Knockout. Erica Orloff
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stared at me, her long platinum hair falling to her waist, her eyes a cross between blue and green, perfect cheekbones (implants), perfect nose (nose job), perfect teeth (porcelain veneers). Surprisingly, only her breasts were real. “One of these days, Jack, that stubborn streak of yours is going to get you in big trouble.”
“Come on, now, Crystal. It wouldn’t be the first time. And it sure won’t be the last.”
“You hope not.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you just hope it won’t be your last.”
The next afternoon Crystal had shown up on my and Deacon’s doorstep with her daughter in tow.
“We need to hide out here for a few days,” she had said. Her Ferrari looked to be packed with expensive luggage. Her suitcases probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.
“Please tell me you didn’t confront Tony about Benny Bonita,” I said as I led her and Destiny into the house. She towered over me in the stiletto heels she always wore. We were a study in contrasts. She was tall, I was short; she was a platinum blond, and I had black hair with a lot of unruly curl in it; she had those blue-green eyes and mine were dark brown; and most of all, she had the build of a bombshell, and I had the build of a lean fighter.
“I didn’t have to confront Tony. He accused me of eavesdropping. Said I was acting all weird. He grabbed my wrists and asked if I overheard him in his office. I blamed the way I was acting on the pair of panties the housekeeper found in our bed. She washed them and put them in my drawer. But they weren’t mine. My ass isn’t that big, the bastard.”
“So which was it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Were you acting weird because he was cheating on you or because of Benny Bonita?”
“Benny. I’ve caught Tony cheating before. How do you think I got this rock?” she asked, waving her diamond in the air.
We retrieved her suitcases, and I showed her upstairs. Deacon’s house was no twenty-million-dollar mansion, but it was a palatial luxury house. My bedroom suite had been done by some fancy decorator Deacon hired. He wanted it to be masculine, yet inviting, whatever the hell that means. My sitting room has a butter-cream leather couch and recliner, a French country table and Tiffany lamps. My bed is a king-size four-poster, and my bathroom has a tub big enough to swim in. On the walls and shelves, though, are my things. Pictures of my father when he was Golden Gloves champ, photos of me, him and Deacon taken from when I was a little girl and was hanging out in the gym, one of us at Disneyland, and one on a trip to New York City. On the wall hung my father’s middleweight championship belt.
“So you left Tony?”
“I told him I wanted to get away. But really…I keep hearing him on the telephone, very angry, talking to Benny. I know he is. Tony’s intense, but he’s not a screamer. But that day with Benny, he screamed. Loud. Something’s going on, and honestly, I don’t want to be there when whatever it is happens. I told him I was going to visit an old friend and that I’d be back in a few days. I need to think this all through, Jack.”
“Look, I’m no fan of Tony Perrone. He’s got an ego the size of the Grand Canyon. However, you’ve said all along he’s a good father figure to Destiny. And I still don’t think he’d get involved with Benny in any kind of illegal scheme. Maybe the meeting was about the terms of the fight. About the arena. About percentages. About the cable rights.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, look, my house—technically Deacon’s house—is your house.” I leaned down to look Destiny in the eyes. “I wish I had some toys for you to play with. I don’t even have an old teddy bear. When I was your age, I was already going with my father to the boxing gym. I played with punching bags, and one of the trainers made me my own jump rope. But no dolls.”
Destiny, wearing a pink backpack, smiled up at me.
“I brought some of her favorites,” Crystal said, unzipping a big bag and pulling out a Barbie doll.
“You like Barbies?” I asked Destiny.
She nodded but didn’t speak.
“She’s kind of shy,” Crystal said.
“I don’t suppose they have a Boxing Barbie.” I looked at Destiny. She giggled slightly and shook her head.
“One of our fighters has a match tonight so you’ll have the house to yourselves. Let me show you around. Here’s the bed. You take mine—you and Destiny. And there’s the bathroom. Clean towels are in the linen closet. I’ll sleep in the guest room. This way, you two have the sitting room so she has a place to play. I don’t have any food to offer you two, but tomorrow I’ll get up early and go to the grocery store. All I have is leftover Chinese. And you know Deacon, he still does that juicer. You’ll hear it whirring at all hours. You know that thing is strong enough to juice a human head, I think. If you want fruit, or raw carrots, I can bring some up. That’s what he lives on. That and fresh salmon.”
“We’re not really hungry.”
“Okay. I’ll get some other food tomorrow. What can she eat?”
Crystal laughed. “She can eat the same food you and I eat.”
“Oh. Well, what does she like to eat?”
“Pop-Tarts, chicken nuggets, French fries…Cheerios. She likes blueberry yogurt, the kind with the fruit on the bottom.” All of a sudden, Crystal started crying.
“It’s okay, Mama,” Destiny whispered.
“Yeah, Crystal. It’s going to be okay. Just chill for a couple of days. Listen, I’m going downstairs to let Deacon know you’re here, okay? Why don’t you freshen up or change into your swimsuits and go for a dip in the pool.”
“It’s actually time for The Wiggles.”
“The what?”
“It’s a TV show. Her favorite.” Crystal picked up the remote and turned on my plasma-screen television, clicking through to the program.
“I didn’t even know I had that channel on my cable,” I said, shaking my head. Then I left my sitting room and went down to talk to Deacon, who was sipping some sort of brown-green liquid.
“What the hell is that?”
“Wheat grass.”
“Gross. Hey, Deacon?”
“What?”
“Crystal’s upstairs.”
“Crystal? Well, Lord, it’s been a while since we’ve seen her around.”
“She’s here with her daughter.”
“How old is her child now?”
“Five. Listen, they’re, um…I don’t know. She’s on the outs with Tony. Something’s up. I told her she could stay a few days.”
“If she needs money, help, we’re here for her.”
I looked at my uncle. He hadn’t lost any of his thick black hair. His eyes were a warm brown, and his nose had a tilt to the left, courtesy of “Left-Eye” McGill, a boxer Deacon had squared off against a long time ago. “I was hoping you’d say that, Deacon,” I whispered, and leaned down to kiss him on the top of his head, grateful for him. His given name was Nick, but he had found God somewhere along the way and became a minister by mail-order ordination. He was also the high priest of all things boxing, so the nickname fit.
I looked at my watch. “Dad should be calling in about twenty minutes.” I opened the sub-zero refrigerator, which was very clearly delineated. Two shelves for Deacon, stockpiled with okra, kale, parsley, wheat grass, carrots and piles of apples to use in his juicer. Two shelves for me, barren except for Chinese