"Lessig, Hugh - Picasso Smith - The Big Knockout" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lessig Hugh)

Chapter 1

I humped the George MacAndrew story for three days. It was fresh stuff and it had legs.

Day one: Fifteen column inches of nuts and bolts, straight-lined. Some color from bystanders. The other fighter, Paul Massey, is held in "protective custody" because of threats made against him. Commissioner LeStone keels over after the fight. The diagnosis: a mild heart attack. Chief Barnes swears unquotable quotes.

Day two: Twenty inches to lead A-1. Leads with medical examiner saying it "appeared" MacAndrew died of "unexplained heart failure." Detail of funeral arrangements. Color quotes from fellow boxers who knew MacAndrew. Failed attempts to reach known mob bosses to comment on their attendance. Massey still unavailable. Chief Barnes unavailable. Very strange.

Day three: Fifteen inches, downpage on A-1. Says the case is closed. Massey still in protective custody, but not considered a suspect. LeStone's condition upgraded to fair. Eating fudge ripple in his hospital bed. A few grab quotes from the funeral. Chief Barnes comes out of hiding and urges everyone to cool off. Publicly berates Frisco Foil for "stirring things up."

I kept the name "Bennies" out of the paper. I don't know why. Maybe it would've raised too many eyebrows. Bennies was a term for amphetamines back then -- I guess it still is -- because Benzedrine was the brand name. Chief Barnes didn't seem to think this was foul play. Chief Barnes didn't seem to care one way or the other. Chief Barnes' attitude made me hinky. Maybe MacAndrew took uppers or maybe someone slipped them in his water. That wasn't what bothered me. It was the image of his spastic head bouncing up and down on my typewriter and me being the last face he saw.

On the fourth day, the facts ran dry and the story needed its second wind. I drove out to MacAndrew's apartment to knock on doors.

MacAndrew lived in a turn-of-the-century building that once had class. It stood five stories tall, its windows filled with broken screens. MacAndrew's place was in the basement. I knocked once, waited, then opened the door. I came into a dimly-lit living room and a kitchen. A man in a dirty white T-shirt stood over a sink with a bottle of cleanser.

"You want something?" he asked.

"Is this where George MacAndrew lived?"

"Who wants to know?"

I told him who I was.

"The Frisco Foil? You got good crossword puzzles. I'm the super. I gotta come in and clean out this mess."

The super had an accent, maybe Italian or Greek. He was perhaps the hairiest man I had ever seen. He turned and showed me a pink scar under his chin. It cleaved the black bristle of his beard.

"You see this? George MacAndrew did that to me."

"Really?"

"Really. I come to collect the rent two weeks ago? He throws a plate. Pretty soon I'm digging glass out of my neck. He almost cut my throat. He never has money."

I got out my notebook and scribbled something.

"Hey," the super said. "Don't go putting anything in the paper."

"Did you know him very well?"

The super hesitated. "I used to be a fighter. We worked out at the same gym. But don't go putting me in the paper. I don't bother with the tenants' private lives."

I continued to scribble. I wanted to describe MacAndrew's apartment. He had a framed front page of the second Louis/Schmelling fight, a ratty couch that probably doubled as a bed, an oversize Grundig radio....

I was still writing when the super's fist connected with my jaw. It sent me tumbling over the coffee table and onto the floor. White spots of pain clouded my vision. It was a good, solid punch and the super stayed to look over his work.

"If my name goes in the paper, you're a dead man."

His voice shook -- more out out of fear than anger. I picked myself up and left without saying another word. On the first floor, I stopped to reread the list of tenant names. The fifth floor listed one tenant.