No, you can’t work here
anymore tonight.
I made us a reservation.
You might wanna shower.
Here you go.
Here you go.
What’s this?
Well, it ain’t no big secret
what you’re wishing for.
Go on and blow.
Thank you.
Thirty-three ain’t so old.
I was still fighting at 39.
Fought for 23 years.
How’s it going, Scrap?
Doing good, Mickey.
Doing good.
-What’ll you have?
-coffee.
You two not speaking?
Don’t hardly know him.
I met Frankie right after
my 37th birthday.
He was picking up cut work.
He used to patch me up
when I thought it was impossible.
Good man to have in your corner.
Yes, he is.
He stayed with me
through my last fight in San Berdu.
My manager was off
getting drunk somewhere…
…and it was just Frankie and me.
I was taking a hellacious beating.
Everybody’s got a particular number
of fights in him.
Nobody tells you what that number is.
Mine was 109.
I just didn’t want to admit it.
Fourth round, this…
…cut opens up.
Blood starts pouring into my eye.
They should’ve stopped the fight, but,
hell, I was a black man in San Berdu.
Blood was what I was there for.
Round after round, I kept getting
Frankie to patch me up.
He’s talking about
throwing in the towel…
…but he ain’t my manager,
he can’t throw in nothing.
Round after round…