The Stones Cry Out by Sibella Giorello Read Free Book Online Page B

his head with both gloves, preparing for punishment. The big fighter’s lips peeled over his mouthpiece. Smiling. Savoring the inevitable pain.
    I said, “How is it being the sudden owner?"
    Ray Frey shrugged. The bony shoulders stabbed the sweats like wire hangers. "Not like I won the lottery. Ain't exactly a profitable business we got here."
    I’d seen the tax returns. The gym had never declared a profit. "I always thought there was money in boxing."
    "For good ones, yeah. But this place—" he tossed a nod toward the boys skipping rope—"this place is a glorified Boys Club. None of their moms can even buy milk, or they won't buy it. Either way she ain't shelling out for boxing lessons. Everybody here’s on scholarship. Gets expensive."
    "You helped Mr. Holmes run the gym?"
    He gave a short sharp bark. "Child, I've been running this gym since before you were born. Hamal started out as my pet project."
    "So how did he become owner?"
    "Guy could’ve owned the world, if he'd done it right."
    "What’s that mean?"
    "I mean he had the potential to be number one in the world."
    "As a boxer?"
    "Cruiser weight, not heavyweight." He straightened, almost prideful. “I got a contract from Don King, back in my office." He paused. "You know who Don King is?"
    "With the wild hair?"
    "Right. He offered six figures."
    "Wow."
    "Uh-huh. Wow. Hamal was ranked number five. In the world. Then he sunk like a lead belt."
    "What happened?"
    "Up and left, that's what happened. Disappeared. I woke up one day, and he was gone. I had a Don King contract that could've saved everybody. But Hamal took off."
    "He came back, obviously."
    "Yeah, he came back." Ray Frey's voice was suddenly weary. "But a fighter can't do that. You gotta keep the momentum. We tried training again, but he wasn't the same. Never broke top twenty again. Whole thing was over. Done. Kaputt."
    “Where did he disappear to?”
    But Ray Frey started yelling at the ring.
    "Mel! You ain't got the sense God stuck in a jackrabbit. Ronnie, go ahead. Knock his block off. What do I care? Take his whole head off!"
    The big fighter -- Ronnie, I presumed—grinned demonically. He stepped toward the small fighter named Mel and threw punches so rapid I saw only a blur of red leather. Mel staggered back. His long-sleeved shirt was drenched with sweat and what little strength remained was spent feebly raising his glove. It was a gesture of pure surrender, and somehow more heartbreaking than the beating itself.
    Ronnie kept hitting. The creepy smile never faded.
    "All right!" Ray Frey waved his skinny arms. "All right! Ronnie, stop! You're gonna kill him."
    For good measure, Ronnie threw one more punch.
    “You make me sick.” Ray Frey spat on the floor. "Both of you. Get outta here."
    Ronnie slipped through the ropes, graceful as a dancer. He was shirtless, his deltoids rippling as he pulled at the laces of his gloves with his teeth. Tossing aside the headgear, he jogged to the speed bags.
    But Mel stood in the ring. His arms hung at his sides. With the sweat-drenched shirt, he looked like driftwood sent in by the tide.
    Ray Frey was watching Ronnie.
    "Reminds me of Hamal in his prime. If I can keep this one outta jail, we might make it to the top." He raised his voice. "What can I say, Mel. Guy's a killer. Natural-born killer."
    Mel nodded. He hadn’t taken off the gloves or the headgear. "I know."
    His voice sounded feminine, like he was going to cry. Listlessly he made his way from the ring. But he didn’t seem to have the strength to take off the headgear.
    Ray Frey shook his head.
    "Mel's a good kid," he said. “Bad home situation but what’s new? Problem now is Hamal was like his brother. When I heard about this whole thing Saturday...."
    The old man's eyes were light blue but obscure, like dull opals. I was weighing my next question: why he put a kid that broken up in the ring with a pounder like Ronnie. Then again, boxing had its own proving ground, and I let the question drift