*previously published in Spillway Review, 2006.*

 

SONNY LISTON’S EYES

BY

KEITH LAUFENBERG

-1-

THE CALL

Fate laughs at probabilities.

Bulwer-Lytton, Eugene Arum. Bk. i, ch.10.

 

 

I’m a writer, a freelance writer. Not too many people know this, because I work at other jobs too, as a matter of survival. One of those who knew I was a writer was my good friend, John ‘Jackie’ Byrne, who called me just the other day, from his home in Howard Beach, a small enclave of mostly Irish and Italian families, not far from Far Rockaway, in Queens County, New York. I had first met Jackie in the 5th Street Gym, in Miami Beach, in 1966, where I was boxing, in my second year as a pro, and where Jackie and his three brothers were training, trying to get back in shape. Four brothers and they had all been in the Marines, three of them in Vietnam. I had been in the Corps myself, from 1962 to ’65, and we all became life-long friends. I was living in Atlanta now but we still called each other frequently and I still remember the conversation that took place on that 4th day of January, of the new millennium, “Hey man, there’s a guy up here youse should talk to, he’s a hit-man for the mob. Claims he clipped everybody from J.F.K. to Sonny Liston. And, I tol’ him youse knew Liston, youse boxed wid ‘im din’choose?”  Now, I hadn’t boxed with Liston but I had shared Bill Miller’s basement gym with him, in Las Vegas, in 1966. Liston was in the midst of a comeback and I, along with most of the other fighters, knew most of his nuances. He was an ex-heavyweight champion who had allegedly been connected to the mob for years but I paid no attention to that, what I didn’t know didn’t matter to me. What I did know was what I saw with my own eyes, and heard with my own ears, and that was that he was a womanizer, women even followed him into the gym on numerous occasions, and he was a tough customer who gave no quarter and asked for none. He was known for being rough on sparring partners but I saw him box with Candee Barnes and barely throw a punch, working strictly on speed and cutting off the ring on Candee, a talented lightweight from my hometown of Washington, D.C. I also remember something else about Liston, his eyes. This guy had some hard, cold, cruel and calculating eyes; eyes that had a way of looking at people and making them shrink, right in front of you. Besides staring down other fighters, I saw Liston do this almost every time somebody would venture into the gym, looking to get something from him, even if it was just a handshake or an autograph; Liston would usually tell a joke and then stare at the person he had told it to, until that person obligingly laughed. I still remember these thoughts running through my mind, as Jackie interrupted my day dreaming by barking into the phone, “Hey man, youse still there?”

“I’m still here Jake. What’s the deal anyway? Sounds like yah shittin’ me?”

“Naw I wouldn’t shit youse Jamie, youse ah my favorite turd. Heh, anyway, this guy just lives right up the street from me man, t’ree houses away. Says he’s ready to tell his story; yeah, and youse can be the writer of his autobiography. Bumped off all these guys? King too. Youse livin’ down there in Atlanta youse oughta be interested in that one?”

“King? You mean Martin Luther King Junior?”

“Yeah, he was the shooter. This is yah big break man, know what I mean?”

“If it’s that big a story why get a nickel and dime writer like me? Why’nt he get some big shot right there in New York? Norman Mailer or Mario Puzo or some other jerk-off like dat?”

 “He read some of yah short stories that youse sent me, in’nose magazines youse sent me man, and he really liked ‘em man. He thinks yah a good writer and yah the best man for the job, says he can see youse write the truth and will know it when youse hear it.” Now, the quickest and best way into a writer’s heart is to compliment his work and, even though I was still skeptical, I was listening much more intently now. “Yeah, he was a hit-man for the mob; hey there’s a good title man. Hit man for the mob admits to, youse know, all these hits. What ah youse t’ink?”

“Jackie, I’m here in Atlanta and you guys are in New York?”

‘He’ll send youse plane fare man. What a youse t’ink about that? Dude’s real man.” “I dunno man, I just started another day-job?”

“What, sellin’ cars again, man?”

“Naw, man, mortgages. Plus a scumbag my wife knows is givin’ me some side work.” Scumbag was the code-name Jackie and I had for lawyers.

 “Side woik for a scumbag huh? What ah youse doin’, resoich?” 

“Research shit, I’m investigatin’ ah guy. Workin’ for a criminal scumbag. But, I guess I could put it off for a few days; but man, I dunno Jocko?”

“No? Tell youse what, I’ll have him call youse, how ‘bout that?”

“Call me? What for? He’s gonna sell me?”

“Naw, just keep an open mind and listen to ‘im. Should I tell ‘im to call youse?”

“Sure, why not; tell ‘im to call me man, what the hell, can’t hurt.” The call came that evening, around ten p.m. The guy had a thick New York accent, even worse than Jackie’s, and he usually ended his sentences with the word capisci, Italian for, understand. He would let it hang at the end of almost every sentence, almost like a statement of his Italian-American heritage and his Mafioso identity. His voice sounded remarkably like somebody impersonating Marlon Brando, in his role as the Godfather, and it crossed my mind again that it was a friend of Jackie’s and nothing but a joke, on me, until, that is, I asked him about Liston.

“Sonny? Ah, dat eggplant was a scary bastid. I had help on’nat one though.”

“Yeah? You had help with that melanzane? With that jah’mook, huh?” “Ah, I see youse speak a lil’ Italian, a pai’san?”

“Yeah, very little. What kinna help did you have with Sonny?”

“I hadda broad put some dust in’niz drink. One t’ing I’ll never forget about Sonny though, I can tell youse that.” “Yeah, what’s that?” “His eyes; Sonny had some cold, hard eyes man, right up to just before the end, too.” The next plane, leaving from Atlanta to New York, left at three a.m., the next morning. I know, because I was on it.

-2-

DEADEYE

Nicknames and whippings, when they are once laid on, no one has discovered how to take off.---W.S. Landor, Imaginary Conversations: Du Paty.

Go to my website at www.kglaufenberg.com

to finish reading this story