CAT scan? You want a doctor’s report? We can get that to you.”

“You’re missing the point.” Wolkowitz held up two fingers like goalposts. “Strictly speaking, the decision to give Elijah the fight is not ours to make.”

“Well then who are we supposed to talk to?” I asked.

Sam Wolkowitz gave me a look that was supposed to cut me dead. Lips pressed together, eyes turned slightly away. It was a look that must’ve sent people crawling out of the executive suites on their hands and knees. But I’d seen my father stick an ice pick into somebody.

“Excuse me,” Sam said. “But who are you?”

“Oh, this here is my business partner.” John looped an arm around my shoulders. “Anthony’s just helping us out with our organization.”

“I’m just looking out for everybody’s best interest.”

Sam checked me out like a butcher inspecting a bad piece of meat. “John,” he said, without taking his eyes off me, “I thought surely you’d understand we can’t put a champion in the ring with a fighter who’s no longer ranked in the top ten. We couldn’t sell a noncompetitive fight like that. Our markets wouldn’t take it.”

“So how do we get our guy ranked?” I asked.

Sam’s mouth turned into a thin line of disapproval. “Well, John,” he said. “As I’m sure you know, that decision would be up to the World Boxing Federation.”

“And who do we talk to there?”

Wolkowitz raised one eyebrow and looked from me to John B., as if asking, “Is this guy for real?” A couple of minutes ago he’d thought I was some gay flirt.

“The head of the WBF is Mr. Pedro Hoyas Ospina.” Wolkowitz examined his buffed nails. “A great advocate and a very dear personal friend. I often go down to visit him at the headquarters in Panama. The common view— and I’m not saying I agree or disagree—is that he controls the ranking system. I believe he’ll be appearing on the panel today.”

Wolkowitz nodded toward the stage at the front of the ballroom, where various fighters and casino executives were taking seats on a long wooden dais with a blue-and-gold Doubloon banner hanging off the front.

“So you’re saying that if we get to this Ospina, we got a shot at the fight?” I asked Wolkowitz.

“I’m not saying anything. I’m just putting things in context. You have to respect the integrity of the process.”

Oh go fuck yourself, I thought. I smiled as he shook John B.’s hand and gave me a sidelong glance.

“Good luck to you, John,” he said. “And be careful about the kind of company you keep.”

He drifted away like smoke off a cheap cigar and the press conference began. Pedro Hoyas Ospina of the WBF got up to make a speech. A little fireplug of a man with skin like a bad fruit and a tan leisure suit. He looked like someone Teddy might have had parking his car a few years ago. He began talking about how much he loved boxing and how he’d sacrificed everything in his life for the sport. He grew up in a little town near Caracas, he said, where a boy had to learn how to fight or dress up like a chicken for a month and let other children pluck him.

“I made myself,” he said with a choked-up, heavy accent. “That little chicken grew up to be a man ... A man ... Oh God!”

Then he started crying big honking sobs and burying his face in his handkerchief. Other people looked down and shook their heads, like they’d all shared the pain of dressing up like a chicken.

“Jesucristo, I love America,” Pedro Hoyas Ospina said between honks.

I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around, expecting John B. to tell me something. Instead there was a tall, pale man wearing chinos and a white silk shirt with a paisley ascot underneath it.

“I understand you wish to speak with the commissioner,” he said, bowing slightly to John B. and then me.

Soft hands, light Spanish accent, skin as smooth as a leather briefcase at an airport duty-free shop. Obviously not a street guy like Ospina. I wondered if he was the appointments secretary or something.

“Yeah,” said John B. “My brother, he’s looking to get the title belt put back around his middle, where it belong.”

“Ah, yes, your brother Elijah,” said the man in the paisley ascot. “We’ve often passed pleasant afternoons playing golf on the courses of South Florida. Many humorous hours have gone by, looking for his balls in the woods.”

He smiled at us, but something about him made my gut squirm. He said his name was Eddie Suarez. I couldn’t figure out how he knew what we wanted. I’d seen Sam Wolkowitz go up to the panel on the stage and sit down next to Pedro Hoyas Ospina without giving any signal.

“So your brother is intent on making a comeback,” said Eddie Suarez, standing with his back against a long marble pillar as Ospina went into the tenth minute of his speech.

“We want to see him get ranked,” I jumped in. “We understand it’s the only way he can get the fight.”

Suarez solemnly touched his lips with his fingertips. “You know, my friends, the commissioner is very concerned about the youth of today. Many more temptations are available to them. The drugs, the credit cards, the pornographic videos .. .”

“They have it too easy!” said John B.

“The commissioner feels it is important for the youth to have an outlet for their . . . energies,” Suarez continued. “A place to go. You understand. So that is why the commissioner wishes to build a gymnasium in Panama City.”

“What do you want us to do about it?” I asked.

Suarez’s eyes got a little wider and a little darker, as if they were trying to fill the gaps in what he was saying. “A contribution is needed. Certainly you are both familiar with the high cost of construction, even in a country as poor as ours.”

“Yeah, so for how much?” I asked.

“In the neighborhood of ten thousand dollars,” he said.

I whistled loud enough to turn several heads nearby.

“So this is a bribe?”

His smile said you wouldn’t want to see his frown. “I have no authority,” he told us. “I’m merely a friend to all parties. A builder of bridges.”

Fair enough. I guess a lot of bridge builders get paid off too. Except we were already fifty thousand dollars in the hole for the normal expenses.

I swallowed hard and tried to look unconcerned. If we didn’t pay this guy off, we couldn’t get Elijah rated in the WBF top ten, and therefore, the TV guy Wolkowitz wouldn’t talk to us. In my father’s trade this was what was known as a shakedown. Except these guys had custom-made suits and corporate offices. I should’ve turned on my heel and left right then. They were exactly the same as Teddy’s crew. It mademe think of that kid’s game, Chutes and Ladders. You start off at the bottom and end up at the bottom with hardly any time in between.

But it was still my one chance at getting out. Sure, boxing was a dirty business, but it was a way into the legitimate world, where I belonged. I couldn’t go back and work for Teddy in six months. So instead of Chutes and Ladders, I told myself it was an obstacle course, with a great reward waiting for me at the end.

I asked Suarez for his card and said we’d get back to him.

“Do not make the mistake of waiting too long, my friends,” he warned us. “This fight is scheduled for ten weeks from today. It is possible another light heavyweight may be chosen from the ranks.”

“It wouldn’t be the same as having Elijah up there,” John B. told him in a panicky voice.

I tried to play it cool. “We’ll come to terms when we come to terms,” I said. “We’re not desperate, you know.”

13