Ghosts of Manila - Mark Kram [82]
Bundini could rev Ali up into a zooming state of indignation, or make him laugh uncontrollably. His was the loudest voice in a ring corner often heavy with pandemonium, his words often drowning out any wisdom Dundee might convey. When Ali was cross, he could reduce Bundini to choking sobs; he had the fastest cry in the West. He felt one with Ali, and he had the peculiar habit of licking the champ’s mouthpiece. If Ali had ever seen that example of bonding, he would have surely slapped him—once again. Out of the blue, he would bust him for no apparent reason, except maybe he grew tired of the noise beating in his ear. In Africa, there was a tiff over a robe that Bundini, proudly, had commissioned for him. Ali didn’t like the robe and slapped him for his impertinence. To the Muslims, he was the infidel, the transparent opportunist (some nervy critique there), and fouler of the holy air. Years back in Miami, they spread a tale about him when he married a white woman. He went to the marriage bureau with his intended, and the clerk looked up and asked: “What kind of license? Hunting or fishing?” Herbert was now looking at Bundini by his T-shirt stand in the Hilton lobby. “I find it all rather regrettable,” he said, frowning at the peon trying to turn a buck.
Herbert had little use for Ali’s entourage. “You don’t have to be brilliant to hustle Ali,” he said. “He’s a setup.” Who would know that better than he and the Muslims? Over the years, Herbert turned out to be the most proficient harvester of Ali’s sweat and pain. He got 50 percent of Ali’s earnings, and cut Don King, the promoter of many of his fights, 50 percent. King, no soft touch himself or stranger to the bent deal, gave it up to stay in business. He’d go anthropomorphic about Herbert, sometimes with a crazed look in his eyes, and likened him to every overfed animal in the kingdom; out of breath, he settled on Herbert being the king of wayward swag—everyone else’s.
Herbert was a subatomic particle in Ali’s life, a certain lethal kind that cannot be seen even under a powerful microscope, their existence known only by their effects. With Herbert, sometimes you thought you saw something, but look back and all you had was a three-piece suit, a hat, brim up and down over his eyes. Others thought of him as a pudgy member of the old Our Gang cast, and still others viewed him as an insatiable King Farouk. Far too jolly company for a description of the son of Elijah. He fancied white women and rich cuisine. He was the hatchet man for his father and was in New York, perhaps only a coincidence, when Malcolm X was killed. The entourage gave him a wide berth.
Ali paid obsequious homage to him, the body in constant bow to the grave digger. Herbert held up the publication of Ali’s autobiography, not content with his subdued role in it; he was forever caught between wanting recognition—and invisibility. He was the architect of the book, and Richard Durham, the Muslim propagandist, was the writer; the editor was Toni Morrison, who it was rumored fingered the pages wearing gloves. I was doing a profile of Herbert in Munich. He wanted no part of it, with punctuated emphasis from Durham while we shared a taxi to a workout. “Stay away from Herbert,” he said. “Do yourself a favor.