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This appears in a pre-2010 issue
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Hard Hustle
Mark Scott
As for boxing trainers, J.J. Curry was the man in St. Louis. His counterpart from Kansas City called himself T. Ray Foster. Ray talked too smooth to trust him, and J.J. had no idea what his T stood for, but he had a few good fighters. Ray could be a real fight-man if he didn’t spend so much time with the radio/tv folks. J.J. asked him, “Why does she need to speak with me?”
“Like I said, last week a dude named Hay-Zooz comes in, say he threw down with your boy back in the ochentas. A woman with him asked did I know Bobby Moore.”
“Jesus Pineda fought Bobby back in the eighties?” J.J. kept his eyes on his young fighter in the ring. “I guess he was fighting then, he only lasted a few years. I ain’t seen him since ’94.”
A bell clanged to end the round. “He wrote a song and it got on the charts,” Ray said. “It’s called The Ring’s a Hard Hustle. That’s her back there, been asking about Bobby and his song.”
J.J. was spreading Vaseline over his fighter’s eye. He held his left fist up high and tucked his chin under his shoulder, to show his pupil how not to get hit. “How does the song go?”
Ray jabbed his right forefinger at the floor to give a beat, singing deep and low:
You tell me the ring’s a hard hustle
Say it ain’t worth the fuss, I’ll
Tell you ‘bout the rest o’ the world
That’s a story you ain’t heard
Ray cleared his throat and held up a hand to apologize for the interruption. J.J. said, “Go ahead, I think I’ve heard it.
Uncle Tom, yeah he try to fit in
They beat him down, took all his kin
Boss say you humble, take a bow
You end up fightin’ anyhow
Spend yo’ life runnin’ fo’ the man
Or else off up in the can
Ray shrugged sheepishly, embarrassed by his singing voice. “The rest go, “’Ba-deep, ba-deep the ring’s a hard hustle...’”
“That’s it?”
“Like that, I don’t know it all. But they be spinnin’ it on the radio every day, and Bobby got some money coming to him.”
“And you get a cut.”
“Is there something wrong with that?”
“All right then.” J.J. waved to the woman at the back of the gym, where five boxers were jumping rope. A bell clanged to end another round and J.J. called out, “Miss, do you need to speak with me?”
She put her note pad in her hand bag and patted a welterweight on the shoulder to thank him for his comments that she had written down. J.J could tell from her body and the way she walked toward him that she spent a lot of time working out, looked like a dancer or maybe a stripper.
“Are you looking for Bobby Moore?” J.J. had his arms folded across his chest. He really didn’t like anyone to come snooping around his gym. Usually it was somebody trying to see how to beat one of his fighters.
She extended her hand. “Yes, I’m Dorothy Adams.”
“I’m J. J.” He put out a leathery hand and she gave it a feline caress of a shake. “I haven’t seen Bobby in years.”
The bell clanged again. J.J. put the head guard on a heavyweight. “Didn’t Bobby Moore used to run with your older brother?”
“They both left town, running from the law,” the truck-sized man mumbled.
“Law? Bobby stayed away from trouble, is how I remember it.”
“Wasn’t nothing but a gang rumble, really just yelling and throwing a few punches. They gave ‘em all probation.”
J.J. took out his heavyweight’s mouth piece so he could speak freely. “So why are they running from the law?”
“On account of the way they shake ‘em down. You gotta pay yo’ probation fee to stay outta jail, see, and ‘lot o’ times they just steal the money, then they say, ‘You got yo’ receipt?’ You don’t, you go to jail. I guess Bobby lost his receipt.”
“This lady wants to help Bobby,” Ray said, smiling at her. “You say you’re with the record company?”
“No, I’m Bobby Moore’s wife.”
J.J. said, “Then why ain’t you Dorothy Moore?”
“We have been estranged, it’s a long story. And I don’t want it to take up too much of your time.”
“Me neither.” J.J. was putting the gloves on another heavyweight as he talked to Dorothy. “So, Anything else I can tell you?”
Ray said, “You been down to Texas? Bobby got people there.”
“I know that. I called his sister in Houston, she hasn’t seen him.”
“You told the cops? Put out a missing-persons alert?”
She had a look on her face that was almost a smile, watching the heavyweights throw bombs at each other in the ring above her. “No, but I dropped a dime to all the radio stations.”
“He’ll show up then. Bobby used to skip out of training, be gone for several weeks. He always made it to his fight, though, and he’ll be front-and-center to get his money.” After three more weeks, Bobby had not shown up. But his song had shot to number one with a bullet. Rumors spread that he was down in Mexico, turned to smoking crack full-time, killed in a knife fight or a gang shooting. His life had been a real hard hustle, they would say before playing his song.
Several months passed. Ray was saying it was no big thing, a man staying away from St. Louis, with its bad-assed reputation.
“But he is from St. Louis— used to run with the Spinks boys.”
“East side?”
“Umm, hmm. “
“It’s a rough place.” Ray made a world-weary face.
“He’s probably doing time somewhere. Sho’ could fight, though. Another woman came looking for him, said they were married.”
“Now he’s got two wives.” Ray laughed.
“And a number-one hit.”
J.J. kept the books and fight schedules in an old broom closet where he had put a desk and a telephone. Robbie Tate at the radio station said, “I know the woman. Dorothy used to come around checking how many times I played the songs, collecting royalties for ASCAP, is what she said. They’re a group collects for the song owners.”
“Used to be a fighter around here named Bobby Moore, sometimes called himself Cool Cat.”
“I remember the dude, but I heard he was dead.”
“S’posedly he wrote a hit song, called The Ring’s a Hard Hustle.”
“Yeah, I know. But I heard he’s dead.”
The season turned and Ray went all around asking everybody about Cool Cat, asking had they bought his record. “Lotta boys can fight, but can’t stay off the pipe. Like that one there.” Ray pointed to the ring where a black lightweight was making blood soup out of the face of a white middleweight. The lightweight’s entire body was corded with muscle and he pushed the larger man around the ring easily. “He’s done two stints in county for holding crack.”
“Bobby was straight when I knew him, J.J. said. “He got a little imaginative sometimes, but took good care of himself mostly.”
By the time the Gammy awards rolled around Bobby had become a cult hero of sorts. One scholarly television program used his song as a point of departure in their series on Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Three state legislatures listened carefully to the lyrics while deliberating on bills to improve boxing regulations. The Ring’s a Hard Hustle won song of the year and royalties of over two million dollars had accrued for the song writer thought to be dead.
Bobby’s song fell from the top-twenty charts after a five-month run. After it won a Grammy, it enjoyed another brief stint on the charts. “You ever hear from Bobby?” Ray had his new El Dorado parked outside the gym and was wearing a Rolex. He scanned the dilapidated facilities with a disapproving visage.
J.J. said, “No.”
Ray smiled broadly. “I got a feeling he’ll show up.”
It was almost a year to the day from when J.J. had first heard Hard Hustle when Bobby Moore and his wife Dorothy, and their three kids showed up at a St Louis Cardinals baseball game. Once his record was off the charts, being dead had lost its appeal. After taking care of some legalities Bobby had cleared almost $2 million for Hard Hustle. “I only had one song in me,” he said. “I had to make the most of it.”
