“What did she want?” I asked, hoping it sounded casual.
“Just wanted to know if you were here. When I told her you weren’t, she asked me to give you a message.”
“Which is?”
“Just to call her when you can,” she told me, looking at me funny. I wanted to get out of there before she started asking any questions.
“If she calls again, tell her I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.”
“Okay, but—”
“When you’re done with all of those calls, you can close up and go home.”
“Oh, no. I’ve got a lot of work to do here. There’s still mail coming in, and I’ve got to straighten the files—”
“Okay, all right, you win. I’ll be back later. If anybody calls just take messages, okay?”
“I don’t have to be told that,” she reminded me.
“I’m sorry, Missy,” I told her, meaning it. “Look, if you’re still here when I get back, I’ll take you out to dinner. How’s that sound?”
“We’ll see. One of us might have other plans.”
Whatever that meant.
“Jack,” she called as I headed for the door.
“Yes?”
She made fists and held them up at me, saying, “Keep them up, huh?”
“Don’t worry, my guard is always up.”
Chapter Eighteen
She wasn’t there when I got back, so I didn’t have to worry about telling her that I was too tired to take her out to dinner. She’d left my messages on Eddie’s desk, so I dropped my dragging butt into the chair and started reading.
The first one was from Julie again, with the same message as before, to call as soon as I could.
The second was from Hocus. It said that he had talked to “Maybe”—and she had a question mark after the name—and that we were free to make arrangements anytime.
The third message was from left field—from Willy Wells, the trainer. He wanted me to come by the gym soon as I could.
I put all three messages back on the desk, leaned back and put my feet up next to them. It was almost nine o’clock, and I’d spent the better part of the day talking to people who couldn’t have given a shit less that Eddie Waters was dead. I’d talked to four of them, all of whom for one reason or another were displeased with the job that Eddie had done for them. One of them was actually a little upset that he was dead, but only because he had intended to sue him. In every case they were upset because Eddie had done the job they’d hired him to do, but the outcome had not been what they expected, or wanted. You hire a man to find the truth, then condemn him because the truth wasn’t really what you wanted at all. You wanted a lie, and you wanted someone else to lie to you and tell you that it was the truth.
Eddie wasn’t that kind of a man.
No, none of them were particularly sorry that Eddie was dead, but had any of them had anything to do with his death? I hadn’t gotten that impression, as much as I wished I had. They all had alibis for the time of Eddie’s death, which I was quite sure would check out. I was going to have their stories checked by one of Eddie’s other part-time operatives. Eddie used two other guys once in a while, for tail jobs and serving summonses. I’d call them in the morning and see if one or both of them were willing to do some legwork for me.
I stuffed the messages in my pocket with the intention of answering them, but tomorrow. The only thing I wanted to do right then was get something to eat, and then get to bed.
I walked down to Twenty-sixth Street, between Seventh and Eighth, to a place called Bogie’s. They served some of the best Italian food in the city there and offered a Humphrey Bogart motif: posters, stills and a big black falcon behind the bar. The place was run by two friends of mine, Billy and Karen Palmer. They were mystery fans, and the place catered to a large clientele of mystery writers and mystery lovers. On Sunday nights, they played two hours of old mystery radio shows, all from Billy’s private collection.
Billy was also into martial arts, holding a third-degree black belt. Karen didn’t need martial arts to knock a man flat on his back—she had her looks. She was a lovely brunette who acted as hostess for the place, welcoming people into the place as if she were welcoming them into her own home. Both of the Palmers could have been in their late twenties or early thirties.
When I walked in I saw Billy was doing one of his occasional stints behind the bar. Karen spotted me before he did and came over to give me a big hug. Her hair was up and her shoulders were bare.
“Miles, what a pleasant surprise,” she said, squeezing me tightly. I hugged her back, and when Billy looked over and smiled I raised one hand and waved.
“I got an urge for some good Italian food,” I told her, “and a big hug from you. I got one, now what about the other?”
“If you get one,” she asked, “what do you need with the other?”
“Man’s got to eat, Karen,” I replied.
She looked around and then said, “Go have a drink at the bar, Miles. I’ll have a good table for you in a couple of minutes.”
“No rush, honey. I’ll try to talk your husband into divorcing you so we can get married.”
She laughed and went off to get me my table. I went up to the bar, and Billy had a ginger ale standing there waiting for me.
“About time you showed up,” he scolded me. “You’re the only guy who drinks this stuff.”
“How are you, Billy?” I asked, and we shook hands. “How’s business?”
“Business is great,” he assured me. He was about five nine or so, with a heavy mustache and an easy confidence in the way he stood, the way men who know they can take care of themselves stand. He and Karen made one of the handsomest couples I’d ever seen.
“Miles,” he said, putting a hand on my arm, “we were sorry to hear about your brother.”
“Thanks, Billy.”
“If there’s anything we can do, just let us know.”
“I’ll do that,” I said, and drank some of the cold ginger ale. When I put the glass down we started talking about my last fight, and then Karen came over and took me to a table in a corner. She took my order herself, and brought me a plate of the best eggplant parmigiana I’d ever tasted.
“The food just gets better and better,” I told both of them after I’d finished. By this time Billy had gotten relieved from the bar, and they both came over and sat with me.
“You should come around more often,” Karen told me.
“Come on by Sunday,” Billy added, “we’re going to play some private-eye stuff.”
“I’ll try and make it,” I promised them.
They were two of the nicest people I knew, Billy and Karen. I paid my check, got another hug and a kiss from Karen, and told Billy I’d call him and we’d work out together soon. He told me not to forget about Sunday.
When I left, we all knew that, more than likely, it’d be weeks before I’d get in there again.
Chapter Nineteen
The next morning I decided to answer Willy Wells’s message first by going to the gym. The little bantamweight manager- trainer was always the first man in the gym in the morning, getting there even before his fighters. When I got there about ten o’clock, he already had one of his boys working in the ring, and he was shouting orders—not instructions, but orders—at him while he sparred.
“The left, the left, damnit, snap in, don’t throw it!” he was shouting.
“You been looking for me, Willy?” I asked, coming alongside him.
He glanced at me, then directed his attention back in the ring.
“Yeah, Kid, I been looking for you,” he said from the side of his mouth. “I unnerstand you got a fight coming up in two months with Johnny Ricardi.”
He was right. I hadn’t thought about that since Benny’s arrest, but I did have a fight coming up.
“That’s right, so?”
“So,” he went on, not taking his eyes off his fighter, “even if your brother is innocent, he won’t be back out in time for tha
t fight. You need somebody to get you ready, to work your corner.”
“You offering?”
This time he looked at me when he said, “Well, hell, not for nothing I’m offering. I’m saying I’d be willing to take you on—for this one fight—for my usual ten percent.”
I thought about it for a moment. As of that moment I had every intention of going ahead with the fight with Johnny Ricardi, and Willy was right—I would need someone to train me and work my corner. The contracts were all signed, so that posed no problem. The economic aspects of the bout were all taken care of. All that remained now was to get in shape and have competent help in my corner.
“Benny still gets his cut,” I told him.
“Fine, but mine comes off the top,” he countered.
That would be five percent from my cut, and five from Benny’s. It was fair.
“It’s a deal,” I told him. Still watching his fighter, he stuck out his hand and I took it.
“Get changed,” he said after that.
“Whoa, wait a minute, Willy. The fight’s still two months away and I’ve got things to do. Besides, I just came out of a fight and I’m in great shape.”
“Who told you that? Benny?” he asked. He gave a derisive snort and said, “If you were in great shape. Kid, you wouldn’t have had so much trouble with that southpaw.”
For the first time since I arrived he turned to me and gave me all of his attention.
“Look, just suit up and get in the ring, go a couple of rounds with my boy, here. I’ll tell him not to hit you in the head, so’s he don’t open that cut again. I just want to get an idea of what you can do.”
The name of the kid in the ring was Edwin Lopez, and he was twenty-two. He was one of many comers in Willy’s stable, and most of his fights had been televised by one of the national television stations on their “Champions of the Future” series. He had a record of 11-0, with nine knockouts, and he was a welterwight, the division just below mine—unless you counted the nether-divisions, like superwelterweight, or junior middleweight. I didn’t. Those divisions were created for those fighters who couldn’t compete in the regular divisions, and because somebody figured out a way of making more money by creating junior weight, superweight, and cruiserweight divisions. As far as I was concerned, for all intents and purposes, there were only five major divisions in boxing, lightweight, welterweight, middleweight, light heavyweight, and heavyweight.
None of my fights had ever been on TV, and that had as much to do with my decision to suit up as anything else.
“I’ll be ready in a few minutes,” I told him.
He started to talk to his boy as I headed for the locker room. As I changed into my trunks, I knew that my pride was making me do this when I should have been out working to clear Benny. Lopez was fast, and he hit hard for a welter. Willy might have had the idea of moving him up to middleweight, and that might have been an ulterior motive for getting me into the ring with the kid. He said he’d have the kid lay off my cut, but I put extra tape and gauze over it, hoping that and the headgear would protect it sufficiently. Once I had the headgear in place, I went out so Willy could do my hands.
“All right,” he told me while taping my hands, “don’t hold back; the kid can take it. I want to see what you can do.”
“Okay.”
He tied off my gloves and I climbed into the ring. The kid was slick with sweat and he was plenty warmed up. We touched gloves, and he threw a quick jab that hit me on the nose, causing my eyes to water. I backed up and he came with me, throwing two jabs that fell short. My eyes cleared fairly quickly, and when he threw a third jab I stepped by it and hooked a right to the body. He took it well, although I heard him grunt. We bounced around for a while, feeling each other out, but my mind wasn’t on it, and I had some trouble breaking a sweat. Willy called time, and we took a breather. The kid listened closely to what Willy was telling him during the rest period, and when we came back to the ring center he threw a jab that landed dangerously close to my cut. I hooked him in the body a couple of times, but I wasn’t mad, because I figured it was an accident. The second time could have been accidental also, but not the third, and certainly not the fourth, and then I got mad. I figured he’d go for the cut again, and when he did I sidestepped and double-hooked him in the body, then threw a wicked straight right that caught him flush on the jaw. He backed away, hurt, but he was fast and was able to elude a lot of my follow-up punches. There was no doubt that the kid was good, but I felt that if I could just break a sweat I could get to him. When he hit me on the cut again I felt my face flush with anger, and I started to sweat. After another rest period we came out, and I decided to wait for him to go for the cut again. I caught some punches on my elbows and upper arms, and then he went for it and I nailed him. I hit him two good body shots, and when his hands dropped I nailed him with the straight right hand again; only this time, when he began to backpedal, I didn’t let him go. I followed him and nailed him with a wicked left. He lost his balance, and as he was falling I hit him with a cheap shot with the right hand again and almost tore his head off.
“That’s it, that’s it!” I heard Willy shouting as he jumped into the ring. While he tended to his boy, I spit out my mouthpiece and ripped off my headgear.
“What’s the matter?” I sneered at him, “You afraid I’m going to hurt your boy?”
“Hurt him?” Willy said, looking at me over his shoulder. “I’m afraid you’ll kill him!”
I hadn’t expected that reply, so I just stared at his back as my anger faded. He got the kid to his feet, slapped his face a couple of times, and then told him to go take a shower.
As the kid went to the locker room, Willy turned to me and said, “That kid’s never been off his feet, but that’s okay. It’ll teach him some humility.”
“What the hell was the idea, Willy? You deliberately told him to go for the cut!”
“Tell me something,” he said as if he hadn’t heard me.
“What?”
“How’s come you never get that mad in the ring during a fight, hmm?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve seen most of your fights, Kid. You never get mad at the other guy. You got a bad habit of backing up when you got a guy in trouble. Why is that?”
“Hell, Willy, how do I know?” I answered, amazed at how he had gotten me on the defensive.
“Well, you better find out. You got mad in here today; learn to get mad when you’re fighting for real. How long is it going to be before you’re ready to go to work?” he asked then, changing speeds on me.
“I’m not sure,” I said while he took the gloves off me, “maybe a couple of days, maybe more.”
“Okay, just don’t develop any bad habits in the meantime. Go take a shower.”
I started for the locker room and he called out my name again.
“What?”
“Six weeks,” he told me. “I want you six weeks before the fight, Kid, and I don’t care what else you got to do. Understand?”
I waved at him and went on into the locker room.
The kid was out of the shower and getting dressed.
“Hey, Jacoby, I’m sorry about the cut, man,” he told me.
“That’s okay,” I told him. I opened my locker and checked out the cut in the mirror on the door. The heavy bandaging had done the job, together with the padding of the headgear. There was a little blood seepage, but the new stiches had held pretty good.
“You know, Willy, he’s my man, you know? I got to do what he tells me. No hard feelings?”
He had his hand out, so I took it and said, “Sure, no hard feelings.”
As he was ready to leave he said, “You know, you hit pretty hard, man. You not thinking about dropping down in weights, are you?”
“Only if you’re thinking of moving up, kid,” I told him. He laughed, waved and went out.
Willy Wells was right about my attitude. I couldn’t remember ever being as mad in an actual fight
as I was in the ring with Edwin Lopez. It was something I was definitely going to have to think about if I intended to stay in boxing.
I put a new bandage on my cut when I got dressed, hoping nothing else would happen to open it again. I wanted it to be cleanly healed for the Ricardi fight. Two months was plenty of time as long as there were no further mishaps.
Before leaving the gym I left three phone numbers with Willy where he could either get in touch with me or leave a message: my home number, the office number, and Julie and Benny’s number.
Out on the street I remembered that I still had a message from Julie that needed answering and that I also wanted to call Hocus. On top of that, there was also the list I was supposed to pick up from Dick Gallaghen, the one that would hopefully help me find the man from the fifth row. I decided to go to Gallaghen’s office to pick up the list and then make the phone calls from there, also. That is, I’d call Hocus. I’d probably find some excuse for putting off the phone call to Julie just a little bit longer. She’d probably want me to come over and see her, and with my brother out of circulation I didn’t really trust myself around my beautiful sister-in-law.
Chapter Twenty
“Is he in?” I asked Patrice as I entered Gallaghen’s office.
“No, he’s at a meeting,” she told me, “but he left something for you.” She picked up an envelope off her desk top and held it out to me.
“Thanks,” I said, taking it from her. “Can I use your phone?”
“For a local call?”
“Of course.”
“Sure.”
She got up and went into Gallaghen’s office, and I perched a hip on her desk and dialed Hocus’s number.
“Detective Hocus,” he answered.
“It’s Jacoby. I wanted to thank you for paving the way with Dr. Mahbee.”
“Yeah, no problem. I figured you’d go down there anyway, so I might as well make it easy for you. Maybe give you all the dope?”
“Yeah.”
Eye in the Ring Page 7