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"So, what'd Seamus say?" Criss asked George at the production meeting the next day.

"He'd said he'd do it," George replied, "for eight grand."

Criss was flabbergasted. "Eight grand!?"

"That's what he said, eight grand. He wanted ten at first, but I had to negotiate my ass off to get it down to eight. You said you were willing to pay him."

"Yeah, but eight thousand dollars for a two-day shoot? That's outrageous!"

"It's his gym, Criss," George reminded him. "He calls the shots. You wanna back out?"

"No, no," Criss said hastily. "It's still a good plan. If he wants eight thousand for it, then...what choice do we have? Like you said, it's his gym."

"Maybe he's got some heavy bills he needs to pay," Costa commented.

George remembered the pile of bills on Linehan's desk when he first broached the subject of using the gym for taping the show. Poor guy must really be in debt to ask for that much, he reasoned. No wonder he's such a crank!

"So when do we start taping?" Dave Baram asked.

"First thing tomorrow morning," Criss told him. "We go to my gym first, get a few shots there, then we go to Linehan's Gym."

"Anything special planned?"

Criss smiled mischeviously. "You'll see," he replied. "I don't want to spoil the surprise."




Later that day, while Criss was performing a matinee show, JD sorted through old photographs of his father to use for the upcoming Sports episode. There was one in particular he was looking for: an ad dating back to the late Fifties of John Sarantakos as Mr. Universe. The last he had seen of it was when Criss used it for his book MindFreak. Criss had sworn up and down that the original had been returned to him after publishing, but for the life of him JD could not find it anywhere. It had to be in that box somewhere, he thought.

In spite of his diligence, JD came across the occasional photo which made him pause and reflect, stirring emotions he had believed he'd overcome after eleven years: Dad and the family on Long Island Sound; Dad sitting with a youthful Chris on the hood of JD's car; Mom and Dad cuddling in the living room; Dad's last birthday party, posing with a long-haired Christopher; Mom and Dad's wedding portrait in black and white, now faded to shades of gray after fifty years. God, Mom looked beautiful back then, he thought.

A large worn Manila envelope lying on the bottom of the box caught JD's attention. Curious, he picked it up and opened it. Inside was a stack of John's Mr. Universe publicity photos, eight-by-ten glossies shot in black and white, their images still crisp after half a century. JD examined each picture one by one, hardly believing the Adonis in the tight black briefs who graced the film and paper he held in his hands had been his own father. Every shot highlighted a physique worthy of the Olympian gods themselves: rippling muscles, broad shoulders, tight, firm abdomen, arms strong enough to lift a horse. He must've worked out like a demon! JD thought. I've never seen Dad look so ripped!

He laid the glossies next to the snapshots of his father in later life, comparing the two. It saddened him deeply as he reflected upon the cruel irony that such a perfect specimen of humanity should have succumbed to cancer at the age of sixty. Sorrowfully, almost reverently, he slipped the glossies back into the worn envelope. He debated with himself whether to show these to Criss and Costa; he knew they had the right to see them, but feared they would only bring back sad memories of their father's passing. In the end, family won out over fear. He had to show them to his brothers; it was up to Criss to decide whether or not they were too personal to use on the show.

JD picked up the envelope and headed for Criss' office. I hope he's got a box of tissues in there, JD said to himself, because once he sees these, he's gonna need them.

A boxy white truck led by a large black SUV pulled into the gravelly lot of Linehan's Gym around ten o'clock that morning. Criss looked out the tinted window of the SUV at the squat square building covered with gang graffiti on its cinderblock walls and wondered why his cousin George would come here to train to be a boxer.

Criss got out of the SUV and stood looking at the nondescript building that housed Linehan's Gym. Not very impressive, he thought. Looks more like my warehouse. Well, maybe inside will be better.

He waved to the two member cameramen to follow him (Kevin had been summarily discharged for his indiscreet taping of Criss in the shower, so only a couple remained for the rest of the shoot). He turned to his brother, JD. "You got the check ready?" he asked.

JD held up the cashier's check payable to Seamus Linehan for the amount of eight thousand dollars and no cents. Criss nodded approvingly, took the check and walked across the lot to the gym entrance. He halted and held up his hands. "Wait here," he said. "I gotta clear up some business before we start taping."

Criss walked through the metal door of the gym. The smell of canvas, damp towels and leather mingled with the rank stench of sweat hit him squarely in the face, almost knocking him back. "Ugh! My God in Heaven!" he choked. "How can George stand to work out in here?"

Gagging, he braved the foul atmosphere and made his way into the dimly lit gym. He could hear the sound of padded gloves striking leather, vinyl and human flesh. He saw two boxers, their faces concealed in padded helmets, sparring in the ring. But where was George? He looked around, but saw no sign of him anywhere. He looked again at the two fighters in the ring. Could George be one of them? he wondered.

"Hey, Criss!"

Criss turned to see his cousin standing in a far corner next to a small office. "Oh, there you are, George," he said, relieved. "I've been looking all over for you."

"Did you bring the money?" George asked. "Linehan's been waiting for it all morning."

Criss held up the check. "Right here. Where's Linehan?"

George nodded toward the small office. "Watch yourself," he warned. "Linehan's a mean old (bleeper), and he's never heard of you, so don't expect a warm reception."

Criss went into the office and rapped on the door. We'll see just how warm he'll be when he gets the money, he thought.

"Door's open!" came the gruff voice from inside.

Criss entered. "Mr. Linehan?" he began cordially, "I'm Criss Angel, George's cousin. First of all, I'd like to thank you for letting us use your gym to tape our show, and--"

"Cut the blathering!" Linehan snapped at him. "Ye've got the money or not?"

"Oh, yeah," Criss replied. "Here you go. Eight thousand dollars, just as we agreed upon."

The old man's demeanor warmed a couple of degrees when he looked at the cashier's check. "Good," he said. "Ye kin film all ye want, but don't ye be gettin' in the way of the boxers--these mugs'll take ye down if ye go botherin' 'em. Me office is off limits, and don't ye go askin' me for an innerview--I got too much work to do around here! And stay out of the shower room! I don't want ye filmin' anyone's bare bums fer yer show! I run a respectable place here!"

"Got it," Criss said, taken aback at such a brusque manner.

Linehan waved him away. Criss beat a hasty retreat. George eyed him smugly as he emerged from the office. "Warned you," he said. "This guy doesn't give a damn if you're a celebrity or not--his gym, his rules."

"So I found out," Criss said.

"You ready to shoot?"

Criss nodded. "I'll get the crew. I just hope they don't pass out from the stink in here."

George smiled. "You'll get used to it," he assured him good-naturedly. "I did."

Criss dashed out of the gym to gulp a few lungfuls of fresh air before going back inside. Noting his distress, JD approached him. "How was it in there?" he asked.

"Did you bring a gas mask?" Criss asked, gasping. "I mean, it's rank in there! Whooooo!"

The two cameramen went into the gym to film Criss' entrance. "Suck it up, Criss," JD said, patting his youngest brother on the back. "You've survived worse than this. Remember, you wanted to tape the show here, so you gotta take the bad with the good."

Criss' breathing returned to normal. "Okay," he said, "I'm good. Let's go."

JD entered the gym first to set up the camera angles for Criss' entrance. Criss adjusted his portable microphone and took his last few breaths of fresh air before reentering the reeking atmosphere of Linehan's Gym. Memo to Linehan, he said to himself, upgrade ventilation.

The signal to enter came. "Good to go, Criss," came JD's voice over the tiny earbud headphone Criss wore.

Criss braced himself and entered the gym, valiently trying to overcome the smell. He faced the camera at the end of the corridor and bravely inhaled the air in the gym. "You heard of Brut?" he said with bravado into the camera. Suddenly he doubled over coughing and wheezing. "This is brutal!" he gagged.

"Aaannnd cut!" JD said. "Good one, Criss."

Criss shook his head. "The things I do for my art," he mused glumly.

(Sorry I have to cut this short, but I have to go out and water the tomato plants. Catch you later. V.)

JD saw Cousin George working out at the heavy bag in the corner of the gym. "Hey, there's George," he said to Criss. "Come on, let's go see him."

Criss and one of the cameramen walked up to George; the other remained behind to tape footage of the two boxers sparring in the ring. "Hey, George!" Criss called out. "How's it goin'?"

George stopped sharpening his left hook and turned to see his two cousins with a cameraman in tow. "Hey, guys," he panted.

"So, how's training coming along?" Criss asked.

George swept his brow with his forearm. "I'm gettin' there," he replied. "Still working on my left."

Criss noted how heavily George was perspiring, and he became concerned. "Can I get you a bottle of water or something?" he suggested. "You're sweating like a horse!"

George nodded wearily. "Bucket's over there," he said, pointing to a tin pail with a dipper in it.

JD and Criss eyed the water bucket with distaste. "You all got to drink out of that?" Criss said in disgust.

"Yeah, well," George said, shrugging his shoulders, "this place is pretty no-frills, you know. Linehan's on a tight budget."

"Yeah, but still," Criss protested, "you have to keep up with the health codes."

JD turned to Criss. "I'll go to the truck and see if I can find some bottled water," he said.

Criss nodded emphatically. "You do that!" he exclaimed. "That thing's probably swimming with germs!"

JD left to fetch the water. Criss turned to the other cameraman. "Get some footage of the other boxers for a while," he told him. "I wanna talk to George off the record for a while."

The second cameraman nodded and went to tape a boxer at the speed bag. Criss turned back to his cousin. "Look, George," he said, "you're welcome to train in my gym if you want. I can set you up with whatever you need: punching bags, gloves, you name it. I got the weights and all the other equipment, and it's a helluva lot cleaner than this place. I mean, with all due respect to Linehan, this place is a dive, man!"

"I appreciate the offer, Criss," George said, "but Linehan's my official trainer, so it's his place or no place. I know it's a 'dive' as you call it, but it's the only training gym that's closest to me. It's not too bad once you get used to it, really. Besides, I got to get in shape for the tryouts on Saturday, and this is the only place for it."

He returned to working on his left hook. Criss drew a deep sigh and immediatly regretted it; he coughed the foul air of the gym out of his lungs. God! he thought. How can you stand it, George? The air in here will knock you out faster than Mike Tyson!

A loud whistle interrupted the boxers. "All right, ye mugs!" Linehan bellowed. "Change places!" He pointed his cane to the two boxers in the ring. "You two, out! Lacie, you and the Greek into the ring!"

"The Greek?" Criss inquired.

"Uh, he means me," George said. "He keeps forgetting my last name, so I'm either the Greek or just George."

George peeled the Velcro straps of his training gloves with his teeth and pulled them off. "My sparring gloves are over there, Criss," he said. "You wanna go get them for me?"

"Sure." Criss went to get the red vinyl gloves. They were smaller and lighter than he thought they would be. "Are you sure these are yours?" he asked.

"Yeah, that's them."

Criss bought the gloves over while George donned his padded boxer's helmet, a task made more difficult with his hands taped. Criss helped him with his gloves and walked over to him to the ring. George threaded himself between the ropes and took his place in the corner. Criss stood beside him, waiting for the sparring match to begin.

"Hey, Criss!" It was JD, carrying a six-pack of bottled water. "I got the water!" he announced. "It's not very cold, but--"

"It's okay," Criss said. "Just break me one for George over here."

JD pulled out a bottle from the shrinkwrap and handed it to Criss, who in turn handed it to George. "You'll have to open it and give it to me," he said. "I can't hold it with my gloves on."

Criss cracked open the plastic bottle and put it to George's lips. George chugged a few mouthfuls and withdrew, spraying the last of the water to the side. "Okay, I'm good," he said.

George's opponent, Tobe Lacie, had just climbed into the ring, his dark brown skin reflecting the flourescent lighting above like moonlight on water. The two combatants stood and faced each other in the ring. The referee, Linehan's eldest son Sean and champion amateur boxer in his own right, stood between them as he explained the rules: "Three minute rounds, three rounds in a bout. No hitting below the belt, no tripping, no kicking. If you need to call a time out, raise your right arm. Ready? Go!!"

Criss watched his cousin deliver punch after punch, deflect blow after blow his opponent gave him. Soon he was wildly enthusiastic, cheering on George as if he was fighting for the title. "C'mon, George!" he shouted. "Way to go! Yeeeeaaaahhhh!"

George faked a left hook, catching Tobe off guard, then he landed a powerful right cross on him. Tobe reeled from the blow. George came down with his left, hammering Tobe to the mat. The referee interceded, preventing George from finishing off his opponent.

"Back of the head, illegal move," the referee ruled. "That'll cost you three points."

George accepted the ruling grudgingly but without protest. Criss, however, slammed the heel of his hand against the post. "Damn!" he swore.

The opponents retreated to their corners. "You almost nailed him, George!" Criss cried. "What the hell happened?"

"The rules are different for amateur boxers, Criss," George explained. "We win by points, not knockouts. These aren't pros who make it their living. These are guys who have regular jobs, so they have to stay healthy and in one piece to support their families or whatever. If I kill a guy in the ring, I go to prison for manslaughter."

The referee signalled the beginning of Round Two. George and Tobe sparred around and around the ring, searching for the weak spots for where to strike while blocking and ducking each other's punches. Again, George landed a right to Tobe's chest, causing him to lose his balance, then another hook to the side to send him sprawling to the mat. Criss waited for the ref's call, but there was no interference from the official. Tobe struggled to his feet and came back swinging, catching George with a right cut to the head. George retaliated with his newly developed left hook to Tobe's chin. Suddenly the three-minute signal was given, and both men retreated to their corners.

"Good one, George!" Criss exclaimed. "I think you're gonna win this one! You're really kicking that guy's ass!"

"It's just a practice bout, okay?" George panted. "Gimme some more water, willya?"

Criss fed him another swig from the bottle, then mopped his cousin's head with a small white towel. The referee signalled Round Three. "Go get him, George!" Criss cheered encouragingly.

George rose and took his stance. Tobe took his stance as well. Then the final round began at the referee's signal. George led with his left, deflecting Tobe's right cut with his elbow. Tobe delivered a roundhouse to George's left temple, a fatal blow if not for the padded helmet he wore. It knocked George off balance, but he quickly regained it and returned with an uppercut to Tobe's exposed chin. Tobe swore through his mouthpiece and came at George, hammering away like a madman. It was all George could do to block and swerve away from Tobe's flying fists of fury. Through the punishment he received from his angry opponent, George found an opening just above the solar plexus, that part of the body containing the viscera and other vital organs and plowed his fist straight into it. Tobe's mouthpiece shot straight from his jaws from the force of it. He staggered away from George, gasping for air. Concerned for his friend and sparring partner, George signalled for a time out.

Tobe was assisted to his corner by the referee. George hovered over him, worried about the damage he had inflicted. "You okay, dude?" he asked anxiously.

Tobe nodded, still gasping for air. "I'm good," he panted. "I'm good. You just knocked the wind out of me, man!"

The shrill tweeting of Linehan's whistle meant the end of the practice bout. George didn't stick around to hear the official results; they didn't matter any more to him now. Instead, he climbed out of the ring and stood there, unsure of what to do now.

Criss went over to his grieved cousin. "You okay, man?" he asked softly.

"I'm good," George replied. "Just don't use that in the show, okay, Criss?"

"Sure, man," Criss said sympathetically. "I understand."




Later, while George and Tobe were showering and dressing for the street, Criss and his crew packed up the camera equipment in the white truck. "God!" Criss exclaimed. "It's good to be back out in the fresh air again!"

JD agreed. "Maybe with the eight thousand bucks you paid him, Old Man Linehan'll improve the ventilation in there."

"At least install a drinking fountain or something," Criss commented. "Ten guys drinking out of a tin pail? Forget about it!"

"Well, next time you want to do a sports theme for the show," JD said, "pick a fitness center or something. That dump should be condemned by the Board of Health!"

"That place would have to be redecorated before it could be condemned!" Criss joked.

"Hey!" a strange voice called out.

Criss and JD turned to see George and his sparring partner, Tobe Lacie, standing before them. "Whatchoo doin', dissin' Linehan like that?" Tobe demanded.

"We ain't 'dissing' anyone," Criss protested. "We just think that his gym could use some upgrading, that's all."

"Especially the ventilation," JD added. "The air in there could deplete the ozone."

"So, give him some money to do it!" Tobe retorted.

"We just paid him eight thousand dollars to let us tape our show in there!" Criss said.

"Eight thousand?"

"Yeah, that's right, eight thousand."

Tobe turned to George. "That right, man?" he asked.

George nodded. "Paid him just before they started taping," he said.

Tobe turned back and looked at the square cinderblock building with gang graffiti scrawled on the walls. "Gonna take more'n that to get this place in shape," he noted somberly.

"Hey, it's a start," George said optimistically.

"You don't know how deep in over his head Linehan is, do you?" Tobe said.

The cousins grew concerned. "That bad, huh?"

"Worse," Tobe grunted. "Place is mortgaged to the hilt. It's all Seamus can do to keep it running the way it is. Can't afford to make repairs, or much else. Building inspector's riding his ass to get it fixed up. Maybe eight grand'll help in some way, I dunno. It sure as hell ain't gonna solve all of his problems."

George remembered his negotiations with Linehan for the price of using the gym to tape Criss' show. "Maybe we should have taken him up for ten grand after all," he mused sadly.

"Well, Seamus ain't no quitter," Tobe said with building confidence. "He'll find a way. Now that he's got that eight grand, things'll be a little easier for him. And if our team wins the match at the Excalibur, it'll be a boost to the old man's ego."

"Isn't there any prize money offered?" Criss asked.

"Not for an amateur bout," George answered, shaking his head. "It's strictly exhibition, publicity for the Excalibur Hotel. You win a medal, that's it."

"Not much of an ego boost," Criss noted glumly.

George shrugged. "Better than nothing."

"Anything we can do to help?" Criss asked. "Anything at all?"

"You already paid 'im eight grand," Tobe said. "That's more than anyone ever did."

"I could give him more."

George shook his head. "Linehan's too proud to ask for a handout," he said. "He says he doesn't take charity from anyone. He either earns the money or wins it."

"Maybe the publicity from the show will boost membership," JD suggested.

Tobe smiled. "Yeah! There you go!"

"It'll be months before this airs, JD," Criss reminded him. "By then, it'll be too late."

"Well," JD replied, still hoping, "anything can happen before then."

"Only if you believe in miracles, man," Tobe said. "Other than that, we're up (bleep) creek."

Criss smiled. "I believe," he said.