"Hi there, Leon," said Arum.

Leon grinned and tossed his towel across the room at the stove full of hot rocks. "What's happenin', jewboy?" he replied. "I heard you was too stoned to be foolin' around down here with us health freaks."

Arum turned beet red and moved off toward the corner.

Leon laughed again, and reached for his teeth. "These d.a.m.n things get hot," he snarled. "Who needs these G.o.dd.a.m.n teeth, anyway."

He turned to laugh at Arum again, and right then I saw my chance. I stood up in a sort of linebacker's crouch and hooked him hard in the ribs. He fell back on the hot rocks and I hooked him again.

"O my G.o.d!" Arum shrieked. "I heard something break!"

Leon looked up from where he was sitting on the duck-board floor, his face warped with pain. "Well," he said slowly, "now we know you ain't deaf, Bob." He was leaning back on both hands, wincing with every breath as he slowly raised his eyes to glare at me.

"Real smart friends you got, Arum," he whispered, "but this one's mine, mine, now." He winced again; every breath was painful and he spoke very slowly. "Call my brother Michael," he said to Arum. "Tell him to fix a hook on this honky b.a.s.t.a.r.d's head and hang him up alongside the big bag, for when I get well." now." He winced again; every breath was painful and he spoke very slowly. "Call my brother Michael," he said to Arum. "Tell him to fix a hook on this honky b.a.s.t.a.r.d's head and hang him up alongside the big bag, for when I get well."

Arum was kneeling beside him now, gently probing his rib cage. . . And it was just about then I felt myself waking up; but instead of lying down in a bed, I suddenly realized that something ugly had happened. My first thought was that I'd pa.s.sed out from the heat of the sauna: indeed, a quick trip to the Near Room and some dim memory of violence, but only as part of a dream. . .

Or. . . well. . . maybe not. As my head began to clear and Arum's face came into focus -- his beady eyes, his trembling hands, the sweat squirting out of his pores -- I realized that I was not lying down or coming out of a faint, but standing naked in the middle of a hot wooden cell and staring down like a zombie at -- ye G.o.ds! -- it was Leon Spinks!

And Bob Arum, his eyes bulged out like a frog's, was ma.s.saging Leon's chest. I stared for a moment, then recoiled with shock. . . No, I thought, this can't be happening!

But it was. I was wide-awake now, and I knew this hideous thing was actually happening, right in front of my eyes. Arum was moaning and trembling, while his hands stroked the challenger's chest. Leon was leaning back with his eyes closed, his teeth clenched, and his whole body stiff as a corpse.

Neither one of them seemed to notice my recovery -- from what was later diagnosed, by the nervous hotel doctor, as nothing more than a mild Acid Flashback. . . But I didn't learn that that until later. until later.

High Risk on the Low Road, New Boy on Queer Street. . . Five Million Dollars an Hour, Five Miles to the Terminal Hotel. . . The Devil and Pat Patterson. . . No n.i.g.g.e.r Ever Called Me Hippie. . .

THE NEAR ROOM.

When he got in trouble in the ring, Ali imagined a door swung open and inside he could see neon, orange and green lights blinking, and bats blowing trumpets and alligators playing trombones, and he could hear snakes screaming. Weird masks and actors' clothes hung on the wall, and if he stepped across the sill and reached for them, he knew that he was committing himself to destruction.

-- George Plimpton, Shadow Box Shadow Box It was almost midnight when Pat Patterson got off the elevator and headed down the corridor toward 905, his room right next door to The Champ's. They had flown in from Chicago a few hours earlier and Muhammad had said he was tired and felt like sleeping. No midnight strolls down the block to the Plaza fountain, he promised, no wandering around the hotel or causing a scene in the lobby.

Beautiful, thought Patterson. No worries tonight. With Muhammad in bed and Veronica there to watch over him, Pat felt things were under control and he might even have time for a bit of refreshment downstairs, and then get a decent night's sleep for himself. The only conceivable problem was the volatile presence of Bundini and a friend, who had dropped by around ten for a chat with The Champ about his run for the Triple Crown. The family had been in a state of collective shock for two weeks or so after Vegas, but now it was the first week in March and they were eager to get the big engine cranked up for the return bout with Spinks in September. No contracts had been signed yet, and every sports-writer in New York seemed to be on the take from either Ken Norton or Don King or both. . . But none of that mattered, said Ali, because he and Leon had already agreed on the rematch, and by the end of this year he would be the first man in history to win the Heavyweight Championship of the World THREE TIMES.

Patterson had left them whooping and laughing at each other, but only after securing a promise from Hal Conrad that he and Bundini leave early and let The Champ sleep. They were scheduled to tape a show with d.i.c.k Cavett the next day, then drive for three or four hours up into the mountains of eastern Pennsylvania to Ali's custom-built training camp at Deer Lake. Kilroy was getting the place ready for what Patterson and all the rest of The Family understood was going to be some very serious use. Ali had announced almost immediately after losing to Spinks in Vegas any talk of his "retiring from the ring was nonsense," and that soon he'd begin training for his rematch with Leon.

So the fat was in the fire: a second loss to Spinks would be even worse than the first -- the end of the line for Ali, The Family, and in fact the whole Ali industry. No more paydays, no more limousines, no more suites and crab c.o.c.ktails from room service in the world's most expensive hotels. For Pat Patterson and a lot of other people, another defeat by Spinks would mean the end of a whole way of life. . . And, worse yet, the first wave of public reaction to Ali's "comeback" announcement had been anything but rea.s.suring. An otherwise sympathetic story in the L LOS Angeles Times Angeles Times described the almost universal reaction of the sporting press: described the almost universal reaction of the sporting press: "There were smiles and a shaking of hands all around when the thirty-six-year-old ex-champion said after the fight last Wednesday night: 'I'll be back. I'll be the first man to win the heavyweight t.i.tle three times.' But no one laughed out loud."

A touch of this doomsday thinking had even showed up in The Family. Dr. Ferdie Pacheco, who had been in The Champ's corner for every fight since he first won the t.i.tle from Liston -- except the last one -- had gone on the Tom Snyder show and said that Muhammad was finished as a fighter, that he was a shadow of his former self, and that he (Pacheco) had done everything but beg Ali to retire even before before the Spinks fight. the Spinks fight.

Pacheco had already been expelled from The Family for this heresy, but it had planted a seed of doubt that was hard to ignore. "The Doc" was no quack and he was also a personal friend; did he know something the others didn't? Was it even possible possible that The Champ was "washed up"? There was no way to think that by looking at him, or listening to him either. He looked sharp, talked sharp, and there was a calmness, a kind of muted intensity, in his confidence that made it sound almost understated. that The Champ was "washed up"? There was no way to think that by looking at him, or listening to him either. He looked sharp, talked sharp, and there was a calmness, a kind of muted intensity, in his confidence that made it sound almost understated.

Pat Patterson believed -- or if he didn't, there was no way that even The Champ could guess it. The loyalty of those close to Muhammad Ali is so profound that it sometimes clouds their own vision. . . But Leon Spinks had swept those clouds away, and now it was time to get serious. No more show business, no more clowning. Now they had come to the crunch.

Pat Patterson had tried not to brood on these things, but every newspaper rack he'd come close to in Chicago, New York or anywhere else seemed to echo the baying of hounds on a blood scent. Every media voice in the country was poised for ultimate revenge on this Uppity n.i.g.g.e.r who had laughed in their faces for so long that a whole generation of sportswriters had grown up in the shadow of a mocking dancing presence that most of them had never half-understood until now, when it seemed almost gone.

Even the rematch with Spinks was bogged down in the arcane politics of big-money boxing -- and Pat Patterson, like all the others who had geared their lives to the fortunes of Muhammad Ali, understood that the rematch would have to be soon. soon. Very soon. And The Champ would have to be Very soon. And The Champ would have to be ready ready this time -- as he had not been ready in Vegas. There was no avoiding the memory of Sonny Liston's grim fate, after losing this time -- as he had not been ready in Vegas. There was no avoiding the memory of Sonny Liston's grim fate, after losing again again to Ali in a fight that convinced even the "experts." to Ali in a fight that convinced even the "experts."

But Muhammad Ali was no Liston. There was magic in his head, as well as his fists and his feet -- but time was not on his side, this time, and the only thing more important than slashing the Gordian Knot of boxing-industry politics that was already menacing the reality of a quick rematch with Spinks was the absolute necessity of making sure that The Champ would take this next fight as seriously as it was clearly going to be. A whole industry would be up for grabs -- not to mention the fate of The Family -- and the bizarre scenes of chaos and wild scrambling for position that had followed Spinks' first shocking upset would not be repeated if Ali lost the rematch.

n.o.body was ready for Spinks' stunning victory in Vegas, but every power freak and leverage-monger with any real-life connection to boxing would be ready to go either way on this next one. There would be no more of this low-rent political bulls.h.i.t about "recognition" by the World Boxing Council (WBC) or the World Boxing a.s.sociation (WBA) if Ali lost the rematch with Leon -- and no more big-money fights for Muhammad Ali, either. They would all be pushed over the brink that was already just a few steps in front of them -- and no "comeback" would be likely, or even possible. was ready for Spinks' stunning victory in Vegas, but every power freak and leverage-monger with any real-life connection to boxing would be ready to go either way on this next one. There would be no more of this low-rent political bulls.h.i.t about "recognition" by the World Boxing Council (WBC) or the World Boxing a.s.sociation (WBA) if Ali lost the rematch with Leon -- and no more big-money fights for Muhammad Ali, either. They would all be pushed over the brink that was already just a few steps in front of them -- and no "comeback" would be likely, or even possible.

These things were among the dark shadows that Pat Patterson would rather not have been thinking about on that night in Manhattan as he walked down the corridor to his room in the Park Lane Hotel. The Champ had already convinced him that he would indeed be the first man in history to win the first Triple Crown in the history of heavyweight boxing -- and Pat Patterson was far from alone in his conviction that Leon Spinks would be easy prey, next time, for a Muhammad Ali in top condition both mentally and physically. Spinks was vulnerable: the same crazy/mean style that made him dangerous also made him easy to hit. His hands were surprisingly fast, but his feet were as slow as Joe Frazier's and it was only the crafty coaching of his trainer, the ancient Sam Solomon, that had given him the early five-round edge in Las Vegas that Ali had refused to understand until he was so far behind that his only hope was a blazing last-minute a.s.sault and a knockout or at least a few knockdowns that he was too tired, in the end, to deliver.

Leon was dead on his feet in that savage fifteenth round -- but so was Muhammad Ali, and that's why Spinks won the fight. . .

Yes. . . but that is no special secret and there will be plenty of time to deal with those questions of ego and strategy later on in this saga, if in fact we ever get there. The sun is up, the peac.o.c.ks are screaming with l.u.s.t, and this story is so far off the game plan that no hope of salvage exists at this time -- or at least nothing less than a sweeping, all-points injunction by Judge Crater, who maintains an unlisted number so private that not even Bob Arum can reach him on short notice.

So we are left with the unhurried vision of Pat Patterson finally reaching the door of his room, number 905 in the Park Lane Hotel in Manhattan -- and just as he pulls the room key out of his pocket on the way to a good night's sleep, his body goes suddenly stiff as he picks up the sound of raucous laughter and strange voices in room number 904.

Weird sounds from The Champ's suite. . . Impossible, but Pat Patterson knows knows he's stone sober and nowhere near deaf, so he drops his key back in his pocket and moves one step down the hallway, listening carefully now to these sounds he hopes are not really there. . . Hallucinations, bad nerves, almost anything but the sound of a totally unknown voice -- and the voice of a "white devil," no doubt about that -- from the room where Ali and Veronica are supposed to be sleeping peacefully. Bundini and Conrad had both promised to be gone at least an hour ago. . . But, no! Not this: not Bundini and Conrad and he's stone sober and nowhere near deaf, so he drops his key back in his pocket and moves one step down the hallway, listening carefully now to these sounds he hopes are not really there. . . Hallucinations, bad nerves, almost anything but the sound of a totally unknown voice -- and the voice of a "white devil," no doubt about that -- from the room where Ali and Veronica are supposed to be sleeping peacefully. Bundini and Conrad had both promised to be gone at least an hour ago. . . But, no! Not this: not Bundini and Conrad and the voice of some stranger, too; the voice of some stranger, too; along with the unmistakable sound of laughter from both The Champ and his wife. . . Not along with the unmistakable sound of laughter from both The Champ and his wife. . . Not now, now, just when things were getting close to intolerably serious. just when things were getting close to intolerably serious.

What was the meaing?

Pat Patterson knew what he had to do: he planted both feet in the rug in front of 904 and knocked. knocked. Whatever was going on would have to be cut short at once, and it was his job to do the cutting -- even if he had to get rude with Bundini and Conrad. Whatever was going on would have to be cut short at once, and it was his job to do the cutting -- even if he had to get rude with Bundini and Conrad.

Well. . . this next scene is so strange that not even the people who were part of it can recount exactly what happened. . . but it went more or less like this: Bundini and I had just emerged from a strategy conference in the bathroom when we heard the sudden sound of knocking on the door. Bundini waved us all into silence as Conrad slouched nervously against the wall below the big window that looked out on the snow-covered wasteland of Central Park; Veronica was sitting fully clothed on the king-size bed right next to Ali, who was stretched out and relaxed with the covers pulled up to his waist, wearing nothing at all except. . . Well, let's take it again from Pat Patterson's view from the doorway, when Bundini answered his knock: The first thing he saw when the door opened was a white stranger with a can of beer in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other, sitting cross-legged on the bureau that faced The Champ's bed -- a bad omen for sure and a thing to be dealt with at once at this ominous point in time; but the next thing Pat Patterson saw turned his face into spastic wax and caused his body to leap straight back toward the doorway like he'd just been struck by lightning.

His professional bodyguard's eyes had fixed on me just long enough to be sure I was pa.s.sive and with both hands harmlessly occupied for at least the few seconds it would take him to sweep the rest of the room and see what was wrong with his Five-Million-Dollars-an-hour responsibility. . . and I could tell by the way he moved into the room and the look on his face that I was suddenly back at that point where any movement at all or even the blink of an eye could change my life forever. But I also knew what was coming and I recall a split second of real fear as Pat Patterson's drop-forged glance swept past me and over to the bed to Veronica and the inert lump that lay under the sheets right beside her.

For an instant that frightened us all, the room was electric with absolute silence -- and then the bed seemed to literally explode as the sheets leaped away and a huge body with the hairy red face of the Devil himself leaped up like some jack-in-the-box out of h.e.l.l and uttered a wild cry that jolted us all and sent such an obvious shock through Pat Patterson that he leaped backward and shot out both elbows like Kareem coming down with a rebound. . .

Rolling Stone, # 264, May 4, 1978 264, May 4, 1978 Last Tango in Vegas: Fear and Loathing in the Far Room PART II II.

Wild Ravings of an Autograph Hound. . . A Threat of Public Madness. . . the Pantyhose Press Conference I waited until I was sure the Muhammad Ali party was well off the plane and up the ramp before I finally stood and moved up the aisle, fixing the stewardess at the door with a blind stare from behind two mirror lenses so dark that I could barely see to walk -- but not so dark that I failed to notice a touch of mockery in her smile as I nodded and stepped past her. "Goodbye, sir," she chirped. "I hope you got an interesting story."

You nasty little b.i.t.c.h! I hope your next flight crashes in a cannibal country. . . But I kept this thought to myself as I laughed bitterly and stomped up the empty tunnel to a bank of pay phones, in the concourse. It was New York's La Guardia airport, around eight-thirty on a warm Sunday night in the first week of March, and I had just flown in from Chicago -- supposedly "with the Muhammad Ali party." But things had not worked out that way and my temper was hovering dangerously on the far edge of control as I listened to the sound of n.o.body answering the phone in Hal Conrad's West Side apartment. . . But I kept this thought to myself as I laughed bitterly and stomped up the empty tunnel to a bank of pay phones, in the concourse. It was New York's La Guardia airport, around eight-thirty on a warm Sunday night in the first week of March, and I had just flown in from Chicago -- supposedly "with the Muhammad Ali party." But things had not worked out that way and my temper was hovering dangerously on the far edge of control as I listened to the sound of n.o.body answering the phone in Hal Conrad's West Side apartment. . . That swine! That treacherous lying b.a.s.t.a.r.d! That swine! That treacherous lying b.a.s.t.a.r.d!

We were almost to the ten-ring limit, that point where I knew I'd start pounding on things unless I hung up quickly before we got to eleven. . . when suddenly a voice sounding almost as angry as I felt came booming over the line. "Yeah, yeah, what is it?" Conrad snapped. "I'm in a h.e.l.l of a hurry. Jesus! I was just about into the elevator when I had to come back and answer this G.o.dd.a.m.n --"

"YOU CRAZY b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" I screamed, cutting into his gravelly mumbling as I slammed my hand down on the tin counter and saw a woman using the phone next to me jump like a rat had just run up her leg.

"It's me, me, Harold!" I shouted. "I'm out here at La Guardia and my whole story's f.u.c.ked and just as soon as I find all my baggage I'm going to get a cab and track you down and slit your G.o.dd.a.m.n throat!" Harold!" I shouted. "I'm out here at La Guardia and my whole story's f.u.c.ked and just as soon as I find all my baggage I'm going to get a cab and track you down and slit your G.o.dd.a.m.n throat!"

"Wait a minute!" he said. "What the h.e.l.l is wrong? Where's Ali? Not with a minute!" he said. "What the h.e.l.l is wrong? Where's Ali? Not with you?" you?"

"Are you kidding?" I snarled. "That crazy b.a.s.t.a.r.d didn't even know who I was when I met him Chicago. I made a G.o.dd.a.m.n FOOL OF MYSELF, Harold! He looked at me like I was some kind of autograph hound!" autograph hound!"

"No!" said Conrad. "I told him all about you -- that you were a good friend of mine and you'd be on the flight with him from Chicago. He was expecting expecting you." you."

"Bulls.h.i.t!" I yelled. "You told me he'd be traveling alone, too. . . So I stayed up all night and busted my a.s.s to get a first-cla.s.s seat on that Continental flight that I knew he'd be catching at O'Hare; then I got everything arranged with the flight crew between Denver and Chicago, making sure they blocked off the first two seats so we could sit together. . . Jesus, Harold," I muttered, suddenly feeling very tired, "what kind of sick instinct would cause you to do a thing like this to me?"

"Where the h.e.l.l is Ali?" Conrad shouted, ignoring my question. "I sent a car out to pick you up, both both of you!" of you!"

"You mean all of all of us," I said. "His wife was with him, along with Pat Patterson and maybe a few others -- I couldn't tell, but it wouldn't have made any difference; they us," I said. "His wife was with him, along with Pat Patterson and maybe a few others -- I couldn't tell, but it wouldn't have made any difference; they all all looked at me like I was weird; some kind of psycho trying to muscle into the act, babbling about sitting in Veronica's seat. . ." looked at me like I was weird; some kind of psycho trying to muscle into the act, babbling about sitting in Veronica's seat. . ."

"That's impossible," Conrad snapped. "He knew --"

"Well, I guess he forgot forgot!" I shouted, feeling my temper roving out on the edge again. "Are we talking about brain damage, brain damage, Harold? Are you saying he Harold? Are you saying he has no memory?" has no memory?"

He hesitated just long enough to let me smile for the first time all day. "This could be an ugly ugly story, Harold," I said. "Ali is so punch-drunk that his memory's all scrambled? Maybe they should lift his license, eh? 'Yeah, let's croak all this talk about comebacks, Dumbo. Your memory's f.u.c.ked, you're on queer street -- and by the way, Champ, what are your job prospects?'" story, Harold," I said. "Ali is so punch-drunk that his memory's all scrambled? Maybe they should lift his license, eh? 'Yeah, let's croak all this talk about comebacks, Dumbo. Your memory's f.u.c.ked, you're on queer street -- and by the way, Champ, what are your job prospects?'"

"You son of a b.i.t.c.h," Conrad muttered. "Okay. To h.e.l.l with all this bulls.h.i.t. Just get a cab and meet us at the Plaza. I should have been there a half-hour ago."

"I thought you had us all booked into the Park Lane," I said.

"Get moving and don't worry about it," he croaked. "I'll meet you at the Plaza. Don't waste any time."

"WHAT?" I screamed. "What am I doing right now? right now? I have a I have a Friday deadline, Friday deadline, Harold, and this is Sunday! You call me in the middle of the G.o.dd.a.m.n night in Colorado and tell me to get on the first plane to Chicago because Muhammad Ali has all of a sudden decided he wants to talk to me -- after all that lame bulls.h.i.t in Vegas -- so I take the Harold, and this is Sunday! You call me in the middle of the G.o.dd.a.m.n night in Colorado and tell me to get on the first plane to Chicago because Muhammad Ali has all of a sudden decided he wants to talk to me -- after all that lame bulls.h.i.t in Vegas -- so I take the insane insane risk of dumping my whole story in a parachute bag and flying off on a 2000-mile freakout right in the middle of a deadline crunch to meet a man in Chicago who treats me like a wino when I finally get there. . . And now you're talking to risk of dumping my whole story in a parachute bag and flying off on a 2000-mile freakout right in the middle of a deadline crunch to meet a man in Chicago who treats me like a wino when I finally get there. . . And now you're talking to me, me, you pigf.u.c.ker, about WASTING TIME?" you pigf.u.c.ker, about WASTING TIME?"

I was raving at the top of my lungs now, drawing stares from every direction -- so I tried to calm down; no need to get busted for public madness in the airport, I thought; but I was also in New York with no story and no place to work and only five days away from a clearly impossible deadline, and now Conrad was telling me that my long-overdue talk with Ali had once again "gone wrong."

"Just get in a cab and meet me at the Plaza," he was saying. "I'll pull this mess together, don't worry. . ."

"Well. . ." I said. "I'm already here in New York and I definitely want to see you, want to see you, Harold -- so yeah, I'll be there. But --" I paused for a moment, fascinated by a scene that was suddenly running very vividly behind my eyeb.a.l.l.s as I stood there at the pay phone in the concourse "-- let me Harold -- so yeah, I'll be there. But --" I paused for a moment, fascinated by a scene that was suddenly running very vividly behind my eyeb.a.l.l.s as I stood there at the pay phone in the concourse "-- let me tell tell you what I'm going to do at noon tomorrow, if you you what I'm going to do at noon tomorrow, if you don't don't pull this mess together." pull this mess together."

"Not now," he said. "I have to get going --"

"Listen!" I yelled. "I want you to understand understand this, Harold, because it could do serious things to your image." this, Harold, because it could do serious things to your image."

Silence.

"What I plan to do when I wake up in the Plaza at exactly eleven o'clock tomorrow morning," I said calmly, "is have a few b.l.o.o.d.y Marys and then go down to the hotel drugstore and buy some of those sheer pantyhose, along with a black wig and some shades like yours, Harold. . . Then I'll go back up to my room and call the Daily News Daily News to say they should have a photographer at the Plaza fountain exactly at noon for a press conference with Ali and Bob Arum. . . and, yes that my name is Hal Conrad, the well-known boxing wizard and executive spokesman for Muhammad Ali." to say they should have a photographer at the Plaza fountain exactly at noon for a press conference with Ali and Bob Arum. . . and, yes that my name is Hal Conrad, the well-known boxing wizard and executive spokesman for Muhammad Ali."

"And then, then, Harold," I continued, "exactly at noon I will leave my room in the Plaza, wearing nothing but a pair of sheer pantyhose and a wig and black shades. . . and I will take the elevator down to the lobby and Harold," I continued, "exactly at noon I will leave my room in the Plaza, wearing nothing but a pair of sheer pantyhose and a wig and black shades. . . and I will take the elevator down to the lobby and stroll stroll very casually outside and across the street and climb very casually outside and across the street and climb into the Plaza fountain, into the Plaza fountain, waving a bottle of Fernet Branca in one hand and a joint in the other. . . And I'll be SCREAMING, Harold, at anybody who gets in my way or even stops to stare." waving a bottle of Fernet Branca in one hand and a joint in the other. . . And I'll be SCREAMING, Harold, at anybody who gets in my way or even stops to stare."

"Bulls.h.i.t!" he snapped. "You'll get yourself locked up."

"No," I said. "I'll get you you locked up. When they grab me I'll say I'm Hal Conrad and all I wanted to do was get things organized for the upcoming Ali-Arum press conference -- and then you'll have a new picture for your sc.r.a.pbook, a frontpage shot in the locked up. When they grab me I'll say I'm Hal Conrad and all I wanted to do was get things organized for the upcoming Ali-Arum press conference -- and then you'll have a new picture for your sc.r.a.pbook, a frontpage shot in the News News of 'famous boxing wizard Harold Conrad.' " of 'famous boxing wizard Harold Conrad.' "

I suddenly saw the whole scene in that movie behind my eyes. I would intimidate anybody in the elevator by raving and screeching at them about things like "the broken spirit" "the broken spirit" and and "fixers who steal clothes from the poor." "fixers who steal clothes from the poor." That, followed by an outburst of deranged weeping, would get me down to the lobby where I would quickly get a grip and start introducing myself to everybody within reach and inviting them all to the press conference in the fountain. . . and then, when I finally climbed into the water and took a real stance for the noon/lunch crowd, I could hear myself screeching, "Cast out VANITY! Look at me -- I'm not VAIN! My name is Hal Conrad and I feel That, followed by an outburst of deranged weeping, would get me down to the lobby where I would quickly get a grip and start introducing myself to everybody within reach and inviting them all to the press conference in the fountain. . . and then, when I finally climbed into the water and took a real stance for the noon/lunch crowd, I could hear myself screeching, "Cast out VANITY! Look at me -- I'm not VAIN! My name is Hal Conrad and I feel wonderful! wonderful! I'm I'm proud proud to wear pantyhose in the streets of New York -- to wear pantyhose in the streets of New York -- and so is Muhammad Ali. and so is Muhammad Ali. Yes! He'll be here in just a few moments, and he'll be dressed Yes! He'll be here in just a few moments, and he'll be dressed just like me. And Bob Arum too just like me. And Bob Arum too!" I would shriek, "He's not ashamed to wear pantyhose." would shriek, "He's not ashamed to wear pantyhose."

The crowd would not be comfortable with this gig; there was not much doubt about that. A naked man in the streets is one thing, but the sight of the recently dethroned Heavyweight Champion of the World parading around in the fountain, wearing nothing but sheer pantyhose, was too weird to tolerate.

Boxing was bad enough as it was, and wrestling was worse: but not even a mob of New Yorkers could handle such a nasty spectacle as this. They would be ripping up the paving stones by the time the police arrived.

"Stop threatening threatening me, you me, you drunken freak!" drunken freak!" Conrad shouted. "Just get in a cab and meet me at the Plaza. I'll have everything under control by the time you get there -- we'll go up to his room and talk Conrad shouted. "Just get in a cab and meet me at the Plaza. I'll have everything under control by the time you get there -- we'll go up to his room and talk there." there."

I shrugged and hung up the phone. Why not? I thought. It was too late to catch a turnaround flight back to Colorado, so I might as well check into the Plaza and get rid of another credit card, along with another friend. Conrad was trying; trying; I knew that -- but I also knew that this time he was grasping at straws, because we both understood the deep and deceptively narrow-looking moat that eighteen years of celebrity forced Ali to dig between his "public" and his "private" personas. I knew that -- but I also knew that this time he was grasping at straws, because we both understood the deep and deceptively narrow-looking moat that eighteen years of celebrity forced Ali to dig between his "public" and his "private" personas.

It is more like a ring ring of moats than just one, and Ali has learned the subtler art of making each one seem like the last great leap between the intruder and himself. . . But there is always of moats than just one, and Ali has learned the subtler art of making each one seem like the last great leap between the intruder and himself. . . But there is always one more moat one more moat to get across, and not many curious strangers have ever made it that far. to get across, and not many curious strangers have ever made it that far.

Some people will settle happily for a smile and joke in a hotel lobby, and others will insist on crossing two or even three of his moats before they feel comfortably "private" with The Champ. . . But very few people understand how many rings there really are: My own quick guess would be Nine; but Ali's quick mind and his instinct for public relations can easily make the third moat seem seem like the ninth; and this world is full of sporting journalists who never realized where they were until the same "private thoughts" and "spontaneous bits of eloquence" they had worked so desperately to glean from The Champ in some rare flash of personal communication that none other would ever share, appeared word for word, in cold black type, under somebody else's byline. like the ninth; and this world is full of sporting journalists who never realized where they were until the same "private thoughts" and "spontaneous bits of eloquence" they had worked so desperately to glean from The Champ in some rare flash of personal communication that none other would ever share, appeared word for word, in cold black type, under somebody else's byline.

This is not a man who needs needs hired pros and wizards to speak for him; but he has learned how to use them so skillfully that he can save himself for the rare moments of confrontation that hired pros and wizards to speak for him; but he has learned how to use them so skillfully that he can save himself for the rare moments of confrontation that interest interest him. . . Which are few and far between, but anybody who has ever met Muhammad Ali on that level will never forget it. He has a very lonely sense of humor, and a sense of himself so firmly entrenched that it seems to hover, at times, in that nervous limbo between Egomania and genuine Invulnerability. him. . . Which are few and far between, but anybody who has ever met Muhammad Ali on that level will never forget it. He has a very lonely sense of humor, and a sense of himself so firmly entrenched that it seems to hover, at times, in that nervous limbo between Egomania and genuine Invulnerability.

There is not much difference in his mind between a challenge inside inside the ring, with Joe Frazier, or in a TV studio with d.i.c.k Cavett. He honestly believes he can handle it all; and he has almost two decades of evidence to back him up, at this point; so it takes a rare sense of challenge to get him cranked up. He had coped with everything from the White Heavies of Louisville to Sonny Liston and the War in Vietnam; from the hostility of old white draft boards to the sullen enigma of the Black Muslims; from the genuine menace of Joe Frazier to the puzzling threat of Ken Norton. . . and he has beaten every person or thing that G.o.d or even Allah ever put in his way -- except perhaps Joe Frazier and the Eternal Mystery of Women. . . the ring, with Joe Frazier, or in a TV studio with d.i.c.k Cavett. He honestly believes he can handle it all; and he has almost two decades of evidence to back him up, at this point; so it takes a rare sense of challenge to get him cranked up. He had coped with everything from the White Heavies of Louisville to Sonny Liston and the War in Vietnam; from the hostility of old white draft boards to the sullen enigma of the Black Muslims; from the genuine menace of Joe Frazier to the puzzling threat of Ken Norton. . . and he has beaten every person or thing that G.o.d or even Allah ever put in his way -- except perhaps Joe Frazier and the Eternal Mystery of Women. . .

And now, as my cab moved jerkily through the snow-black streets of Brooklyn toward the Plaza Hotel, I was brooding on Conrad's deranged plot that I felt would almost certainly cause me another nightmare of professional grief and personal humiliation. I felt like a rape victim on the way to a discussion with the rapist on the Johnny Carson show. Not even Hal Conrad's fine sense of reality could take me past Moat #5 -- which would not be enough, because I'd made it clear from the start that I was not especially interested in anything short of at least #7 or 8.

Which struck me as far enough, for my purposes, because I understood #9 well enough to know that if Muhammad was as smart as I thought he was, I would never see or even smell that last moat.

Wilfrid Sheed, an elegant writer who wrote a whole book t.i.tled Muhammad Ali Muhammad Ali without ever crossing the sixth or seventh moat, much less the ninth, has described that misty battlefield far better than I can. . . but he was without ever crossing the sixth or seventh moat, much less the ninth, has described that misty battlefield far better than I can. . . but he was paid paid a lot better, too, which tends to bring a certain balance to situations that would otherwise be intolerable. a lot better, too, which tends to bring a certain balance to situations that would otherwise be intolerable.

In any case, here is Sheed recounting the agonies of merely trying to talk to the subject of his twenty-dollar-per-copy book: ". . . Ali moves so fast that he even outruns his own people, and no one seems to know for sure where he is. I am about to head for his training camp in the Poconos one more time when word arrives that he has broken camp for good. What? Where? Rumors of his comings and goings suddenly rival Patty Hearst's. His promoters say he's in Cleveland, and the Times Times says he's in New York, sparring at the Felt Forum, but he hasn't been seen at either place. It is a game he plays with the world: dancing out of range, then suddenly sticking out his face and pulling it back again. . . says he's in New York, sparring at the Felt Forum, but he hasn't been seen at either place. It is a game he plays with the world: dancing out of range, then suddenly sticking out his face and pulling it back again. . .

"Meanwhile, his elusiveness is abetted by one of the cagiest inner circles since Cardinal Richelieu. Anyone Anyone can see him publicly -- I think it is his secret wish to be seen by every man, woman and child on the planet earth -- but to see him privately is harder than getting a visa from the Chinese Emba.s.sy." can see him publicly -- I think it is his secret wish to be seen by every man, woman and child on the planet earth -- but to see him privately is harder than getting a visa from the Chinese Emba.s.sy."

Well. . . I have beat on both those doors in my time, meeting with failure and frustration on both fronts; but I have a feeling that Sheed never properly understood the importance of speaking Chinese. the importance of speaking Chinese. Or at least having the right interpreter; and not many of these are attached to either Muhammad Ali or the Chinese Emba.s.sy. . . But in Ali's case, I did, after all, have my old buddy Hal Conrad, whose delicate function as Muhammad's not-quite-official interpreter with the world of white media I was just beginning to understand. . . Or at least having the right interpreter; and not many of these are attached to either Muhammad Ali or the Chinese Emba.s.sy. . . But in Ali's case, I did, after all, have my old buddy Hal Conrad, whose delicate function as Muhammad's not-quite-official interpreter with the world of white media I was just beginning to understand. . .

I have known Conrad since 1962, when I met him in Las Vegas at the second Liston-Patterson fight. He was handling the press and publicity for that cruel oddity, and I was the youngest and most ignorant "sportswriter" ever accredited to cover a heavyweight championship fight. . . But Conrad, who had total control of all access to everything, all access to everything, went out of his way to overlook my nervous ignorance and my total lack of expense money -- including me along with all "big names" for things like press parties, interviews with the fighters and above all, the awesome spectacle of Sonny Liston working out on the big bag, to the tune of "Night Train," at his crowded and carpeted base camp in the Thunderbird Hotel. . . As the song moved louder and heavier toward a climax of big-band, rock & roll frenzy, Liston would step into the 200-pound bag and hook it went out of his way to overlook my nervous ignorance and my total lack of expense money -- including me along with all "big names" for things like press parties, interviews with the fighters and above all, the awesome spectacle of Sonny Liston working out on the big bag, to the tune of "Night Train," at his crowded and carpeted base camp in the Thunderbird Hotel. . . As the song moved louder and heavier toward a climax of big-band, rock & roll frenzy, Liston would step into the 200-pound bag and hook it straight up in the air straight up in the air -- where it would hang for one long and terrifying instant, before it fell back into place at the end of a one-inch logging chain with a vicious CLANG and a jerk that would shake the whole room. -- where it would hang for one long and terrifying instant, before it fell back into place at the end of a one-inch logging chain with a vicious CLANG and a jerk that would shake the whole room.

I watched Sonny work put on that bag every afternoon for a week or so, or at least long enough to think he had to be at least nine feet tall. . . until one evening a day or so prior to the fight when I literally b.u.mped into Listen, and his two huge bodyguards at the door of the Thunderbird Casino, and I didn't even recognize The Champ for a moment because he was only about six feet tall and with nothing but the dull, fixed stare in his eyes to make him seem different from all the other rich/mean n.i.g.g.e.rs a man could b.u.mp into around the Thunderbird that week.

So now, on this jangled Sunday night in New York -- more than fifteen years and 55,000 olive-drab tombstones from Maine to California since I first realized that Sonny Liston was three inches shorter than me -- it was all coming together, or maybe coming apart once again, as my cab approached the Plaza and another wholly unpredictable but probably doomed and dumb encounter with the world of Big Time Boxing. I had stopped for a six-pack of Ballantine Ale on the way in from the airport, and I also had a quart of Old Fitzgerald that I'd brought with me from home. My mood was ugly and cynical, tailored very carefully on the long drive through Brooklyn to match my lack of expectations with regard to anything Conrad might have tried to "set up" with Ali.

My way of joking is to tell the truth. That's the funniest joke in the world.

-- Muhammad Ali Indeed. . . And that is also as fine a definition of "Gonzo Journalism" as anything I've ever heard, for good or ill. But I was in no mood for joking when my cab pulled up to the Plaza that night. I was half-drunk, fully cranked, and p.i.s.sed off at everything that moved. My only real plan was to get past this ordeal that Conrad was supposedly organizing with Ali, then retire in shame to my eighty-eight-dollar-a-night bed and deal with Conrad tomorrow.

But this world does not work on "real plans" -- mine or anyone else's -- so I was not especially surprised when a total stranger wearing a serious serious black overcoat laid a hand on my shoulder as I was having my bags carried into the Plaza: black overcoat laid a hand on my shoulder as I was having my bags carried into the Plaza: "Doctor Thompson?" he said.

"What?" I spun away and glared at him just long enough to know there was no point in denying it. . . He had the look of a rich undertaker who had once been the Light-Heavyweight karate champion of the Italian Navy; a very quiet very quiet presence that was far too heavy for a cop. . . He was on presence that was far too heavy for a cop. . . He was on my my side. side.

And he seemed to understand my bad nervous condition; before I could ask anything, he was already picking up my bags and saying -- with a smile as uncomfortable as my own: "We're going to the Park Lane; Mister Conrad is waiting for you. . ."

I shrugged and followed him outside to the long black limo that was parked with the engine running so close to the front door of the Plaza that it was almost up on the sidewalk. . . and about three minutes later I was face to face with Hal Conrad in the lobby of the Park Lane Hotel, more baffled than ever and not even allowed enough time to sign in and get my luggage up to the room. . .

"What took you so G.o.dd.a.m.n long?"

"I was masturbating in the limo," I said. "We took a spin out around Sheepshead Bay and I --"

"Sober up!" he snapped. "Ali's been waiting waiting for you since ten o'clock." for you since ten o'clock."

"b.a.l.l.s," I said, as the door opened and he aimed me down the hall. "I'm tired of your bulls.h.i.t, Harold -- and where the h.e.l.l is my luggage?"

"f.u.c.k your luggage," he replied as we stopped in front of 904 and he knocked, saying, "Open up, it's me." me."

The door swung open and there was Bundini, with a dilated grin on his face, reaching out to shake hands. 'Welcome!" he said. "Come right in, Doc -- make yourself at home."

I was still shaking hands with Bundini when I realized where I was -- standing at the foot of a king-size bed where Muhammad Ali was laid back with the covers pulled up to his waist and his wife, Veronica, sitting next to him: they were both eyeing me with very different expressions than I'd seen on their faces in Chicago.

Muhammad leaned up to shake hands, grinning first at me and then at Conrad: "Is this him?" him?" he asked. "You sure he's safe?" he asked. "You sure he's safe?"

Bundini and Conrad were laughing as I tried to hide my confusion at this sudden plunge into unreality by lighting two Dunhills at once, as I backed off and tried to get grounded. . . but my head was still whirling from this hurricane of changes and I heard myself saying, "What do you mean -- Is this him? Is this him? You b.a.s.t.a.r.d! I should have you You b.a.s.t.a.r.d! I should have you arrested arrested for what you did to me in Chicago!" for what you did to me in Chicago!"

Ali fell back on the pillows and laughed. "I'm sorry, boss, but I just couldn't recognize recognize you. I knew I was supposed to meet you. I knew I was supposed to meet somebody, somebody, but --" but --"