The Fall of Marco Bentley

By Ernest Keegan

Longtime friend of Dan McClain and Marylou Caponi, elderly boxing trainer Cherry Red lay in a coma in a trauma unit at St. Margret's Memorial Hospital due to an overdose of a depressant drug. It happens to be the same drug found in the bloodstream of his fighter and now ex-champion Marco Bentley at the postfight urine tests. The State Boxing Commission now is investigating who, why, and how the drug was administered. The champion had faded badly in the late rounds, totally uncharacteristic for the dynamic young champion.. A fighter drugged? Sure. It's happened. The trainer, that's a totally whole other ball game. Who and why? What did he know about it? The winds of suspicion blow hot and heavy toward Dan and Marylou because the new middleweight champion of the world just happens to be their own fighter, Jake Conley, now waiting in limbo for the commission's decision. The loss of his title seems to be the least of Marco's problems. Betting heavily on himself has put him in a deep hole with the wrong people. Did the fact that Marco suddenly without explanation dropped Cherry Red as his lifelong manager just days before the fight bear on the situation? Dan and Marylou want answers of their own. Dan McClain doesn't care what he has to do to get the answers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781645447115

Book preview

Chapter 1

Marco Bentley was a crowd pleaser. He was young and athletic with those Latin good looks of the old-time movie stars from south of the border that left everyone with the feeling at the end of one of his fights, once again the good guy had won and all was right with the world. He was a fighter’s fighter. He could box when he wanted to control the square circle from the outside, or if he had to do it, he could jam the contest into a phone booth and mix it up toe-to-toe when a situation called for it. He did what he had to do to win. He was a winner. That’s what counted. That’s what mattered. That’s what brought in the people and put them in the seats. That’s what brought in the money. It was business, and business is money. Marco Bentley did his part. He trained hard with the discipline of an ancient Greek warrior, but even Achilles had his weak spot. But for now, Marco was on top of the world. He was the undisputed middleweight champion, and no one denied he definitely earned it and deserved it. The crowds loved him, both men and women, especially the women. They rallied around him at the five-foot-eleven middleweight champion’s fights. It was one of the perks, and you didn’t look a gift horse in the mouth so to speak, at least Marco didn’t. Cherry Red had taken a liking to the young man after getting a phone call from Robbie Thompson, a local police officer that thought the elderly trainer might be able to lead the boy in a better direction than he was on. Boys in Marco’s personal life situation became young men much, much too soon. The streets were Marco’s universe, and his time on them was most certainly coming to a close if he had not met up and been taken in by the tall lean reddish-skinned African American trainer with the heart of gold, a fact that Marco had no problem admitting and relaying to anyone who would care to listen. The referee had just raised Marco’s hand in victory once again. He stood in the middle of the ring, victorious, with his trainer Cherry Red as the announcer reported to the world that Marco’s unblemished record continued with his twenty-eighth win, no losses and no draws. The huge arena shook with the tremendous roar of the attendees. Marco drank it all in. His face glowed with the pride of the all-conquering hero. Jim Fraizer, the local sports newscaster and reporter, finished up after the network reporters had completed their contractual interviews and expert opinions to the public watching on television. Jim had been covering Marco Bentley’s climb since Cherry Red asked him to give his young fighter some publicity on the local cable network show that Jim aired every Tuesday and Saturday evening. As was usual for Jim, he asked the local sports personality of the moment to appear on the show for an in-depth one-on-one interview the following week. Marco never turned him down and even turned up uninvited while Jim was doing an interview with the quarterback of the newly crowned Super Bowl Champions that call this city home. The quarterback took it all with a grain of salt even when Marco made a comment on past top football players not making it in the ring after being vastly over rated about making the switch to his sport.

Marylou Caponi was a beautiful shoulder-length dark-haired beauty with blue-green eyes and a sunshine smile that had passed the big 4-0 but rivaled any female ten years younger. She was the owner and operator of the boxing gym left to her by her father, Louis. Dan McClain was a former amateur and professional fighter under the tutelage of her father, now the head trainer and Marylou’s eternal on-and-off boyfriend, a situation that suited them both and had worked for them over the years. He still kept in good physical condition, belying his true age by continuing a schedule long ago started when he was still being paid as a professional boxer. His reflexes and timing weren’t the same, but he still had power in each hand and a good amount of stamina due to the ever-present jump rope that he used daily along with a three-day-a-week five-mile run. The mop of thick dark hair was now thinner and streaked with strips of gray above the scar riding atop of his left eye. It would turn bright red and pulse when Dan was agitated. It was caused by a vicious head butt that signed the beginning of the end of Dan McClain’s professional career.

Their top fighter, middleweight Jake Conley, stood in the crowd next to them at ringside. Cherry Red, Marco, and the rest of the team made their way down the wooden steps from the ring to the arena floor, Marco still waving and smiling, drinking the adoration validated by the volume of the litany of his name coming from the fans still highly pumped at what they just saw. He was truly this city’s rock star of the moment. When he first started his professional career, he entered the square circle draped in a plain cotton robe and dark blue satin shorts. Tonight, gold tassels bounced from his custom boxing shoes under the sequined trunks and a flamboyant gold-and-black one-of-a-kind robe, also with sequin highlights. They were the creation of none other than the self-proclaimed greatest fashion designer of all time, Booker, the eccentric friend of Cherry Red’s other fighter, Marcel Lovelace. Incorporated about the robe and trunks were commercial advertisements above the ranting objectives of the high-minded designer. Paul DeLuca gave the aspiring kooky Booker the chance to display his wares on national television but insisted that he get his pound of flesh. The soda, beer, and oil can that was molded into the champion’s draped cape-like robe and trunks was the price he was willing to pay. But Booker drew the line in the sand firmly when one of the advisers brought the shoes into the conversation. He vehemently insisted he would rather see the champion compete dressed in thrift store rags than disrespect and disgrace his personal leather creations. After negotiating for way too long in Paul’s opinion, the manager of the champion let the designer have his way but warned him that the next outfit for Marco Bentley would be totally under his control. This was a business, and Paul was in it for profit. If Booker wanted to someday have his name up next to the world-famous designers of the past, present, and future, he would have to learn to compromise. Also Paul reminded him with a bit of bemusement that he could just kick Booker in the ass to the street and forget he ever saw him. Booker understood this too but didn’t want to show it outright. That was Booker.

They had watched with special interest not only because Cherry Red was an old friend but because Jake was the in the same weight division as Marco, and if Jake kept winning, they quite possibly could end up in the ring opposing each other for the title that had so successfully been defended here tonight. Marco had pummeled his opponent from pillar to post, refusing to let him fall when it became obvious that, for all intents and purposes, the fight was over. The earlier robotic nonstop aggressiveness in the fighter in front of Marco had drained away with the blood that was freely gushing from the nose, mouth, and two cuts, one above each eye that had just opened up and all but blinded the totally beaten and finished fighter. Even some of the fans started to shout for the now one-sided contest, if it could still be addressed in that term, to be stopped. But the champion was well versed in the ability to extend an opponent’s continued participation even when the outcome was inevitable. The champion smiled as he turned to the voice of a fighter he knew well, Jake Conley another physically good-looking young prospect with his own credentials to brag about. He stood in a tight-fitting pullover shirt and jeans. He was lean and muscled, the same weight and size as the champion. They looked very much alike, but he was a different type of fighter in the ring than Marco. Jake was more of a boxer than a heavy hitter, but he had his share of stoppages by TKO, mostly due to the opponent not being able to continue because of cuts. He had a rapier left jab and could easily switch from the orthodox or right-hand stance to southpaw or left-handed stance. He would tire an opponent down with hand speed and what they now call ring generalship. Dan McClain and Marylou Caponi just called it superb skill and gave the credit to knowledge handed down from her father, Louis Caponi.

Congratulations, Marco! That was impressive, Jake called to him over the noise of the crowd.

Impressive? Marco called back. At twenty-eight and zero, everything about me is impressive, Jake. I’m invincible. He laughed as he flexed his arms to show off his steel-hard biceps and the tattoos that lined his wrists to his shoulders. They designated the date and round of each of his victories. I’ll be adding another tat tomorrow, but don’t lose heart. Your time is coming. Just keep your health insurance premiums up!

Thank you for that sound advice. I’ll think about it, answered Jake in a laughing tone.

Think about it? No one can take the title from me. I tell you I’m invincible! Don’t worry. You’ll get a good payday. Marco hugged the girls who now gathered around him as the team headed toward the locker room. Tell him, girls, Marco is unbeatable, invincible!

They all giggled and laughed, shouting his name in response as they left, Marco! Marco! Marco!

Their shouts echoed above the surrounding responses as they increased the distance from Jake, Dan, and Marylou. Cherry Red quietly dropped back to them unnoticed by the others with Marco. Red caught Dan’s eye and he motioned with his head, and Dan separated himself from Jake and Marylou.

I’ll be back in a minute, he told them. The two men’s eyes met, and Dan didn’t like the communication signal he was receiving from the grizzled top-class trainer who shared his friendship for more years than he could recall. Their friendship had become cemented when Dan was still fighting for Marylou’s father, Louis. Cherry Red looked very close to the original man who had aided Louis many times over. He strode to Dan with the gliding motion that he had even then, still tall and graceful, now maybe just a little bowed with age but with movements that were precise and purposely minimal even when demonstrating boxing to those in his charge. The arena lights were being turned down now, and Red’s skin gave off the glow that gave him his nickname. His perpetual yellow cardigan sweater, gray slacks, pressed to a razor edge, his news cap that never left his head and spit-shined oxblood spade shoes completed his so-called uniform that was known to the boxing community. Red took Dan by the arm and led him to the side away from the crowds on the opposite side of the ring. The union crew from the arena was already dismantling it. Marylou turned and watched with interest.

I’ll be right back, she told Jake.

Hope it’s good news, Jake returned as he turned his attention back to the Marco Bentley circus now on the way down the hallway. Marylou joined Red and Dan. She read the concerned looks on their faces.

What’s up? she asked. That’s right, Red. Is Jake up next?

In a frustrated tone, he answered her, I ain’t driving the train anymore. I’m behind the engineer with the shovel now, just stoking the fire. Marco got himself new management. They’re not interested in a fighter’s well-being. To them, he’s just meat, a business transaction. Just another way to make a buck, he told her.

When the hell did this all happen? she asked.

Since he just decided to sign with someone new, without even telling me. I just found out a few days ago.

You’ve trained and managed him since the beginning, Marylou said.

That ungrateful little shit, Dan interjected. You did everything for him. He would still be on the street, probably selling his ass for drug money or, by this time, dead.

Well, it’s past tense on the management part. He’s over twenty-one. We were held together on a handshake. Guess it don’t mean what it used to, Red whispered as his gaze dropped from them to the floor.

You going to stay? asked Marylou.

With a shrug, Red answered, What else can I do? He’s my fighter, the champion I’ve always strived for. You know they’ll throw him to the wolves. You know that’s what will happen. They offered me a nice severance package or a boost in pay if I stay, Red replied with heavy rejection in his voice.

So who’s the new management? asked Marylou.

Old neighborhood guy.

Who, asked Dan?

Paul DeLuca, answered Red.

Could be worse, Marylou added.

Red just shook his head. Ya, it’s not just that. It’s the way it happened. I never had the least notion that he was unhappy or dissatisfied with our arrangement. I did my best. He’s a hell of a good fighter, could be great but It’s his inside that’s got me worried. Since the title he’s different, changed.

That happens, sometimes for the better, Dan said, trying to put a positive spin on the situation.

Sometimes for the worse, a dejected Red replied.

The crown getting too big and heavy for him? asked Marylou.

There is a lot that can wear a person down once you’re on top of the mountain. That star burns awfully bright when it’s on the way up. The trip down sometimes comes swift and painful. Red sighed through a painfully weary voice.

Keep him on the straight and narrow and he’ll be okay, Marylou said with an upbeat tone as she placed a supportive hand on Red’s shoulder.

Marco’s voice boomed into their conversation from down the hallway.

Red, Cherry Red, come on, old man. It’s party time. I’ll leave one of these gorgeous ladies for you, but you better hurry.

Red looked between Dan and Marylou. You hear that? Red headed slowly toward the voice. His stature seemed to emphasize the bow he now had. Light a candle, I’ll say a prayer, the quiet voice reached them. Red caught up to the team and he was gone with them.

Jake walked up behind Dan and Marylou. He heard Marylou ask Dan.

Did you catch his eyes?

I saw it in him, answered Dan.

Saw what? asked Jake.

The look in Red’s eyes when Marco mentioned the girls, Marylou told Jake.

All I saw was that Marco does look pretty damn invincible admitted Jake.

So did Sampson. Dan stood there thinking.

Samson? questioned Jake.

Dan? Marylou questioned.

I think Marco just showed me how to give him a buzz cut.

Dan, Marylou, and Jake made their way out of the now-nearly-vacant arena to the distant sounds of the workmen dismantling the ring and the cleanup crews starting their part of this evening’s event. As they walked to their car, they were met by some young women. One of them called out, Hi, Dan, smiling, waving, and giving him just a bit too much of a smile and too long of a gaze with bright wide eyes for Marylou’s taste.

He answered, Hi, girls. Hanging around here, you’re missing out on the big party that Marco is throwing.

He doesn’t know we exist. He’s ‘uptown’ clientele now. We’re off his radar, she replied with sarcasm.

We heard he’s running with a whole new crowd, and apparently, we don’t make the cut, another girl chimed in as they passed with purposeful, exaggerated movements to advertise their wares.

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