“I have to talk to you.”
“That’s what you said on the phone, and that’s why I’m here.” I sat on a pink velvet tufted ottoman.
“Jack,” she whispered. “The Mob is trying to get to your fighter, Terry Keenan. And if you get in the way, they’ll kill you. They’ll kill anyone who gets in the middle of it.”
My uncle Deacon and my father were the only two brothers in boxing history to hold championship belts at the same time—my father as a middleweight, my uncle as a heavyweight. Together, the famous Rooney brothers owned a training facility for fighters nestled in the foothills of the Nevada mountains, and a gym in one of Las Vegas’s less-savory neighborhoods. When my father went to prison, I tried to take his place. I was raised in a boxing gym and know as much about fighting as any trainer. Terry Keenan was one of our fighters, and in four weeks, on New Year’s Eve, he was scheduled to box for the heavyweight championship of the world.
“What the hell are you talking about, Crystal?” She was nursing a white wine spritzer, which sat on her dressing table. Before Perrone took her away from me and all her friends, she liked Wild Turkey.
“Benny Bonita and Tony had a secret meeting. I heard shouting. Tony didn’t realize I was in the wine cellar. I crept up the stairs and could hear everything. Every word. They have something on Terry Keenan. I’m not sure what, but it’s big. They want him to take a dive in round five, and they don’t care who they have to kill to make this fight go the way they want it. Bonita wants to take over all of your dad’s fighters. Some high rollers and some big-time bookies want to see Keenan lose. In round five to be precise.”
Crystal had serious conspiracy-theory issues. She thought everyone from Elvis to Liberace was beamed down in Area 51. UFOs, alien abductions, JFK, even Princess Di’s death, if there was a conspiracy theory, she embraced it. Despite Tony’s Pygmalion transformation of her, she still got most of her news from the National Enquirer.
“Crystal, Tony Perrone has a reputation as a ruthless businessman, and there are whispers about the Mob, but I can’t see him doing business with the likes of Bonita.”
Benny Bonita was the loudest, brashest, most crooked, most obnoxious fight promoter in the history of a sport with brash showmen—with the biggest pompadour toupee to match. He also framed my father, and I hated him with a passion. But as much as I hated him and wanted to buy into Crystal’s theory, Tony Perrone was too smart. He would be careful not to have more than a hint of the Mob around him. It would be bad for business—bad for his gaming license.
“I’m sure of what I heard, Jack. Swear to God. Bonita said something like ‘I should have taken care of the other brother—and that kid of Rooney’s, too.’ He meant you. That’s when I panicked.”
“Crystal, I don’t know if there’s any need to panic. This is a brutal sport. People do a lot of trash talking. It’s part of the whole game. Put it from your mind. Keenan will fight Bonita’s man, and he will win. And he’ll win here in the Majestic’s arena. I can’t wait to rub Bonita’s face in it.”
Crystal 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
