Christmas in the City - Jill Barnett Page 0,33

who entered. Behind the leather-topped counter was a wall of numbered mail cubbies lined with worn green felt and stuffed with white notes and envelopes for the gymnasium members.

Just to the left stood a set of swinging doors painted a washed-out green. The doors had brass hand plates screwed into the wood and oval frosted windows in the shape of boxing gloves. The constant dull, but rapid thud of fists punching a sparring bag came from behind the doors. There was a round of male laughter, the heavy bounce of a medicine ball, and a distant tooth-ringing sound of fencers parrying their foils.

Behind those doors it was a man's paradise.

The gymnasium air was heavy and warm; the room smelled of camphor wax and cigar smoke, of men, sweat, and the primitive need to beat the hell of out of something.

Another round of bawdy laughter came from a smoky corner where three men stood around a desk as big as a wagon. Propped atop the battered desktop was a pair of size eighteen feet, crossed casually and shod in a pair of Tony Pasterini's calfskin boxing boots.

Conn Donoughue stretched back in his oversize leather chair with its wooden rollers on the bottom that looked like clenched fists. He rested his arm behind his head and blew ten consecutive smoke rings from one puff of a five-cent cigar. After a moment he straightened, planted those huge feet on the wooden floor, and clamped his white teeth down on the stogie.

He stared at the three men opposite him for a long moment. His face broke into a cocky grin, the smoldering cigar still clamped in his back teeth and sticking out of the side of his mouth. "I win."

A slew of curses filled the air: Italian, Spanish, and fractured English mixed with one voice of a guttural German dialect. Within seconds one twenty-dollar gold piece, an ornate silver belt buckle, and a large mahogany box of imported cigars plunked down on Conn's massive desk.

Cuba Santana, owner of the cigar shop, stared up at the dissipating smoke rings that floated toward the high ceiling. He shook his head along with one raised fist. "Santa Maria! I thought no one could blow ten rings!"

"They said no one could knock out the Bronx Bruiser, but Conn, here, did it in two rounds." Tony Pasterini picked up the expensive belt buckle he'd lost, swiped it down his wool vest to polish it, and with a look of regret tossed it back on the desk.

Herbert Hassloff turned toward Cuba and shrugged. "Das ist Conn's dammit Irish luck, by golly."

Originally from Hamburg, Herbert was the neighborhood butcher. His dream had been to come to America, and now that he was here, he butchered the meat and the language.

All were friends, but Conn had known Tony the longest, ever since that fight behind O'Malley's Tavern. And even after the passing of years, Tony was still his closest friend.

Conn tucked the gold piece and buckle into a black safe with gilded curlicues on the door, then rolled his chair back to the desk and snapped open the polished cigar box. He took out a cigar with an impressive black band embossed with gold. He drew the stogie across his upper lip, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. "Ah.... These are some fine cigars, Santana."

"They oughta be. They cost more than a full season of Yankee’s tickets."

Conn opened his eyes and looked at Cuba. "But not to you, my friend. What's your markup on these babies?"

"Three hundred percent," Tony guessed in a wry tone.

Santana rubbed his chin, then absently tugged on the corner of his handlebar mustache. "I don't charge three hundred percent."

Tony gave a snort of disbelief.

"At Christmas I hike 'em up five hundred percent." Santana's dark face broke into a sly grin. That grin turned into a laugh, and the curly tips of his mustache shimmied despite the thick coats of wax that made the hair look like curled tar.

Herbert clucked his tongue and gave Santana a disapproving look. "Das ist hard for you to see your head vhen ist daytime."

Conn looked at Tony, whose frowning face looked as confused as he was.

"Face myself in the morning," Santana explained. For some reason Cuba could understand Herbert Hassloff no matter how convoluted his phrases were.

"Ya." Herbert nodded, waving a hand. "Das ist vhat I said."

The swinging doors blasted open and slammed against the gym walls. Lenny the towel boy came rushing inside. He raced over to the desk and