The Return of Jennifer Hopper: Covers Don't Always Tell the Truth

By Ernest Keegan

Dan McClain doesn’t train female fighters. It’s just a personal rule with him. Rules are made to be broken, so they say. The young female fighter he had once rejected has returned. She was advised that although she had good natural ability, she should seek a sports career in golf or tennis. But youth is wasted on the young. Marylou and Dan have agreed to train her for this one fight as a favor for their good friend Paul DeLuca, who had acquired her contract, not knowing of a signed commitment. The opponent has earned the nickname the Beast, and she wholly lives up to it. To the difficulty that comes with any training relationship, Dan and Marylou now have the added responsibility to protect not only their fighter in the ring but also her and her sparring partners from outside threats.

County Detective Jimmy Civetic has alerted them that US marshals are tracking an elusive serial rapist and killer who is heading to this area. Fighters in training usually do their roadwork in the early morning hours or late at night when the air seems to be fresher.

“Keep them together. Don’t let them stray,” is Civetic’s advice. However, the young girls are not the only attractive female prey. There are eyes on Marylou. She and Dan as a team have been up against many adversaries but none have been a threat like this. There is always the danger in the ring. As always, the demon you know is better than the one you don’t.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781662423802

Book preview

Chapter 1

Marylou Caponi and Dan McClain sat in the office of the boxing gym left to her by her late father. Over the years, Caponi’s Home of Champions had seen the best and the worst of fighters, both amateur and professional. She was the head of the legacy now and guided the ship over calm waters and through stormy seas. Her father, Louis, had operated the gym for many years for many young men with the dreams of greatness and dreams to climb to the pinnacle of the pugilistic world, the championship. It didn’t matter what weight class they competed in. A title was the title, the highest point they could achieve in their boxing existence. He had strict but fair rules. They were meant to lead the fighters in their quests and to keep them as safe as possible in a very, very dangerous career and, hopefully, in the outside world of real life also. Now it was her turn to carry on. She did this in spades, along with her head trainer and on-and-off life-and-love partner, Dan McClain. He was a handsome ex-fighter from her father’s time.

The round timer echoed in the outer gym, where two sparring partners battled in the boxing ring at the rear of the spacious room. The interior vista of the gym was visible to them through a glass corner created by two large plate glass windows butted together in the actual office wall that sectioned it off from the large floor area that contained the regulation-sized boxing ring. The space gave Marylou the ability to hold regulation professional bouts at various times. Bleacher-style seats that folded back to the walls could be brought out, and with the remaining floor area on the opposite sides of the ring set up with wooden folding chairs brought in from an adjacent garage she owned, it could easily fit three hundred people. The room was big enough to meet occupation and fire code zoning and safety regulations. This gave her the option to showcase some of her own up-and-coming fighters as they progressed and a way to bring in a bit of extra money to pay the ever-increasing bills for utilities, insurance, supplies, and every other necessity that this business, any business, had to deal with.

Her good looks, her long dark hair that flowed across her shoulders, and her electric blue-green eyes, accompanied by that dazzling, instantaneously appearing smile, belied the shrewd businesswoman she had become. Learning at the hip of her father the ins and outs of traversing both the monetary and paperwork highways, she deftly evaded cavernous potholes associated with the squared circle. Many times, she would dig into the inheritance that her father Louis left her. It was a good sum by most standards but wouldn’t last forever if she didn’t use it wisely. She was frugal in some respects and not so much in others. The others usually meant just that—other people who needed help. She could be a soft touch, and that was where Dan McClain balanced her out, especially when it came to the gym. Fighters could be manipulative, and because of what a person had to put him or herself through to succeed in the game, Dan had her back. He was a product of her dad. He was what was termed old-school. He believed the key components to success were as simple as one, two, and three. You had to have a good sparring partner, a heavy bag, and finally, a rope to jump when you couldn’t, for some reason, do roadwork. Buying expensive exercise equipment was useless if you couldn’t fight. Guys strutting around with beach bodies were a waste of time and money. You got out of it what you put into it. Posing and flexing in front of a mirror didn’t belong in a boxing gym. The body you developed through hard physical and competitive work would serve you when needed and when you needed speed as well as power. The tight, blown-up beach muscles would fail in stamina and speed. The result would be a failed fighter, a lost bout, a negative mark on the record, and of course, lost money.

The bright florescent lights that lined the ceiling from front to rear illuminated the coffee-toned tongue-and-groove oak flooring that was naturally worn and polished over the years by so many flat-bottom leather shoes sliding to and fro in phantom competitions. She could cut out certain lights to accentuate the ones above the ring for active bouts. Four heavy leather bags that pounding fists of hope and years of beatings had softened almost to a suede hung to one side in front of the three speed bag hangers attached to the wall, handmade from old wooden pallets that Louis had retrieved from the produce yards in the strip district area outside the downtown proper. Years ago, that was all it was—a strip of long buildings that were the recipients of the day’s early supply compliments of train cars arriving from various parts of the States, near and far, that pulled up next to them under the eternal watch of the stars above for wholesalers who then passed the multitude of items from fresh fish, produce, meat, or flowers to the waiting city retailers who moved them out by way of large, medium, and normal-sized pickup trucks framed with wooden slats, extending their stock capacity. The whirlwind transfer of goods started at about 1:00 a.m. and lasted until about 7:00 a.m. for the stragglers. The show must go on, and this symphony of life played out each and every night to morning to greet the worker bees who were undeterred no matter the type of weather.

Today, it was one of the most active tourist attractions and developing neighborhoods, with multimillion-dollar steel-and-glass apartments and condominium buildings popping up all around and integrated with renovated warehouses now used for residential as well as for business but were eyesores just a few years ago. Louis had carted off the discarded, broken rough-hewed lumber in the trunk of his green 1954 Ford coupe. The longer pieces stuck out of the back. As he traveled the then cobblestoned streets of the city, several pieces made their escape courtesy of violent vibration to the anger and dismay of those following behind, letting him know their feelings by the thunderous blaring of their horns as they did their best to swerve around, avoiding the escaped timbers. The fighters present that day helped him unload and drag the surviving pieces into the gym where, for the next two weeks, they all cut and fit the pieces together by hand and mounted them where they still stoically and proudly accepted the blistering attacks of the pounding leather speed bags created by the fists of the young men in front of them. Dan McClain had been one of them that day. The smallest, known as peanut bags, were all dancing at top tempo with their vibrating sound waves echoing throughout the gym. The tall trainer in the office, listening with one ear, calculated the young boxers’ advancements by the sounds. To make them sing the way they were now, hand speed and instinct had to be at the top of the chart. Tonight, it was sweet music to his ears. Dan McClain walked to the credenza against one wall. From the perpetually percolating pot that rested atop it, he filled his coffee mug to the brim and turned to the sexy and long-haired beauty with blue-green eyes leaning against the edge of her desk.

We had another offer in yesterday’s mail and by e-mail this morning when I flipped on the computer, she said to him as he casually walked to the well-worn brown leather sofa and carefully sat down so he wouldn’t spill his coffee. He took a long drink and waited as he absorbed the taste of the dark liquid before he swallowed. He blinked his eyes widely several times and molded an exaggerated expression of ecstasy across his face and then stared at her stupidly on purpose.

Are you finished enjoying your first sip of coffee of the day? she asked, exhaling with a bit of annoyance.

Oh, that’s not my first one. It just tastes so much better when I know you made it with those beautiful hands, just for me, as a token of your undying love and devotion, he answered in the most poetic voice he could muster.

It’s way too early. You’re going to make me barf.

He laughed at her while raising his mug to her. My compliments to the chef.

Fine, now we both once again know my total knowledge and commitment to the world of culinary achievement. Thanks so much for bringing it up. Wait, let’s do it again. Get my smartphone. I’ll put it on Facebook, she replied dryly.

You do make a fine cup of joe, is all I’m saying.

Keep saying it like that and you’ll be wearing it, she added.

What’s got your panties in a bunch? he asked. It’s not like you.

Everyone is selling out to the developers. They come in here out of nowhere with wads of cash. They’re like wild dogs tearing apart a fresh carcass.

Face it, Lou. There’s nothing fresh about our neighborhood. The bloom has been off our rose for a long, long time. We’re what’s left, the collateral damage just hanging on, he said with seriousness.

She shot him an angry look. Well then, I’ll keep reminding them that this rose has thorns. I ain’t just hanging on, damn it. I’m staying.

I’m with you, but I wish you wouldn’t cuss like that. I have a picture of my favorite girl in my wallet. I wouldn’t want those words to tinge her beautiful ears.

That coffee won’t show up against the color of your hair when it dries, she warned.

He laughed and drained his cup as she sat down at her desk. They keep raising the offer like that’s all it takes. Money pushes everything else aside. Home, family, country—all goes to hell as long as the cash passes hands from the seller to the highest bidder.

They’re just trying to make a buck, he said.

At the cost of all the people who live here, she argued.

I agree. The people sell and then complain that they can’t afford to stay around or buy something better. They make the choice, butter their bread. And they can’t even lay in it.

That’s your take on it?

Money talks, blah, blah, blah, he returned.

You think we should pull up stakes and leave? Give the equipment to other gyms or charity?

Truthfully, this is coming at me from out of the blue. Have you been considering this all this time? Its news to me, he said.

No, I’m not moving anywhere. I just guess I’m nervous with all the upheaval around here. I don’t like anyone trying to jam me up, make me do something I don’t want to do, she returned.

Just put it on the back burner. We’ve got other fish to fry.

She waved a hand at him in dismissive agreement.

What did Paul DeLuca want? he asked, referring to a message left on Marylou’s answering machine.

She shuffled through a bunch of papers that seemed to constantly grow no matter what she did about it.

Remember the pictures we looked at with Jake on the internet, the ones with Jennifer Hopper?

Yeah, I didn’t like what we saw.

You’re going to get the chance to do something about it, if you want to, she informed him.

How’s that?

Paul called. He’s got her contract. We know how he is when it comes to money. He picked her up at what he thought was a bargain. Now he finds out she has a previous written contract to fight Beverly Bruce.

He stared at her with stern vision.

That’s the one. The one they nicknamed the Brutal Beast, she said.

And?

And she’s scheduled to fight her in a ten-rounder on pay-per-view. Paul wants us to take her on for this fight.

He leaned back and let out a sigh. So she decided to get into the game against our advice? He was shaking his head in his personal disagreement. Was her father behind this, or did she decide to commit a slow and painful suicide on her own? What do you want to do? You know what I think about training girls.

Marylou recounted her conversation, According to Paul, she dumped her father and went South with a boyfriend. In no time, she was in local boxing gyms working out, impressing the local guys. The boyfriend wanted to make some fast money and talked her into turning professional. She’s built up a record against tin cans but not without cost. You saw her scars, the drooping eyelid, who knows what else?

Can’t she just quit? You telling me that Paul will feed her to the Beast for the money?

No, he doesn’t want the fight at all, but if they don’t meet the commitment, they face legal problems, and they are not going to be inexpensive. She added, emphasizing not and inexpensive.

Paul bought a pig in a poke, Dan added with a slight smile.

He’s between a rock and a hard place financially, according to him, but I think he really doesn’t want her hurt, she told him. His people went over the contract with the proverbial fine-tooth comb. It’s as solid as the rock of Gibraltar, according to them.

Where’s the fight?

New York or Philly, she said. So?

You’re the boss. You say, I do, he answered, lifting his mug to her, and shook his head. I’m not putting a pin in anyone’s balloon, but we better get a physical evaluation of her before taking her on, no matter what kind of financial crater edge Paul might be teetering on. We can only do so much.

That shows the faith Paul has in you as a trainer, and—not to swell up your head any more than it already is—I agree with him. I’m still thinking about it. I want to give it a good amount of thought, especially since we’re still in the middle of the title change for Jake. The commission is still deciding if they’re going to recognize Jake as the middleweight boxing champion. Marco lost the title in the ring. If there were drugs in his veins, they still don’t know who did it or why or how they got there. They don’t think any of us were involved, especially after the circumstances surrounding Marco’s death after losing the title, she said, weighing the actions she was trying to balance.

Marco Bentley lost the title to Jake Conley in the ring—the only place a champion should lose his title. He was a terrific champion, and then he wasn’t. Why he seemed to fade is one of those questions that will never be answered, said Dan, knowing the true cause was the two call girls he had sent to Marco’s room to entertain the champion the entire night before his title defense against Dan McClain’s own fighter, Jake Conley. The trick in the fight game was as old as the hills but had worked just fine. Marco lost, Jake won, end of transmission, he barked. That should be that.

He rose and went for another coffee.

I hope it will end up that way, she said. The commission is scheduled to get back to me sometime in the next few days.

How long before you’re to get back to Paul with an answer? he asked.

No definite time but soon, of course. He’s under the gun as far as he sees it.

Then give him the call. We both know that you’re not going to let them throw the kid to the wolves.

Then you’re on board with it?

He laughed. And you always say I’m an open book, he said.

Great minds think alike, she said and picked up the phone on the desk. She dialed Paul DeLuca. As she listened to the ringing in her ear, she said, How about getting the drapes? referring to the heavily insulated cloths keeping them protected from the morning sunlight that would fill the office via the floor-to-ceiling plate glass facing the street.

Her father always liked to have an open feeling and to be on the street with his people even when inside, not to be hemmed in. The passing locals would often stop in if they saw him in the office. The coffeepot was always percolating, like the one they now had, sitting in exactly the same spot because sharing a cup over a good piece of gossip fresh from local lips was a treasured treat. Her father loved people, and they loved him.

Dan headed to the front of the office and placed the two drawstrings in his hands. He started to pull on the two textile ropes. The drapes parted, and morning brightness started to creep across the floor, toward the desk. A deafening explosive crash was heard and felt, as the huge plate glass window bearing the age-old name of the gym blew inward around Dan, with enough force to spray pieces all the way to the office desk and Marylou, who had instantly dropped to the floor behind it. The drapes that had not yet collapsed to their ends protected Dan from the majority of the glass shards that filled the area around his feet. He stared down at the large concrete block before him on the rug. The hysterically angry sounds of a woman swirled into and around the office damage. He looked to Marylou first.

Marylou? he yelled.

I’m fine. What the hell just happened? she asked after standing, cautiously feeling her face for any cuts, then brushing her skirt free of some straggling glass pieces. Now viewing the concrete block, she quickly made her way to Dan’s side. The mysterious and present danger now seemingly over, Dan held back the drapery at his side to give Marylou a clear view through the remainder of glass that wasn’t on the floor around them. The voice of the person in front of the gym, standing just beyond the sidewalk curb, belonged to someone they both knew. It was the voice of Adel Smithton, Trish Smithton’s mother, the deceased girlfriend of their fighter Tommy Wilks. Trish had died from an overdose after returning from successfully completing a thirty-day drug rehabilitation program. The drugs were apparently supplied by her own cousin Derrick at a party he threw for her coming out. Since Tommy Wilks was a fighter under the umbrella of Marylou and Dan and she knew Trish’s family had little financial stability, Marylou had paid for her funeral expenses and the customary luncheon that followed. Outside, Adel Smithton shrilly screamed at the top of her voice.

Killers! Because of you, my little girl, my beautiful baby is dead! It was your fault, all your damn fault, the woman continued almost incoherently.

What the hell is she saying? That we’re responsible for her daughter’s death? Is she crazy? She tossed that concrete block through our window? For what? To get our damn attention? Well, she sure as hell has mine, she growled at Dan as she turned and crunched across the glass on the floor and pulled the office door open so violently that it slammed against the wall and recoiled back to her. She halted its travel with a stiff arm and turned her gaze to Dan.

Don’t say it.

She’s out of her head with grief, Lou, Dan reminded her.

So let’s go out and thank her for almost killing us. And she walked out through the hall and front door of the gym