Free The Punishing Game by Nathan Gottlieb

Boff’s interest perked up a bit. “How so? He bets on fights? Gets front row seats at the Garden? Boxes in white collar tournaments?”
    “You know who Sonny Ricci is, right?” Bellucci asked.
    “Not a clue,” Boff replied.
    “He’s a New York boxing promoter,” Cullen said. “Biaggi was the first established fighter willing to sign with Sonny when he started his company.”
    Bellucci picked up the thread. “Last year Yusef formed a new company with Ricci. It’s called Force/Ricci Boxing. They promote and market minority boxers. Yusef uses the boxers to help sell his clothing line and music. Take a wild guess who promotes Jermain Simms?”
    “And,” said Cullen, “Jermain Simms is my opponent in this fight.”
    Boff’s interest perked up even more. “This Yusef Force promotes Danny’s opponent?”
    “Yup.”
    Boff was about to ask a follow-up question when something occurred to him. He checked his watch and frowned. “I’d love to continue talking about this now,” he said, “but it will have to wait until later. I have something to do. Where can I drop you guys?”
     

Chapter 13
     
    Taking the Major Deegan Expressway to the South Bronx, Boff drove west on East 136 th Street until he reached a small, mostly industrialized section of the borough known as Port Morris. This was where he had grown up. At Walnut Street, he made a right, then pulled over and parked near a row of small stores.
    In an area that was largely Puerto Rican and working class, pretty much the only whites were the yuppies who were clustered in a small area adjacent to the Third Avenue Bridge. And old people who’d been there for decades.
    Boff’s mother still ran what in years past had been referred to simply as a candy store, although it also had a soda fountain. As Boff got out of his car, two Hispanic teenagers leaning against the front window of his mother’s store eyeballed him.
    Putting on his best smile, he nodded to the boys. “How you guys doin’ today?”
    Both teenagers looked away.
    As Boff entered the store, an overhead brass bell that had been there since he was a kid jingled. His mother was standing behind the fountain whipping up what looked like milkshakes for two girls sitting on the red-cushioned stools. His mother glanced over at him, returned to the shakes—and then did a double take!
    “Frankie! Oh, my God!”
    Thelma Boff wiped her wet hands on her apron, hustled out from behind the counter, ran across the floor, and hugged her son. “What on earth are you doing in New York?” she asked.
    “Working a case.”
    Thelma turned to the girls. “Nina, Marta, look who’s here! My son! He’s a famous private investigator.”
    The girls glanced at Boff. If they were impressed, they didn’t show it.
    “Can we, like, have our milkshakes, Mama Boff?”
    Thelma grabbed her son’s arm. “Frankie, give me a second to serve these girls. Don’t go anywhere.”
    Boff laughed. “I’ll be right here, Mom.”
    At seventy-two, Thelma Boff was spry, full of energy, and still wore her shiny silver hair in a Sixties-style bouffant. “Take some candy, Frankie. I still carry your favorite.”
    Reaching into the candy case, he picked up a box of Good & Plenty. The thing he had liked best about working at the candy store on weekends as a kid was that he got to eat all the Good & Plenty he wanted. To the left of an ancient brass cash register, he saw another fixture of his youth: two large glass jars, one filled with giant chocolate-chip cookies, the other, plain donuts.
    After Thelma finished making the shakes, she put a straw in each one and slid the frosted glasses to the girls. “There you go,” she said. Then she came back around the counter to her son. They sat on stools further down the row.
    “What a nice surprise,” she said.
    Boff kissed her on the cheek. As he started to open the candy box, she grabbed his hands. “Wait,” she said. “You have to sing the jingle before you open it. Like you always