Ali And His Entourage

The trouble with facilitating was that it left no mark, no KILROY WAS HERE. He has covered the walls of his rec room with 50 Ali photos. He reminisces every day. He watches videos of old Ali interviews he helped facilitate, and sometimes tears fill his eyes. "I wish I had a kid I could tell," he said. And then, his voice going from soft to gruff: "I'll get married when I find a woman who greets me at the door the way my dogs do."

The Vegas casinos, they knew what Kilroy might be worth. All those contacts around the world, all those celebrities who had slipped into the dressing room on a nod from the Facilitator: perfect qualifications for a casino host. First the Dunes hired him, then the Tropicana and now the Golden Nugget.

Each day he weaves between blackjack tables and roulette wheels, past slot machines and craps tables, nodding to dealers, smiling at bouncers, slapping regulars on the back, dispensing complimentary dinners and rooms to high rollers and "How are ya, hon?" to cocktail waitresses. He no longer gambles: All the lust for action is gone. All that remains is the love of arranging a favor, of helping other members of Ali's old "family" when they hit hard times, of facilitating someone else's wants now that his are gone.

"As you know, I was all over the world with Ali," he said, leading a multimillionaire into one of the Golden Nugget's suites. "I got the royal gold-carpet treatment everywhere. But this"—he swept his arm across the room—"solidifies the epitome of luxury. Look. Your Jacuzzi. Your sauna." Again and again his beeper would sound, and he would be connected with another wealthy client. "Sure, I'll have our limo pick you up at the airport.... Your line of credit is all set, $100,000."

Whenever Ali comes to Vegas to see a fight, he will mix with high rollers at Kilroy's request or sign a couple of dozen boxing gloves, a stack of a hundred photographs, mementos Kilroy passes out to favored clients. In his world, Ali souvenirs are currency. "One man was so proud of the things I'd given him," he said, "that when he died, he was buried with his Ali picture and boxing gloves. I can give people their dreams."

When Ali is near, Kilroy looks at him and remembers what the two of them once were. Sometimes he feels helpless. How can he facilitate away Ali's great fatigue with life—when he, too, feels sated and weary? "I remember one day not long ago when he was signing autographs, and I was standing next to him. We heard someone say, 'Look at Ali, he's a junkie.' Muhammad's eyes get kind of glassy sometimes now, you know. I wanted to choke the guy. But Ali nudged me and kind of smiled. God, I hope he wins this last fight...."

On an impulse he picked up the phone and dialed Ali's number. "Hello, it's Gene.... You've been out walking, huh? I wish I could walk with you.... I can just barely hear you.... I said, I wish I could walk with you.... It's good you're walking; you'll feel a lot better.... Hey, wouldn't it be nice to have a reunion at Deer Lake? Get everybody together—Sarria, you, me, Bundini, Pat, Lana. Get Lana to cook a roast, potatoes, gravy, everything. Wouldn't it be?...No, not bring back old memories. Bring back great memories.... Yeah.... O.K., well, get some rest. See you, champ...."

He hung up the phone and stared at the wall. He glanced at his watch. Another day was nearly finished, a day of facilitating rooms and meals and money for men who still had the appetite, and he knew what he would do with the night. "I could call and have three girls if I wanted," he said. Instead he would drive past the riot of blinking lights, past the ads for bare-legged showgirls and sequined singers, through the warm night air of Vegas to his home in the suburbs. His three dogs, all boxers, would jump up and lick him, and he would let them, and he would call hello to his 80-year-old mother, eat dinner and settle back for an evening of TV amid the Ali photos. "The foxhole," he said. "I'm going back to the foxhole."

THE COOK

Next! How many? Two? O.K., let's move it, please! Next! You gettin' big, honey! How come you don't stop by more to see me? Soup! Chicken noodle soup, anybody? Next! Hey, Eskimo, what you doin'? Ain't you beautiful? You want two? Gonna kill yo'self, storin' up all them fat cells. Next!"