have enough time for redemption. But no, Rico, I will see you in hell.”
    It was a sock in the gut worse than Rico had ever taken in the ring. How the hell did Castillo know about his family, when he was barely on speaking terms with them himself? And the man upstairs, el senor, what does HE care about boxing or fixed fights? But still, Rico was spooked by what Castillo said, though not so bad that he didn’t have his girlfriend’s sister go pick up the money from the bet. It wasn’t like he threw the fight, he just picked the round.
    Rico went home and tried to deal with his depression over his dead opponent. He was sitting in front of the television watching a Knicks game when his girlfriend got home.
    “Now you gotta watch basketball?” Maggie said. “Are you all right, Rico?”
    Rico muted the sound. “Yeah, it’s just weird to fight a guy then he dies right after.”
    “What was he doing over in East Bronx after the fight? I thought he lived in Texas.”
    “Guess he wanted another bite of the Big Apple, before he went home.”
    “They ain’t got whores in Texas?”
    “How would I know? Forget about it.”
    “You fuggitaboutit. I’m not the one moping around.” Maggie paced back and forth between Rico and the television.
    “Maggie, do you think it’s a sin to fix a fight?”
    “Get the fuck outta here with that talk, Rico. You’re creeping me out. The rest of your family makes a living gambling and stealing, and you got an honest job beating the shit outta people in a totally legitimate manner.” Maggie stood looking at Rico, with her hands on her hips. “I’m real proud of you, Rico; don’t go fucking it up over what some Mex fighter said.”
    “Don’t talk like that. Castillo was a good man.”
    Maggie threw up her hands. “You and me don’t fuck for two weeks ‘cuz you’re training. And now...Now! You mope around like an old woman. You know what? I’m gonna go get myself a vibrator. And while I’m at it, you want me to buy you a black mourning dress?”
    Rico gave Maggie a confused look and she came back to the sofa and straddled his waist.
    “Come on, Rico, let’s go to bed. It’s going on three weeks.”
    Afterwards, Maggie said, “Why didn’t you knock him out with a right?”
    “Who?” Rico said sleepily.
    “Castillo. The way he swings with his left, he’s wide open for a right.”
    “Swung with his left. He’s dead now.”
    Maggie let it sink in for a minute, how Castillo was now strictly past tense. “Why’d you have to fuck up his eye like that?”
    “You got me cheered up, now you’re gonna bust my balls over how I take care of business?”
    Maggie burst out laughing. “I’m sorry, Rico. You won fair and square, in the right round. His busted up eye ain’t gonna bother him now anyway.”
    As they lay in bed Rico got to thinking about what Maggie had said. Rico thought she understood about boxers and abstinence before a big fight. When he wasn’t strictly in training they’d do it every night and sometimes in the morning.
    “Were you serious about the vibrator?”
    “Nah,” Maggie said. “I tried my friend’s Dixie Chicken brand dildo once.”
    “Didn’t work?”
    “It felt like, you know, like a piece of plastic and not like a hard dick.”
    “Oh.”
    Maggie looked at Rico’s face. Damn, for a fighter he sure got his feelings hurt easy. “Aw, poor Rico. You know I love you, honey.”
    Rico had become a professional fighter because his father considered him too much of a sissy to be in the family business. He thought Maggie had been sent from heaven, the way she cheered for him at his fights and the gaga way she doted on his body. And yet despite Maggie’s angel face, her dimples and big doe eyes, Rico sometimes had the feeling that she was mean. If he had to, he couldn’t really say why. Maybe it was that sometimes when she got mad she would call Rico nothing but a wop from a family of gambling, thieving, murdering gangsters. Yeah, well, Maggie was just as Italian as Rico. So who was she to call him a wop?
    Margaret LoBianco, Maggie, had met Rico three years ago just before the finals of the New York Golden Gloves. Everybody who knew about the tournament thought Rico’s semi-finals opponent had been paid to lose. Rico beat the guy without breaking a sweat even though it went three lop-sided rounds.
    Maggie thought Rico was hot and if his father and brothers supposedly controlled the entire restaurant linen business in one of the boroughs, so much the better. When she heard that maybe they “disappeared” a guy now and then to keep out the competition, Maggie repeated the serenity prayer:
    “...to accept those things I can’t control, and the wisdom to know the difference...”
    Rico, she could tell, was a good boy, loved his mother, but not a momma’s boy. Maggie couldn’t stand creepos that bad-mouthed their own mothers. As for Rico’s father...What? Ain’t he gotta make a living?
    Her own family took care of most of the gambling in the neighborhood. Once in ninth grade her teacher asked her what her pops did for a living.
    “Bookie.”
    That math teacher had laughed and said, “No, really, what does he do?” Maggie had looked around the room and one guy was rotating his index finger around his ear. You know, he’s a math teacher, kind of crazy.
    “Maggie’s father is in the entertainment business,” a girl on the front row had said to break an awkward silence.
    Maggie worried sometimes about Rico’s eternal soul and how long he’d have to be in purgatory on account of fucking up another fighter’s face to make a bet work out. As for him hiding guns and shit like that for his father, that didn’t really count because Rico had only been a kid and you gotta honor thy father; and do what he says. At any rate she kept her worries to herself as best she could. Rico was just too sensitive to burden with her concerns.
    They were going to get married as soon as they had ten grand to put down on a house. Then the cocksucker banker said they needed a fifty grand down payment since boxing ain’t like a real job where you can get good credit. Maggie worked at her father’s restaurant but they did everything in cash since they used the place to launder the gambling money. For all their hard work, neither she nor Rico had a steady paycheck to show a loan officer. Thus her dilemma.
    From the $2000 Rico got from the fight and the $10,000 they made on the bet, they had to pay expenses including the local cops that got a cut of all the bets. They had $6000 in cash under their mattress. Only Maggie’s mother kept a bank account. “Put money in a bank?” Maggie’s father always said. “You want the whole world to know how much dough you’ve got?”
    Maggie figured they needed about another forty four grand before they could buy a house and she could finally be the blushing bride she always knew she could be.

    A few days later Castillo got sent back to Texas and buried somehow. Maggie got a card and signed it for her and Rico, sent it to the woman at the address on the obituary. She didn’t know if it was Castillo’s girlfriend, or what. “I sent a card from the both of us,” she told Rico. “Flowers would cost too much.”
    She had their money in stacks on the kitchen table, and was thinking things over when suddenly she said, “You could fight Patterson at 160 pounds.”
    Rico said, “Patterson? Where’s that coming from? I go 154 at most. He’s a super-middleweight at 167.”
    “Right. One sixty would be a catch-weight. Lots of money gets put down at catch-weights.”
    “How do you know?” Rico realized that Maggie and her father had been plotting something.
    “My pops is a bookie, remember? You punch-drunk already?”
    “Patterson is a champ, and I just made the top ten.”
    “Pops knows Patterson’s manager. It can be worked out. Come on, honey, don’t you want that house? Beat Patterson, or just fight him close, and you’ll be in line for the big-money fights.”
    Rico mumbled, “Patterson at 160. I’ll think about it.”
    They got it set up just like Maggie said, and Rico started training like hell. Frank at the gym always talked about oxygen in the blood, how it gave you energy. Rico never thought much about it, since he won most of his fights without a lot of effort. But now he wanted every advantage to win against Patterson, to get the money to buy the house. The deal was to go easy for ten rounds, let it be a close decision. Rico could picture the headlines that would come out if he upset Patterson.
    Rico had been in the habit of just running two miles a day. But once he signed for the Patterson fight, he started adding a quarter mile every other day until he was up to six miles. It seemed like his vision was clearer and oxygen would rush into his lungs, instead of like before when he had to suck it out of the air like pulling parmesan cheese through a cheese-grater. It was, just like they said on television talk shows, a “runner’s high,” and Rico felt like a world beater. Maggie was doing her part to get his weight up, feeding him milkshakes and bananas after every meal.
    A top professional fighter who weighs 147 pounds can beat up almost anybody just off the streets. The same guy can beat up, say, an amateur heavyweight most of the time. But a top professional who weighs a solid 167 pounds hits hard enough to seriously hurt one who goes 147 pounds. The increase in power with weight is exponential rather than additional. Maggie knew this in a vague way and Rico knew it well enough without thinking too much on the theory.
    Maggie went to watch Patterson train and got worried. That night she asked Rico, “Having to lose weight to get down to 160, won’t that take away some of Patterson’s punching power?”
    “Not much,” Rico said.
    “What about your father or your brother Mike, can’t they work out some kind of arrangement with Patterson’s people?”
    “Pop’s mad that I’m even taking the fight without talking to him first. Mike said Patterson agreed to go easy. It’s gonna be a close decision and then we’ll cash in on the return match.”
    The day before the fight, Rico’s brother Mike called him. Mike and Rico had never really gotten along. It was like Cain and Able all over again. Mike felt like he always had to be the responsible one while his little bro’ got to fool around boxing and having all the girls look at him stripped down in his boxing trunks. And mama always loved Rico the best.
    “Patterson agreed to let you win on a fifth round knockout,” Mike told Rico over the phone.
    It sounded strange as hell to Rico. Now all of a sudden Mike was going out on a limb to help him out. “Agreed?”
    “We’re paying him fifty grand. We’ll make it back on the second fight. So throw everything you’ve got at him in the fifth.”
    On the night before the fight Rico and Fucelli got a hotel room in Manhattan a couple of blocks from Madison Square Garden. Rico found the statue of Joe Gans, “the Old Master,” who had been the first African American world boxing champion. You were supposed to rub the bronze gloves of the statue for good luck. When Rico had done that, he said another Hail Mary.

    At the weigh in Rico gave Patterson a conspiratorial wink.
    Patterson put on a damned convincing act that he didn’t know about the set-up. He got off the scales and told Rico, loud enough for the press to hear, “I’ma bust yo’ head, muthafucka.”
    Fucelli tugged at Rico’s arm. “Ignore him, that’s his act, to promote the fight.”
    When Rico climbed into the ring for the fight Patterson’s trainer came over and checked his hand wraps to make sure they weren’t “loaded” with plaster of Paris or any other substance. Fucelli looked across the ring at Patterson and said the worst possible thing. “He looks like he weighs 180.” Then he realized his mistake. “Don’t worry, Rico, that makes him easier to hit.” Patterson was a big black wall of muscle, staring at Rico.
    The crowd cheered when Patterson was announced, and Rico heard the sound of thunder. He thought of the fourth horse in Revelations, riding Death and followed by Hell. Come and see, the beast said.
    The bell clanged and Patterson began stalking Rico. For three rounds he just blocked Rico’s punches, driving an occasional hook into his ribs. In the fourth round they traded punches and Rico landed more, faster than Patterson.
    In the fifth round Patterson threw two light jabs and Rico fired over a right cross with all he had. Patterson stumbled back but then steadied himself. He glared at Rico like he was cheating at cards. They traded hard blows and Rico felt a rush of blood in the back of his throat from a broken nose. The referee was counting and then asking him if he was okay. He nodded and then the crowd was cheering with Patterson on the canvass. Then Patterson was charging at Rico. His head was vibrating and he couldn’t see out of his left eye. Then he was looking up at the ceiling in his dressing room.
    While they were stitching his eye Fucelli said, “It was all set for you to lose a close decision. What the hell were you trying to do?”
    “Mike said they paid Patterson to go down in the fifth.”
    “Jeezus! You’re lucky to be alive, with a brother like that. Next time your brother says he paid somebody, tell him you want to see a receipt.”
     Rico had his head tilted back with cotton packed in his nose to stop the bleeding. “I wanted to do my best, and it sounded like a straight setup.”
    “A setup, only they forgot to tell Patterson about it? Well, it ain’t all that bad. A donnybrook like that builds up your reputation. Patterson’s gonna be a heavyweight in a couple of years, and you scored a clean knockdown on him.”
    “Do we still get paid?”
    “Yeah, yeah. You’ll end up with just $10 grand. But they’re saying it was like Hagler-Hearns, a real war. Might turn out better this way.”
    Maggie was waiting outside the dressing room. “I’m taking him home, Mr. Fucelli.”
    Everyone wanted to shake Rico’s hand or pat him on the back on his way out. “Back the fuck off,” Maggie hissed several times at the throngs of fans.
    Once they hit the Expressway towards Brooklyn Maggie said, “What the hell did you think you were doing, trying to knock out the dark destroyer back there? It was all worked out to be an easy payday.”
    Rico told her about what Mike had said, that Patterson was supposed to go down in the fifth round.
    Maggie was rolling her eyes and shaking her head in disgust. “I’m gonna tell you something, Rico. I prayed all week for you because I knew something was wrong.”
    As they approached Bensonhurst, Maggie said she had a new idea of how to get the money for a house. “Because Plan A is FUBAR now. I ain’t gonna let you fight again for at least a couple of months.” When they got home Maggie got some hydrogen-peroxide to clean Rico’s cuts. “It’ll be all right, Rico. You scored a clean knockdown, everyone was saying. He was just too much bigger than you. Poor baby, you could have been killed.”
    “I just felt like I ought to do my best.”
    “Shhh.” Maggie kissed his forehead. “You did fine, baby. You fought a good fight.”
    A few days later Maggie took the sports page with her to talk to a new loan officer at the Bensonhurst bank. She saw the one who had turned down their previous application and snarled at him. She felt a little dizzy and wondered if she might be pregnant.
    The new loan officer slapped the newspaper with the back of his hand. “I saw that fight. Rico Mazzetti is your husband?”
    Maggie re-crossed her legs, slowly, then leaned forward and cupped her chin in her hands “Gonna be soon.”
    “How much did Rico make for fighting Patterson?”
    Maggie showed him the contract without mentioning the side deals. “Now he’s got a big name, so he’ll make a lot more next time he fights.”
    The bank officer thought it over. “Boxing’s banker, or maybe, the champ’s banker. I definitely like the way it sounds. Have you picked out a house?”
    A week later Rico and Maggie went to Father Ciccio to have him bless the wedding and see if they needed absolution for betting on Rico’s fights. The Father said it was only a sin if you threw the fight or didn’t do your best because that cheated the paying customers. Since both Rico and Patterson scored legitimate knockdowns, they were probably off the hook as far as it being a sin. As for Castillo, everyone knew he was a bleeder anyway so Father Ciccio said not to worry about it. And if somebody’s going to get hit by a truck, there’s nothing you can do about it.”
    Maggie said, “See, Rico, I told you so.” But really it was a big load off her mind.
    Rico told Father Ciccio about Castillo saying Rico was going to hell.
    Ciccio looked off into the distance, and then seemed to wave the matter away. “I always like to see young people get married.” He rose from his chair, put an arm around Rico’s shoulder and escorted him to the door. “I need a word with Maggie alone.”
    That night Maggie felt like Rico was still moping around. “What’s wrong?”
    “I was just thinking...”
    “Thinking about what? You did good—almost beat a champ.”
    “No, I mean about what Castillo said. It was weird, like he was pronouncing my fate.”
    “That he’d see you in hell?”
    “I almost got killed. If that referee had been slow...”
    “Stop with the worrying! Rico, baby, if Castillo is going to see you in hell, he’ll just have to wait his turn, because you’re gonna be with me in our big, new house for a long time.”
    Maggie was thinking too, about what Father Ciccio had told her in private. Now she had to break the news to Rico. She went to the closet and pulled down her suitcase, then opened it and laid it out on the bed. She opened the dresser drawers and started taking out clothes and putting them in the suitcase.
    Rico said through his still-swollen lips, “What are you doing?”
    “I’m going to stay with my mother until after the wedding. I’ve been talking to Father Ciccio, and he says we’ve been living in sin. And besides, he says we probably shouldn’t fuck anymore until we’re married.”
    “Living in sin?” Now Rico had that hangdog expression he always got.
    Maggie had known he wouldn’t take it well. But now that they were about to get a house and get married, her conscience was bothering her about living in sin. “Okay, look, we can fuck, but we have to have a formal date. “
    “A date?”
    “Dinner and a movie, you know, a date. It’s okay to get a little nookie on a date. But living together in a rented house? I’m telling yah, God gets pissed about stuff like that.”
    “Okay, I know. So I pick you up like—”
    Maggie lifted her right foot and pointed it back and pushed out her breasts so that her nipples showed through her shirt. She put her hands on her cheeks. “Like I’m a prom queen.” She stood there on one leg and Rico thought she looked like Clara Bow.
    Rico watched the muscles in the back of Maggie’s legs as she moved nimbly around barefoot on the carpet. She kept in good shape, worked out four times a week. When she bent over to empty the bottom dresser drawer Rico could see through her lace panties, into a mound of darkness and the infernal heat that he would live with until death did them part.

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