Free Pound for Pound by F. X. Toole Page A

was because of Eloy that Chicky’d never cottoned to Lone Star
cholo
—Mex-American—rap like so many of his contemporary Tejanitos, why he liked
rancheritas
and polkas, and the honky-tonk music played in juke joints and ice houses.
    Once Chicky had passed into the bright interior of the gym, Eloy crossed Santa Rosa against the red light, and walked slowly down the block to the hospital at the corner of Houston Street. Old at fifty-eight, and heavy for his height, he still walked like a fighter—short steps, chin tucked, shoulders slightly rolled forward. The Santa Rosa Hospital was where
    Chicky had been born. It was where Dolores’s cancer had been diagnosed and treated before she decided to go home. Now Eloy was going for a treadmill test, X-rays, and to get the results from previous blood and urine tests. They had been ordered by Dr. Rodrigo Ocampo, the family doctor of forty years, who promised a rush on the findings and that he’d be there to explain them.
    “Somebody musta messed up here,” Eloy protested when he was given the results.
    Dr. Ocampo said, “Guess who.”
    Ocampo was nearly eighty years old, but looked sixty. His full head of stiff white hair and Zapata mustache gave him the look of a revolutionary, but his black almond eyes were those of a poet. He was one of the few who knew the truth about why Eloy’s boxing career had effectively ended in a dreadful fuck-up,
desmadre,
out at the Olympic Auditorium in L.A. Ocampo had forgiven Eloy—what else could he do?—even if Eloy hadn’t forgiven himself.
    “We got to dry you out, pods. Your liver is getting as hard as a rock.”
    “I don’t want to hear about no cures,” Eloy said firmly.
    “You know I saw this coming, right?”
    “It ain’t no big surprise to me, either, if you had any doubts,” Eloy replied.
    Ocampo slipped into a heavy
cholo
accent, “Come on, come on, goddamnit, this is the fuckin doctor’s orders, man.”
    Eloy answered the same way. “Eloy Garza don’t take no stinkin orders.”
    “What about the kid?”
    “I’ll last awhile.” But Eloy knew he might not have a hell of a lot of time.
    “He’ll do better with you around longer than shorter,” Ocampo told him.
    “Doc, I’d’a changed a long time ago if I couldda.”
    Ocampo nodded. “You got my number if you change your mind, hear?”
    Eloy swore Dr. Ocampo to silence about the results of the tests. The Wolf, his soiled T-shirt stretched tight over his distended gut, would never share the results with anyone.
    The San Ignacio was a bustling gym, crowded primarily with Latinos, but there were a few blacks as well. No white fighters, though Chicky was often taken for one. There were two large, elevated rings and swaying body bags hung on cables and chains from the high ceiling. There were several rows of long benches near the entrance, and light from bright overhead lamps spun off the lime green walls as if dancing with the racket of the banging speed bags and whapping leather jump ropes. Some trainers huddled to whisper with their fighters, some moved through the commotion like monks gliding to evensong. There was one old-time white trainer who moved lithely despite his age. Some youngsters tried to teach each other, none of them teaching or learning much.
    Two longtime trainers in the San Nacho, the brothers Trini and Paco Cavazo, went back almost to the day the gym had first opened. They always staked out territory near the back of the ring, and barked like jailers at their fighters on the premise that either discipline ruled or chaos would erupt.
    Chicky took his time changing into his outfit—jock and T-shirt, sweatpants, and a sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off below the elbow. He wore dark blue gym shorts over the pants, and over the shirt he wore a kind of vest made from a faded black sleeveless sweatshirt. Layers meant perspiration. By the time he laced up his high boxing shoes, he figured Eloy would be in the gym waiting. He wasn’t. Chicky