by Ed Lacy
Walt looked blank. “You lost me on one of the turns. What's all this add up to?”
“Don't you see their plan? Here's Tommy, an alcoholic shell of his old self, a pug on the verge of having his license revoked because he's physically unfit. Now, assuming Jake is the belter Tommy claims—and I've never heard Irish rave so about a fighter—what's to stop Tommy being killed in the ring? Being beaten to death in a sparring session?”
Walt shook his head slowly. “That's too difficult to count on, too far-fetched.”
“Is it? There have been plenty of ring deaths.”
“Not recently.”
“Only because there aren't many clubs operating, fewer fights. Also the automatic eight count, and the three knockdown rule has helped. But they don't go in a sparring session. If Jake can really hit, and Irish has no reason to yeast it up, what's to stop Jake from beating a has-been like Tommy to death?”
“Come on now, a fist isn't a gun. You can belt a guy hard as you can and still not be sure you'll drop him, much less kill him. Also, as you said, Tommy isn't a novice. He probably isn't easy to hit.”
“I told you he's already been knocked cold in a sparring session.”
“I've heard that even champs like Patterson are sometimes floored by a sparring partner.”
“Of course. So if Tommy is killed while sparring, it will look an accident! And what have they to lose? If a punch doesn't do it, they try again. Or resort to an auto accident, a fall, drowning, many other ways.”
“And get themselves collared. Arranging a fatal accident isn't as simple as it may sound.”
“Exactly!” Alvin boomed, his deep voice rattling the pictures on the wall. “Suppose, after they soften him up in these sparring sessions, they kill him in the ring! The perfect crime, with hundreds of witnesses saying it was an accident! Far as I know, there's never been a murder, or even a manslaughter conviction against a pug for killing a man in the squared circle. Think of the flexibility of it all, the way they have their victim in their pocket. They can take their time, do it in a month, or six months. They receive fifty grand, wait a year or two, start all over on some other rundown pug!”
“Hammer, you're not writing a mystery story. A killer has to make it a sure thing, in real life.”
Alvin shrugged. “Here's something else. I checked with the commission. There isn't any record of an Arno Brewer as a manager. Why isn't he down as manager of Tommy, or the other pug?”
“There can be a dozen reasons. Perhaps he's ducking taxes.”
“Well, I think it's certainly worth looking into. Jake Watson took out a license. I asked if they had checked on his fingerprints for any possible criminal record. But you know how easy-going they are in the commission's office. They said they were working on...”
The phone rang. Walt jumped, picked up the pink receiver. “Hello?”
Ruth Steiner said, “Walt, I won't be home for dinner tonight. I'm tied up at the printers. They messed up an article and I'll have to hang around to correct the new...”
“Okay,” Walt said. He could hear music in the background.
“I may be home late. I also have to check with a photographer on some last minute...”
“Yes. Thanks for calling,” he said dully.
There was a moment of surprised silence at her end of the phone. Then she said, “There isn't much in the refrigerator. I expected to shop on my way home. Best you eat out.”
“I'll manage.” Walt hung up, full of hurt anger. As he sat down, Alvin resumed his pacing of the room. Walt thought, For the last three months she's been at me, digging me, torturing me. You'd think she'd found me with another woman. What the devil has changed? What's happening to us? I don't know how much more I can take. Suppose I had agreed to go to Paris with her, then what? Ruth must have understood I couldn't get a year's leave from the department. She... Hell, why doesn't she do that book and get it out of her system? She doesn't have to work on this trade magazine. She can sit home and write all day. I swear, if she was older, I'd say Ruth was going through the change of life or...
Alvin stopped in front of Walt, asked, “What will you do about this, detective?”
“Do? Do? I wish I knew what...” Walt rubbed his big jaw. “About Tommy Cork—what do you expect me to do? I certainly can't arrest this Arno Brewer; we have nothing working for us. Even your suspicions are full of holes. You said Tommy is looking fine, eating regularly. That contradicts your murder idea—they wouldn't be building him up, physically. Then, if this other fighter, Jake, is really such a hot pug, why monkey with an insurance swindle when Jake can make a dozen times fifty thousand in the ring?”
“I admit I haven't absolute proof of anything definite. As to Tommy's looking good, so what? In a couple of weeks the body can't compensate for all the wine, the hunger, the beatings, it has absorbed over the years. The main question is, why should anybody want to manage a washed-up pug like Cork?”
“You know Tommy's story could be true. There are such types as rich boxing buffs. Also, he may have taken out the policy, as he said, only to protect Tommy and himself. A well known novelist once supported a pug for years, managing him to obscurity. Some people like to keep a boxer around like a... a pet. When I was in the amateurs I had a few offers like that from wealthy jerks—a cash bonus if I attended a certain college, use of a sport car for joining a downtown athletic club.”
“Why should Brewer pay extra for a double indemnity policy?”
Walt shrugged his heavy shoulders. “I admit that sounds fishy. You said they'd been up at this training camp for two weeks. Did Tommy continue to spar with Jake after he was flattened?”
“I don't know. Steiner, I didn't expect you to rush out and make an arrest. If I had, I would have gone directly to the police. Officially, I mean. But I can't stand by and see the little game cock killed. No point in doing something when it's too late. Knowing your interest in the sport, I thought you might look into things.”
“Okay, I'll get a copy of this Jake Watson's prints from the commission tomorrow, see what they tell us. Of course there's a simple answer to all this. Have Tommy cancel the policy. That would prove how interested this Arno really is. Matter of fact, if you raised your suspicions to the insurance company, or had Coney do it, the company would cancel.”
Alvin's long face became one big grin. “That's our answer! I'll get Tommy to cancel out. I couldn't, publicly, put in my two cents. I might be sued. Mr. Steiner, while...”
“Call me, Walt, Al.”
“Walt, as I said when I first came in, I realize this is an awkward hour to talk business. But don't you think you might get a clearer picture by speaking to Tommy himself?”
“That would help. When can I see him?”
“He's meeting me at the Between Rounds for supper. Of course, you're probably waiting for your wife, but perhaps tomorrow night we can...”
“It just happens my wife is stuck in the office,” Walt said slowly. “Let me wash up and we'll get cracking. I'm hungry.”
An hour later, sitting across the table from Tommy and Alvin in a steak house, Walt wished he hadn't come. Tommy Cork was telling Alvin, anger making his voice tremble, “What you doing, spoiling things for me? I let you in on a big secret, about how we're going to spring Jake as a surprise on the fight boys, and you swear you'll keep it to yourself. Now he's in on it. I told you, if it gets known, it's nothing, and then where am I?”
“Tommy, Tommy, I'm not broadcasting it to the world. I had to tell Walt, so he could be filled in on all the details.”
Walt wasn't listening. He was wondering what he was going to do about Ruth. Although they shared the same bed, they hadn't “slept” together for nearly two months. But what frightened Walt most was that he know they were heading smack for an open break. Aside from the fact Ruth was the first and only woman he'd ever been truly fond of, Walt also felt a marriage was unbreakable. It had nothing to do with his religious beliefs; he was simply a man who only expected to marry once. If
things didn't come to a boil, Walt was sure, in time, whatever was biting Ruth would calm down. If she'd only tell him what was wrong, discuss things. Because he'd said he couldn't spend a year in Paris, she acted as if he was doing it all to spite...
“Walt,” Alvin said, “explain to Tommy about canceling the policy.”
“What?” Tommy cut in. “You guys are talking like you got paper brains. If I cancel the policy, Arno will get sore, wash his hands of me. Why if I even hinted about this crazy notion Al has, he'd be insulted. No!”
Walt said, “Tommy, you don't have to do anything, if you want it that way. I can... suggest what Alvin thinks to the insurance company and they will cancel before the policy goes into effect. If that happened, and you'd be in the clear, and Arno gave you the brush, wouldn't that prove Alvin is right? If Arno still backed you, it would show we're wrong.”
“No, it wouldn't show anything except I ought to have my head examined. This is my break, my Irish luck, and you guys want me to louse it up because Al has a wild hair tickling his mind. Lay off me. What if Arno is so rich he took out a twenty-five grand policy on me? Could be that's what he told me, and I didn't hear right, thought he said twenty* five hundred. What's the big diff if he took out a million dollar policy? It's his dough. Look, Walt, I appreciate you and Al thinking you're doing this to protect me, but you don't understand the deal. The day before my last bout I was so hungry I sold a pint of blood to eat. Now sixteen days...”
“You sold your blood before that fight?” Alvin asked shocked, his face actually going pale.
“Now, sixteen days later, I'm eating three times a day, living in a fine hotel. I have pocket money and fit into a rich cat's plans. I'm a guy with a future, suddenly. I can't risk all that. Sure, if Arno asked me to do something unreasonable, I could buck it. But when a guy is breaking his hump to help me, how would I sound saying I don't like this and that?”
“Your life may be at stake!” Alvin thundered.
An annoyed look crossed Tommy's small face. “Easy, AL you ain't on the air. Keep your pear-shaped tone down. Nobody says I'm in danger but you. Hell, before I was more in danger—of not eating! You think guys are falling over themselves, standing in line waiting to manage me?”
Al said, “Can't you see?”
“Tommy's right,” Walt cut in, wondering if he would have ended up like this if he'd turned pro. “We don't have any stand-up proof to go with, as of now. Let me nose around. Tommy, you keep your ears open, try to find out more about them. Like who Jake has battled and where. How Arno made his bankroll. Be careful, don't be obvious about things. I think we have time on this. If we come up with something, we'll act. If we draw blanks we won't have spoiled Tommy's soft touch.”
“That talk I'll buy,” Tommy said, finishing his ice cream. Alvin stirred his coffee, as if whipping it. “You still spar every day with Jake?”
“Most days. Beginning tomorrow I'm going to start working out by myself at the Crosstown Gym, start getting some bouts. I'm feeling great and don't have “to worry about taking quickie bouts.”
“Does Jake bang away at you?” Walt asked. “Has he ever flattened you again?”
“Naw. Like I told Al, that first time he belted me he was lucky. I was hungover and showing off, coming in southpaw. Sure he hits like a hammer, tries to clout me, but I'm not a slob when it comes to defense. The 'Bobbing Cork' they used to call me. I don't let Jake get lucky no more.”
“You have my phone number. If anything unusual comes up, or if you learn anything about either of them, call me. At the precinct or home,” Walt said.
“Sure. Listen, if I thought there was anything phony, I'd be the first to blow the whistle. I don't aim to get myself killed.”
“Be careful,” Walt said. “Stay out of their car. Don't eat nothing you're doubtful about.”
“You trying to give me a nervous breakdown?” Tommy asked, with a tight smile. “Arno lets me use his car any time I want, and he's always taking me to dizzy restaurants. Hey, you guys ever eat raw fish? Or rattlesnake meat? Don't make a face, I was surprised too. Never know what you're eating— if nobody told you.”
There was a moment of silence. The waiter left the check and Alvin didn't have any trouble taking it. Walt was busy thinking if he should chance going to Ruth's office—or would that end in a showdown? Beside, she said she was at the printer's, wherever that was. Tommy didn't expect to pay, of course.
Outside, they stood around awkwardly for a moment. Alvin had a premiere of a new TV quiz show one of his sponsors was starting. Did they want to tag along?
Tommy said he'd like to but wanted to see his wife, hadn't had a chance to tell her of his good luck since he'd come back from the country.
Walt didn't know what he wanted to do, although he didn't feel like sitting around the empty apartment. As Tommy waved, walking down the block, limping slightly but a swagger to his walk, Alvin told Walt, “He's not punchy, the limp comes from an old broken toe. It galls me, a sweet guy like Tommy having to sell blood. What a fighting heart! They don't make them from his mold any more. Think of it, he's answered the bell over a hundred times, a hundred tests of pure courage and...”
“Well, I have to be on my horse,” Walt cut in, knowing he wasn't in the mood for any hot air either. He had few illusions about the fight racket. He knew it was a lousy and brutal buck. But still, if a fellow got the breaks and could get in and out fast, there was big money. The cut from a decent bout would keep him and Ruth in Paris for years.
Alvin said, “I'll keep in touch, Walt. Look, any time you want rickets for the fights, or TV shows, let me know.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
They parted at the corner. Walt walked around the block, restlessly reading the movie marquees. Finally, he bought a paper and headed for the apartment.
Passing a bar, he saw Tommy inside, having a few quick shots.
ARNO
After they ate in a Syrian restaurant Arno had found, he suggested they take in a movie. But Jake shook his head, said he was too tired and wanted to hit the sack. He returned to the hotel.
Arno was going to the movie alone, but on the spur of nothing decided to get some sleep himself. Buying the evening paper and a jar of pickled black walnuts, he went up to their room. Jake wasn't there, but his overcoat and hat were hanging in the closet. Arno rang for a bellhop. Giving him a buck he asked, “Where's your girls, son?”
“Sir, the Southside doesn't allow that sort of...”
“Cut the gas, boy,” Arno said, slipping him another buck.
The bellhop was a stocky youngster with a sharp face, baby-scrubbed skin, and very wise eyes. Winking, he told Arno, “I know you're an all right guy, mister. Tell ya, there is one gal doing business. Real cute babe. But she's working now and you'll have to wait....”
“I know who she's working on, too. What's the room number?”
The bellhop hesitated. Arno went over to the bedside phone, put a fat hand on it. “Rather I ask the manager, son?”
“Aw now, mister, that's no way to act. Your buddy just went...”
“I know all about it. What's the room number?”
“One-fourteen.”
“Forget I asked, and don't try racing me to the room. What do they call you, kid?”
“Billy.”
“Okay, Billy-boy, beat it. You look like a hard-working, ambitious youngster. Maybe you'll work your way up to being a big-time pimp.”
On the way down to Room one-fourteen Arno tried one of the black walnuts. It was far too sweet and he tossed the rest of the jar into a sand-filled ash tray outside the elevator door.
Listening for a moment at the door of one-fourteen, Arno grinned as he heard muffled talk. Knocking gently, he heard the small sounds of bare feet crossing a carpet, then a woman's “Yes?”
“Billy. Open up,” Arno said, talking into the lapel of his coat to muffle the sound.
The woman whispered, “I'm busy.”
“Don't I know it? This is important.
”
She cracked the door and Arno pushed it open, knocking a tall naked girl against the wall. She held her white belly where the doorknob had hit her. Jake was stretched out on the bed, also nude. Arno smiled at him, thinking, How dumb can a joker get? With a body like that he keeps paying for it.
The girl shut the door and, still holding one hand over her stomach, the other making a futile if modest attempt at covering her bouncing breasts, she asked, “What is this?”
“Don't worry about it, honey, I'm with him,” Arno said, sitting on the bed and watching Jake. The veins in his nose seemed very dark red in contrast to Arno's pasty face. He called over his shoulder, “Put a robe on and take a walk, hon. Or get in the can and stay there for a few minutes. I know you've been paid and the dough is yours.” Arno examined his nails for a second and suddenly a slim but vicious-looking switchblade appeared in his right hand. The blade, in the shape of a dagger, was razor sharp. He delicately cleaned his nails with the knife. When the girl closed the bathroom door, Arno said, “Jake, get dressed.”