Chapter 1

It was in April of 1984, and Billy, Ray and I were sitting in a bar in New Haven, drunk as lords, and feeling and acting stupid. We had gone up to New Haven, with our wives, to look at a lot of fancy and overpriced furnishings from an estate auction. Mercifully, at the very last minute, Theresa and Ellen took pity on Billy and I, and released us from our earlier promise to attend the auction with them. Sandy had ignored Ray's pleading looks until the rest of us were all laughing at him. He really knew how to beg effectively and silently. Finally, she said that he could go with us, but that we all had to stay in the place where they dropped us off until they were through at the auction and came back to retrieve us. We found a bar in my late grandfather's old neighborhood, and they dropped us off on the corner. We promised to be at the bar when they were done with their auction and returned for us. That had been at one o'clock. All of us could hold our booze pretty well, so it was after six before we started feeling or acting stupid.

"I'm telling you that Georgie Turner can whip any man in his age group, professional or amateur, doesn't matter. There's no way Archie Moore could take him if they fought out back behind the bar in the alley." I'd heard of Archie Moore of course, the great light heavyweight, but who in the hell was this Georgie Turner? The guy doing all the talking looked like he was in his late seventies at least. I figured him for just another barfly letting the booze do his thinking and talking. The guy he was telling this to gave him a disgusted wave of the hand and got off his bar stool and walked unsteadily away from him. "Fucking asshole."

Okay, I'll admit it. I have a soft spot for real old guys who are willing to cuss at much younger guys and risk getting their asses kicked in bar fights. This old bastard reminded me of my grandfather who was another feisty bastard, if ever one lived. He had lived for thirty five years less than two blocks from that bar that we were in. So, in his memory, in his honor, and because I was drunk, I told the bartender give the old guy whatever he wanted to drink. Up until the time I had made my offer, he had been nursing a $ .25 draft beer. When I green lighted him with the bartender, he suddenly switched over to Cutty Sark and water. Just to let him know that I was a bigger asshole than him, I told the bartender to keep them coming, all on me, for the next hour. The old buzzard smiled so widely that I could see all three of his remaining teeth. "Did you know John Francis Murphy, he was a conductor for NYNH&HRR.?" (New York, New Haven & Hartford Rail Road)

"Little bastard, mean drunk, never bought anyone a round?"

"That's him. He was my granpa. Hell of a good man."

"Naw, he was a cheap prick!"

"Well, that too. But who's this Georgie Turner? I never heard of him before."

"He's my boy. A real street fighter he is too. I'm Reggie Turner, retired promoter for my son."

"Never heard of either one of you, so he can't be that much. Fucking Archie Moore would kill him." I told you I was drunk, and feeling and acting stupid He was right about my grandfather, but it wasn't a nice thing to say about a dead man. "How old is your son, and what's he weigh?"

"He's fifty nine, and weighs maybe two thirty. Why, do you want to fight him?"

"Fuck no, but maybe my pop would give him a go if the money was right. Of course, my pop has a few years on your boy so we'd need some odds. He weighs about the same though, but like I say he's pretty old now." My father was sixty four years old, having been born in 1919, and I was just yanking this guy's chain.

"Georgie, get your ass over here, my boy. This gentleman has a proposition for us." I look over to where this old geezer is waving and this human fire plug starts lumbering towards us. The guy looks about sixty years old, so that makes the stated age of fifty nine not too far fetched, but he sure doesn't look like any fighter to me. If his dad had said he was the king of the Coney Island hot dog eating contest, that I might have believed. He walked like a man with bad knees or a bad hip, and he sure didn't carry himself like a fighter, at least not like any fighter I'd ever seen. He was about Billy's height, five nine, give or take an inch, and he must have weighed at least two fifty, maybe more. His belly jiggled to as he approached us. "Georgie, meet Johnny Murphy's grandson. Sorry sir, I didn't catch your name." I shake Georgie's hand and it's soft. This guy's no fighter I think.

"Are you telling me that you think this guy can take Archie Moore? Please!! Now that I've seen him, I'd bet on my pop even if you only give me two to one odds, and he's almost sixty five years old. And that goes for an alley fight too. How much can you raise on Georgie against my old man?" The old buzzard has the nerve to cackle at me and starts rubbing his hands together like he was washing them.

"Would five thousand interest you? I can get more if you want it."

"Hell, for five thousand I'd leave my old man in the damn nursing home. For ten grand I'd maybe consider checking him out of the home and driving all the way back up here. And only then because you insulted my grandfather."

"Okay, ten grand it is then. Here, out in the back. When can you go get him?"

"Visiting days are Sunday. How about Sunday around three in the afternoon? I have to have him checked back in before seven." Now, while all this bullshitting is taking place, Billy and Ray are just sitting back enjoying the whole show. Neither one has said a word so far, but they are drinking and smiling. Ellen picks that moment to come walking in to fetch us. "How do I know you really can get that kind of money Reggie. Forgive me for saying it, but you don't look like a man with much in the way of resources."