Crime Fighter: From the author of Murder In My Corner

By R.J. Tuzzo

The Final Bell
Shortly after an eye injury forced him to hang up his gloves , Joe “Whitey “ Mosconi came out of his corner to solve the murder of his cut man.
Joe has the qualities necessary to be a crime fighter, and becomes a private detective. He faces another breed of contenders filled with hate, jealousy and desire.
Nothing can stop Joe from pursuing his opponent, until he’s gone the distance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Dec 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9781642378207

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Chapter 1

Screeching tires and loud gunshots woke me up in a sweat. It was the same dream haunting me ever since Father Andy was shot and died in my arms. But I knew I had to stop shaking fast. My wife Cathy leans over and in a soft voice says, Same dream? I shook the nightmare out of my head, and said, Yeah, hon, the same. It comes and goes. It’s Father Andy talking with me in a friendly way about the new gym at the church. Then the loud noise of the gun, and the Father dying in my arms. It’s a helluva dream. I can’t shake it.

I was determined to solve his murder and drive the demons out of my mind.

But now, it was almost time to meet the gang.

My goombahs at the café had it all planned: a one-year anniversary of my latest and final fight. The air on Mulberry Street was crisp and cool, so I decided to walk to the café. I always stopped by after a fight. The boys were always eager to hear about the latest battle, blow by blow and round after round. They also were keen on inside stories of celebrities, like Harry James and Betty Grable who sat at ringside cheering me on.

As I approached the café, I could see the balloons flapping in the breeze, especially the red boxing gloves, throwing jabs at the wind.

I opened the door to a wild bunch of devoted fans who started singing, For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow. After the cheers and handclapping stopped, the first ball breaker to speak was my loyal sparring partner, Bobby Quick. He steps up on a chair holding his bottle of coke and makes a toast, To the great Joe Mosconi, the uncrowned champ of Mulberry Street. Another ballbreaker chimes in, He’s uncrowned because he lost his head. All the boys face me holding up their drinks, tapping their glasses with spoons, That’s the bell, Joe, remember? Bobby quiets the chuckles and continues, We’re still in your corner Joe, even though you had a bad break, but we… his voice cracks a bit, but he keeps going, But we love you for your determination to overcome your injury, and for capturing the murderer of your cut-man Gus Delgado.

The air filled with whistles and clapping. The sound rushed me back to the arena for a moment. I walk through my group of boyhood friends and thank them for their support. Swifty Larson and Tony the Hammer give me the usual bear hugs. I reach out to Bobby and said, Hey Bobby, great job, did you write that speech? He knew I was kidding, so he snaps back with a dig. Sure Joe, you couldn’t help. You can’t read or write. The boys heard that crack and had a good laugh. I was getting slaps on the back as I walked around the smoke filled café, enjoying every moment.

Gerry, the bartender from Linda’s Restaurant says, Joe, it’s been a while. Any news about Father Andy’s killer? His question hits me by surprise and all I could say was, Nothing yet, Gerry.

I had to dodge my loyal buddies who asked the same question. I didn’t want to discuss it now.

I looked over my shoulder and caught Rick’s eye, I called him over saying, How’s the family, All ok, Joe. Thanks for sending me to Dr. Frank. He’s a prince. I was about to ask about Tommy when the kid comes busting through the door yelling for Swifty. He’s got a gash across his left cheek and terror written on his face. What follows him through the door is a hulking son-of-a-bitch I quickly recognize as Big Mike, the loan shark. His persona was all I needed to yell out, Don’t take another step, Mike. When I tracked him down in his Bronx club, the big guy needed to be persuaded in giving me the lead to my cut-man’s killer.

He immediately ID’s me and stops in his tracks. He motions to the creeps behind him not to move. He displays a crooked smile, and says, Well I’ll be, Joe Mosconi, the champ. Is this your joint? Swifty is holding the kid, who is not a kid, but a 20 year old snot-nose from the neighborhood who needs a kick in the ass. Swifty reacts to Big Mike’s intrusion, but I stare him down and he backs off.

I walk over to Mike who offers me his hand. The recognition calms all the goombahs at once. What the hell is this about, Mike? I calmly say. He pulls me over, away from the staring eyes and speaks softly, First, let me say I’m sorry to bust in on your party, I saw balloons out front but never thought it was you, Joe. Second, this punk bets on a few horses with my crew, which he doesn’t pay up, then asks for a dozen Points, telling my guys… I stopped him right there. I knew where this was going, so I put it to him, Ok, Mike what’s the damage? As big and mean as he is, Big Mike has common sense. He looks around, there’s no eye contact. I wait for an answer, then he blurts out I’ll settle for five hundred, Joe, He looks down, but gazes at me from the corner of his eye. I nod, and give him a wink. He turns, fingers his five hundred, then motions to his bodyguards and leaves with a cheshire cat smile on his mug.

Swifty drags the kid over and sits him down. Joe, I know this kid from the P.A.L. he says, looking troubled. The Hammer and I tried to get his ass in gear but he’s a knucklehead. He owes these crumbs a thousand bucks and is scared shit. He knows if he doesn’t come up with the dough, they’ll break his legs. I grab the kid by the collar and lift him off the chair. I pull him in real close, looking at the fear in his eyes, What’s your name? I yell. I give Swifty a side glance, he knows what to expect, and covers up a grin, I said, what’s your name, stupid. He stumbles a bit and says, Alan, Alan Spiegel.

Ok, Alan Spiegel, where do you live? I squeeze a little tighter at his collar, as he answers, Delancey Street. Please, he says, trembling now, Don’t tell my father what happened, my father w-w-will throw me out the fucking window if he knew. I blasted him again, Can he pay for what you owe? At this point he starts bawling. I look at Swifty and continue, Listen, Alan Spiegel, I lift his head up and give him a serious scowl. Here’s what you’re going to do. From now on you’re going to the P.A.L everyday. You report to Swifty or The Hammer, understand? I turn to Swifty and say, Put some gloves on him and get him in the ring, that should soften him up. Swifty nods. The kid looks at me like a scared pup as I continue the tirade. And if you don’t follow what they tell you, I’m personally going to kick your ass, and tell your parents what you’ve done, is that clear? the kid nods wiping away the tears. I needed to ram it to him again, and said, One more thing, Alan Spiegel, if we hear you’re making bets or smoking that shit, I will call Big Mike. The kid swallowed every word and put a faint smile on his face saying, Thank you, Mr. Mosconi, I’m sorry. Then he opens his mouth saying, I have a question I started to relax, then turned to hear what he had to say. Ok, what is it now? I yelled. Who’s going to pay Big Mike? I almost choked and looked at Swifty and The Hammer standing in amusement. I said, Take the kid home or I’ll paste him one on his other cheek.

It was a night to remember. There were more toasts, more singing and the scotch was adding to everyone’s good nature. The pizza helped soak up every drop that came out of Johnny Walkers snout, and I was feeling no pain. As always, before the night ended, one of my poker-faced buddies says, Hey Joe, tell us about what happened with Butch at the Jackson fight.

I had to shake my head, and laughed at the thought. I signaled the guys together around the far wall of the café. The photo I pointed to was a group shot. There was me, my manager, Butch Fiore, Phil Santori, my trainer, and the cut man we lost, Gus Delgado. I looked at all the eager faces saying, You see this? It was taken at the Monroe Jackson fight at Fort Hamilton Arena in Brooklyn. He was a wild slugger and I knew I could take him.

In the second round I had him sized-up pretty good. He rushed me, as he did in the first, throwing a fusillade of lefts and rights to my body. I danced around throwing two left jabs to his head. I moved to his right, then clubbed him with another left to the jaw. He was hurt but it didn’t stop his attack. I blocked an overhand right, left hook combo. As I backed off, he came charging in and caught me with a soft right to my head, then a left to my side. I saw an opening when he stumbled a bit from the rush, he dropped his right, and I clubbed him with a vicious left uppercut that cracked his nose. I unleashed a right to his head that dropped him to his knees. Jackson held onto the ropes, but couldn’t get up. His nose was bleeding and his eyes were half closed when the ref stopped the fight.

The photo guys were all over us and the cheering didn’t stop. We were all enjoying the win. Butch lights up his Italian stogie as we push our way to the dressing room. He blows out a plume of smoke that hits the air like tear gas, and it stinks. One guy, who’s crowding us, and a drunken Jackson fan yells to Butch, Hey you, ditch the fucking cigar, you dumb wop! Butch turns to him fuming, What’s your problem, dickhead?"

You are, the guy says, I don’t like guys that stink up the joint, or your wop fighter, so put it out. Butch loses it and takes the stogie out of his mouth, grabs the guy by the collar, and smashes the cigar in the guys face. Sparks and ashes flying everywhere. Butch yells in his face, OK, you prick. I put it out. The photo guys couldn’t be happier over Butch’s revenge. That story clinched it for everyone and it was time to call it a night. But before thanking my goombahs for a great bash, I look at the photo, thinking of all the good times. Then gave the frame a thank you tap for the memories.

On the way home, I couldn’t help thinking of my beloved priest, Father Andy, and all the goombahs