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There's a mirror on the ceiling, directly over the bed, and sometimes you peek up at Wells's reflection; somehow, in this room of a thousand Wells images, it seems too much to look at the man directly. Up in the mirror, you see a 72-year-old man with bifocals the size of fishbowls and long unruly wisps of hair. Friends used to call him "Dark Gable" because he was Clark Gable-handsome, but those days are long gone. "I don't fool with the girls no more," he says, matter-of-factly. "I don't do a lot of traveling no more. I'm used up. Wore out." Now, he says, he's cutting back on his business obligations to write his memoirs and organize his memorabilia.
There's a lot to organize. For 15 years, starting in the mid-'60s, Wells served as a scout for the Kansas City Chiefs -- the first black man, he says, ever to work in a pro team's front office. The league was integrating, and Wells, who'd organized black-college all-star games, served as the Chiefs' connection to black talent. Wells drove around the country in long flashy convertibles, painted either blood-red or yield-sign yellow -- Chiefs colors. Back in Houston, he painted the Fifth Ward house where he'd grown up yield-sign yellow, and made the trim blood-red. When he nailed boards across the windows, he painted those red, too.
There are lots of stories about Wells, and almost all of them, including the ones he tells himself, might or might not be true, but they paint a consistent portrait of the man. Friends called him "Judge" because he could pick winners; "character" and "honor" weren't Wells's criteria. One of those stories goes like this: The Chiefs were considering Johnny Rodgers, a Heisman Trophy-winner and convicted robber. Coach Hank Stram and Wells were watching a film of Rodgers's team, the Nebraska Cornhuskers.
"If we take him, we'll have to build a jailhouse," said Stram.
On the screen, Rodgers scored on a winding punt return.
"Build it in the end zone," said Wells.
The Chiefs passed on Rodgers, but with Wells's other picks the team went to the Super Bowl twice. Wells loved to flash the humongous Super Bowl rings those games earned him, but even that team wasn't his biggest winner. In the early '60s, among his many enterprises, Wells ran a photography studio, located in the pulsing heart of the Third Ward, at the corner of Dowling and Elgin, underneath the Eldorado Ballroom. One day Howard Bingham, a photographer visiting from L.A., stopped into Wells's studio. Bingham had been following Cassius Clay, who was soon to become Muhammad Ali. The Greatest. The Champ.
"Man," Bingham said, "Clay sure would like to meet some of the pretty girls you got on the wall there."
"Why don't you tell him to come look at them?" said Wells.
Bingham dialed the fighter's number, then handed the phone to Wells. "Hey, punk," Wells said, "I know more pretty girls than anybody in the world."
Clay said, "I'm getting on the plane now."
At Hobby Airport, Wells met the plane with two pretty sisters fetchingly displayed in his long red convertible. The fighter, he says delicately, had a good time with both of them.
"You want more?" Wells asked.
"You can get more?"
"I'll drown you," Wells said. He knew how to pick a winner.
"I was Muhammad Ali's main man," says Wells, leaning back on the king-size bed. But the fact is, Ali had lots of main men; the Greatest prided himself on the size of his payroll. As many as 50 people would travel with him to a fight, and only a handful had official duties. "Nobody has this kind of crowd around him," bragged Ali. "Not even Frank Sinatra or Elvis Presley."
"Everybody wanted to be with Ali," remembers Wells. "He was the most famous black man in the world. The most publicized, the most knowledgeable, most likable. And he was a millionaire. He owned a plane. He'd say, "Got any money?' I'd say, "Yeah, I got the money you gave me the other night.' He'd say, "Take this,' and he'd hand me a roll of bills. I'd say, "I got some.' He'd say, "Take this, you might need it.' "