The guy in the panama hat paced in front of the Park West, hunching down to get a good look at the passengers in every cab that turned in from Clark Street. He sucked on a cigarette, squinting his eyes as he exhaled a ghost of smoke.
Just a few yards from Pedro, looking considerably more relaxed, Wayne Haider leaned back in his chair, which was perched on a flat trailer, which was hooked to a station wagon. Behind him on the steel trailer loomed a huge satellite dish. The dish sucked in the TV signal that made viewing the fight at the Park West possible. Haider faced the back of the station wagon, where two monitors offered a crisp view of the fight.
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“I give Spinks eight rounds, that’s all,” Haider said. He had sandy blond hair and was wearing glasses and tight jeans.
“Spinks is going to take it, you know,” Dimiceli said. “Actually, I’ll make a noncommittal guess: Mike’s going to win.” He laughed at his own joke as Haider shook his head, a little embarrassed. “Hey, how can I lose? Mike’s going to win, then I win.”
“What round are they in?” a man on a bicycle asked.
“Good idea for this fight,” Haider said from under a red-and-white cap that spelled B-T Electronics.
Back at the Park West entrance, Pedro was still waiting for his date. “You know, I hate fights, and here I am, around like a fool waiting for this woman so I can see a fight,” he said, shaking his head. “I feel like a real pendejo. I’m thinking maybe I could scalp these tickets, but they’re not even sold out.”
