Chapter 3
"Pack. You're leaving." I'm what?"
"Leaving."
And Tony and Ginny Mae turn at the sound of Teddy's voice. They are in the office.
And Tony has just written her a check, her severance.
"Pack your stuff and clear out.
"Tony'll have somebody drive you to wherever."
Said in a flat, even, quiet voice which nevertheless has about it an air of finality. There can be no appeal and she knows it. But there can be parting shots. "Just like that, I'm through, right."
"Just like that."
"Yeah, well lemme tell you somethin', chump, I mean champ.
"Tony paid me to come up here."
Teddy's head jerks as though he has been slapped.
"Didn't know that, didja, Mister High-an'-Mighty, Mister Macho?
"Hired help, is what I was. More a part of the team than you knew, Mister Smart-ass!"
"That true, Tony?" Teddy asks.
"Teddy, Teddy, Teddy!
"Just tryna keep the old emotional level even, is all.
"Hey, I handled colored-I mean, I had other boxers before.
"Boxer's gotta be virile, hot-blooded or it's no good, see?
"But he's also gotta have an outlet for all that aggression, a safety valve, ya know? "So I thought."
"I see what you thought. "Tell ya what, Tone.
"You lemme do all the thinkin' along those lines from here on out, okay?"
Tony shrugs.
"Yeah, sure. Okay. Only-you will do somethin', right?"
"Hey, that's my-"
"No! No, dammit, Teddy, no!
"It's all our business, Teddy.
"You lose, we all lose.
"Ain't happened yet, hopefully never will.
"But I know what you need."
"Hands off this area, Tony, from here on out.
"That, or so help me, bad as I needja, there's the door and the limo is leavin' momentarily."
Turning to Ginny Mae, "And you, don't just stand there. Get packed."
"I hope Spike fuckin' kills your ass, creep!"
And she turns and leaves the office.
"Paid for it! Geez!"
"Look, Teddy, she'd of prob'ly done it for zip, all right?
"Just, I knew she wasn't gonna have nothin' else ta show for it when the fight was over, right?"
Teddy says nothing.
"Well, am I right or not, champ?
"Tell me you were gonna keep her around after the champagne!"
"You got all the answers, don't cha, Tony?"
"You take a young, single, black girl pushin' fast food, throw 'er into bed with the heavyweight champ, also black, also single-an' young, maybe three, four years older than she is, you really think a couple hucks're gonna kill the dream, huh?
"Tony, read my lips.
"No! Way! In! Hell!
"Got that?
"I am what they live for! "Not braggin', either. Nuthin' personal about it. "Hey, Spike does me, he gets the crown. "The king is dead, long live the king, and like that.
"They'd all be wantin' him.
"But right now, it's me.
"That gal was workin' her points.
"Any of 'em would, given that position, that ... opportunity."
"Took the money, didn't she?"
"Did she? Guaranteed, she ain't cashed check one yet.
"She took the money because you gave it to her. "She never thought about it once, not until just now.
"I give her a ring and all that paper comes back in your face, guaranteed."
One of the sparring partners, Ralph, appears in the doorway.
"All set, Tony."
"Where ya headed?"
He shrugs. "Bronx, she says. Gonna take me four hours ta get back here."
"Then best you get started," Teddy says. "Take off," Tony confirms. He does.
"One door closes, another opens," Teddy says. "like what?"
"You're gonna hafta leave that in my hands, Tone."
"You got a full cup aready, pal."
"Then in that case, stand back, because my cup is about to run over."
"Do you follow boxing, Rufe."
"Yes ma'am.
"How much money do they make?
"The best ones, that is. Take the heavyweight champ, for example."
"Well, he got twelve million his las' fight and I unnastan' the one comin' up is gonna come to more'n 'at."
"So he's quite wealthy, then."
Rufe smiles.
"You could safely say that, yes ma'am."
"Then in that case, do you know where his summer camp is."
"Summah camp?"
"Or exercise camp or whatever it's called. "Where he's practicing."
Rufe grins at her terminology.
Man's probably kicking the shit out of half a dozen sparring partners and she makes it sound like he's taking piano lessons.
"Well, I know where the town is."
"And undoubtedly one of the locals could tell us how to get there, yes?"
"Us."
"Uh, yes. I was thinking of ... visiting him."
"Up there."
"Well, of course. I mean, visits are permitted, are they not?"
"Don' know."
"I'm sure he'll see me."
Rufe looks her up and down and grins.
"Wouldn't surprise me none if he would at that, ma'am."
Because, like himself, Teddy would not have any difficulty at all figuring out exactly what she has in mind.
No big thing.
With the pressure of getting ready for the title defense, if he has to, he can get along without for a while.
And Tony better not try to surprise him with a replacement for Ginny Mae, either.
Not that he could.
And Teddy grins at this last thought.
Because Tony cannot possibly know that he has one new, major requirement.
It is one that Tony would not pander to, not even for Teddy.
She has to be white.
Has to.
Because it is absolutely true, what he has told Tony about black girls.
For which he does not blame them.
He is, after all, and by definition, available.
And the universally accepted manifestation of sincerity, of commitment, is sex.
And girls who might he perfectly willing to do it for the sheer fun of it, no strings attached, with nobody in particular or everybody in general, back in their own neighborhood would automatically, like Ginny Mae, find great significance and what they see as the genuine opportunity of a lifetime doing it with Teddy.
The money, the fame, the perceived obligation?
No way do they walk away from Teddy once he gets a taste.
That would be asking too much of them and Teddy knows it.
And so would Tony have known, if he had cared enough to think it through.
The obligation is-would be-inescapable, from their point of view.
No, the black chicks are out. No question.
So that leaves the white ones.
But not just any will do.
They must be independently wealthy.
They must expect nothing except a calm, friendly end to what Teddy does not even wish to accord the status of a full-blown affair.
It must be strictly a meeting of libidos.
A physical thing, period.
Understood as such, right up front.
A series of episodes of purely sensual delight, each complete, in and of itself, and leading to nothing except more of the same and even that is not guaranteed.
Enough that his position has brought him this privilege.
Enough that their disposition has brought them to him.
Oh, he has no doubt that there are black girls who would agree to this up front, lying to him, thinking, Yeah, baby, you say that now, but just wait 'til you get a taste of this brown sugar!
Because-and this is something that Tony could never understand-there is no pride like black female pride.
These girls will lie to him one way, to their family and friends, and to themselves another-and believe it.
They've got what it takes and they know how to use it, and a chorus of angels telling them it ain't gonna happen is not going to change their minds.
No, Teddy knows that he has no option in this direction.
Not as long as he has fame and fortune. Not as long as he has no wife, no fiance, no live-in.
Because even this last is no defense, no deterrent to black pride and ambition.
You done had de res', honey! Now you gonna get de bes', you dig?
He is, by definition, the biggest game in town.
And if they have the nerve to play, they have the confidence to believe they can win.
So that the only way out of such painful situations was-is-not to create them in the first place.
And you don't have to be a genius to figure that one out.
You do, however, have to be black to understand it, to be in possession of the facts.
Sorry, Mr. Lincoln, but all men are not created equal.
There are some things you just have to be black to know.
Tony meant well with Ginny Mae, but he didn't know, he couldn't know what he was doing. And Teddy gives Ginny Mae a lot of credit that she took it as well as she did, that she was not a crazy, a danger to herself, or a psycho, a danger to everybody, and in any event a source of disgrace, of scandal.
Because, now that he thinks about it, if ever there was a situation with a potential for violence, surely it was the one that stupid, clumsy greaseball created.
And he meant well.
And that is, perhaps, the most terrible aspect of this whole thing.
And Tony's ordeal is not over.
Because Teddy can imagine the reaction if and when he sees what Teddy comes up with for nookie.
Oh, Tony has been around.
He has seen black guys with white women.
But not such as Teddy is holding out for.
No, Teddy has seen those white women too, the ones Tony knows about.
They fall into categories-those who are making a social statement, those who are in rebellion against class or family, and those who feel that they can, by crossing the line, come up with a better husband than anything they could get on their own side of the fence.
In other words, they have gone nigger fucking out of guilt, out of revenge, or from a sense of their own inferiority.
And Teddy wants none of that.
He is not looking for the political, the angrily outrageous, or the condescending.
He wants a woman who can use him on his terms and vice versa.
And none of the bullshit that goes along with it.
And he grins.
Because, having defined his ideal sex partner of the moment, the image alone gives him a kind of contentment, of satisfaction.
And he can only hope the feeling stays with him until after the big fight.
Because this is as close as he islikely to come to the real thing between now and then.
Rufe knows that look.
He has seen this coming, ever since she got back from Florida.
The restlessness in her, the ceaseless motion of her voluptuous body.
As though she cannot find a comfortable position in which to sit.
Crossing and uncrossing her legs.
And not dismissing him, keeping him standing there, waiting.
And now, questions about the champ.
Big, black, muscular, head close-shaven like his own.
And we all look alike, right? Miz Cynthia, he thinks. Or is that the Chinese?
In any event, he knows she has a taste for the licorice stick.
And his fulfills the stereotype he knows she has of that particular appendage of the big, black stud.
Fulfills it in theory and in practice.
And yes, she has had him before.
That is, his body.
She has had him as thing, as object, as living dildo.
She has invited him into her bed, lying there, eyes closed, as he does his thing.
That is what she does if he is very lucky.
If he is merely lucky, she will lie there, legs already raised and spread, bent at the knees, head to one side, eyes closed, waiting.
Telling him that, this time, he is not free to explore her-all of her, every nook and cranny with hands and fingers and mouth and tongue.
Telling him that, this time, the most he can do by way of a build-up is to burrow into her snatch with his mouth open for a while before he socks it into her.
And afterward?
Always the same.
Not so much as looking at him.
Getting up as soon as he has dismounted.
And running into the bathroom, locking the door behind her.
And leaving him standing there, cock not yet detumescing, long and thick and slimy with a mixture of come and pussy juice, shining as though made of marble.
So that he must gather his clothes and head for the guest room, there to shower in solitude, there to dress by himself.
And afterward head for the garage, busying himself with the limo or the Continental or the Porsche or anything, anything at all so that she does not have to look at him.
So that it will not have happened.
So that the memory is not that of fact but of fantasy, her episode with the big, black stud a thing of the mind and having no part in reality.
In the real world, he gets no credit for what he is, what he has, what he can do.
She has used him, like a vibrator, a dildo, her finger.
From his point of view it was sex; from hers, masturbation.
Degrading? Insulting? Less even than that.
It is a man, a fellow human being one degrades or insults. But objects?
How does one go about insulting a thing?
Abuse it, perhaps; but insult? Impossible.
And many a time he has said to himself, You don't like it, sport? Then go do better somewhere else.
And he knows.
He knows that he will not, that he cannot.
And he cannot even flatter herself that he has tempted her despite herself.
So that it is her shame, her disgust with herself, with her own weakness that has forced her to demand his sexual attentions.
He knows better.
Rather, it is an image, a symbol, something that predates him, that remains in her mind whether or not he himself is available that has prompted this.
It is not her hunger for the vibrator or the dildo, her attraction to it, her desire for it that drives a woman to masturbate, after all; it is the images that form on the screen of her mind that turn her on and that she must satisfy by satisfying herself.
And now, she very clearly has that look again.
"Let's do it."
Murmured, only half heard as she passes by him, but very well understood. He knows the drill.
He will give her five minutes and then enter the master bedroom. "Where ees-"
And Rufe puts a finger to his lips, as Juanita, the maid, appears on the landing above the living room.
And points repeatedly in the general direction of the master bedroom.
"Oh!"
Juanita understands at once.
And grins.
And he grins back.
She too has done the duty.
And sometimes, even she and Rufe together.
Because Cynthia is a woman of many moods, many images.
Discretely, Juanita retreats to the kitchen.
What she has to know can wait.
And besides, this will not take long.
Because she knows that Cynthia does not linger with the hired help, does not bask or wallow in their extended company.
She would no more lie in the arms of maid or chauffeur, dreaming idly, relaxing, than the man in the moon.
She makes love with and to them, but she does not love them.
And, as though to emphasize this, there will be a bonus in the next paycheck.
It is a combination of something purchased, consisting of both product and service.
And yet, they do not think of themselves as whores; rather, it is but another aspect of their jobs.
It comes with the territory.
Take it or leave it.
And there is no motivation at all to do the latter.
And besides, she happens to have a hell of a body.
So that Rufe feels himself coming to life down there in anticipation.
Time enough, he tells himself.
And goes into the master bedroom, closing the double doors behind himself before turning to see what awaits him.
Today, he will be very lucky.
Because she is lying on her side, facing him, eyes closed.
Inviting him to take her the slow way. Naturally, he thinks.
She was watching TV when she summoned him to talk about the champ.
And it is his image Rufe will be carrying, merged with, as he takes Cynthia in his arms.
Quickly, Rufe strips.
And slides onto the bed smoothly beside her.
And knows, even as he runs his tongue from beneath her ear, over the pulsing neck vein on his way to her breast, that it is Teddy Robinson, the heavyweight champion, who is ardently servicing her.
Yes, it is that image glimpsed on the TV screen, drawn out of it, become three dimensional, become flesh and blood and muscle and heat, that even now sucks the doorbell of a large, rosy nipple to rubbery erection.
And it is the hands that have knocked out over a hundred men that gently but firmly knead the ample, suntanned flesh of her big boobs.
He is at her breast, the champ.
She has but to reach down and touch the nappy head to know that it is he.
And it is not the hulking, thick shoulders and trapezius of hours and hours in the gym which Rufe has spent that she feels beneath her kneading fingers, but rather muscles built by another, venting pent-up aggression against punching bag and sparring partner, practicing for the many title defenses he has undertaken.
And now, he twists and molds her body in his large, firm hands, sliding down, down, down the hourglass figure.
Chewing mouthfuls of her, sucking them as his tongue runs round and round within the vacuum he has created, savoring her taste, her texture.
And only now does he arrive at her bush, inhaling it, chewing it, as his tongue runs up and down the slick slit of her hot, juicy pussy.
And she sighs with pleasure as his long, thick, powerful tongue fucks her as it rubs her clit, in and out, in and out.
And again, she sighs, as she feels him shaft into her, all the way, long and thick and hot and vibrant and powerful.
And now, she knows ecstasy as the body that has destroyed others converts all its strength, all its drive, into gratifying her lust.
Because it is not the fame, not the fortune, but this, this, this! which is his true reward.
And she knows that he knows this.
And she sighs with further contentment, as Rufe gathers her legs up, scooping them from below, doubling her up.
So that now, she is totally helpless, totally surrounded by him.
She is completely invaded, within and without.
And it seems to her that he completes yet another circuit of sexual electricity as, bending his head forward and down, he sucks her tits as he continues to fuck her.
So that there is a unity, a completeness to what they do together.
And it is together that they are doing it, because even now she feels her cunt come to life as though with a mind of its own as it sucks his cock, inhaling it as he thrusts in, clinging smoothly, wetly to it as it slides back out.
And Rufe must be content to wear the identity, the aura, the image of another.
And he is.
And a part of him wryly, cynically hopes that he is performing to the champ's full satisfaction, representing him adequately and all that.
But fuck this bitch and her head games, he thinks.
Because she can think what she---likes, but even now, it is Rufe and none other who is shooting his big, hot load into her with his big, hot cock.
And it is Rufe's equipment and no other's that her flowing pussy is milking with the spasms of her multiple orgasms.
As, somewhere else, the real champ is, Rufe is sure, engaged in pursuits far more productive, if far less delightful.