by Ed Lacy
Walking with his head bent against the wind he thought, Maybe after Arno gets me a couple of fights, at least one or two big ones, I'll throw my ring shoes away. Take about a year but May and me will still have plenty of time ahead of us. I should have about ten grand socked away after two main events, say on a nation-wide TV show. At least, five thousand. I'll buy a business, a gas station. But what do I know about cars? If the fight game wasn't so dead, I'd hire out as a trainer, perhaps manage a few guys or... Hey! I know a natural for May and me. We'll buy a small house, going into the rooming business! Yes, sir, we sure know enough about rooms! Yeah, we won't be pigs, charge a reasonable rent and keep a clean place. Only steady roomers, no drunks. Not much work, some cleaning every day and changing sheets once a week, that's about all. Man, will May go for this idea, she'll love it! When I see her tomorrow night, I'll spill it to her. Be better than an apartment—be our home and a business beside. Keep it small, no more than ten rooms. Guess you can buy one of these old brownstones for five grand down, all right.
He suddenly side-stepped, did a graceful jig on the sidewalk—felt as pleased as if he already had the house, or the money for one.
Passing the diner he dropped in to tell Butch, “May's okay. She's with her cousin.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
Tommy shrugged. “Anyway, she said to tell you thanks for all you done.” Tommy motioned toward four or five men at the counter. “This Shorty James around?”
“Who's he?”
“Okay, forget you saw me.”
“I forgot the first time I ever saw you,” Butch said, still annoyed at having his sitting ritual disturbed earlier in the evening.
Tommy couldn't help but see the meat plant. He asked a driver unloading a track full of frozen sides of beef where he could find Shorty. Glancing at Tommy's face, his clothes, the driver shouldered a side of beef, said he'd see if he could find him. Minutes later a tall man wearing a bloody once-white butcher coat over layers of sweaters and dirty fur-lined boots, came out holding a baling hook in one hand. A stained ski cap with earflaps was pushed back from his swarthy face. The driver was carrying a heavy wooden mallet. The tall man asked, “You looking for me?”
“Yeah, if you're Shorty James,” Tommy said, watching the driver edging over behind him.
“What you want?”
“I have some private talk for you.” Tommy glanced at the driver who didn't make any move to walk away.
The tall Shorty said, “I don't know you. What we got to talk about?”
“I'm May's husband. May, the waitress at the diner. I come to tell you she didn't mean to hold out, that I'll make up the dough coming to you.”
A smile formed on Shorty's dark face. He told the track driver, “It's okay, Al.” As the driver went back to unloading his truck, Shorty told Tommy, “We thought you were a loan-shark goon. You have my money?”
“Not with me. Ill have to get it up. But my May isn't a thief and you'll get every cent due you. Six hundred bucks.” Tommy pulled out a ten dollar bill, handed it to him.
“What's the ten spot for?”
“On account. Look, I don't know if I can raise the dough in one hunk, but the main thing is you know you'll get it. What the devil, if you got it all at once you'd probably ball it away. My way...”
“Don't worry about me balling away my dough. Ill worry about that. How soon will I be paid?”
“I don't know. I got to raise it. But May isn't running out on you. She admits you're owed the six hundred, that's the important thing. I'll get it to you soon as I can. I know what it means to score a hit and not get paid off.”
Disappointment flooded Shorty's long face. “When I found out I'd hit I... Look, will I get the dough next week, next month? When?”
“Get the spot I'm in, Mr. James. My wife's in a jam, didn't know what she was getting into. But that ain't none of your worry. I'm trying my best to straighten things out. Ill get you the dough as soon as I can. That's the best I can tell you, except you won't loose a cent of the six hundred.”
Shorty gently scratched his leg with the bailing hook. “Okay, I knew May would never job me. I was surprised when she started picking up the digits, but I give her my bets because I figured she was absolutely on the level. Try to pay me soon as you can, I'm up the creek for dough, and I'd like it in a lump sum. You know where to find me. Not six hundred, only the five hundred and forty I expected, I would have ripped May the difference.”
Tommy pocketed the ten dollar bill. “You don't have to worry, I never welshed on anything in my life.”
Switching the bailing hook to his left hand, Shorty shook hands with Tommy, told him, “It's a deal. I hear May got worked over. I'm sorry about running to Big Burt. Tell May I'm sorry. But you know how it is. Keep playing every day and when you get a hit that might make you at least even. It gets messed up. I swear I never thought Big Burt would whip her.”
“Sure.”
“I don't go for women being beaten. I wouldn't have said a word if I'd known that was going to happen. I thought Burt would pay me, that's how I went to him. May badly hurt?”
“I don't think so,” Tommy said, Big Burt's name making the anger deep within him boil again. “Say, what's this Burt look like?”
“Heavyset guy, tall as a basketball player. Wears a beret. A pretty boy.”
“Is he around now?”
Shorty hesitated. “Well, yeah. He's picking up the play for tomorrow. Generally find him hanging around the all-night bar on West Street. Listen, if you're thinking of tangling with him—don't. Your face says you been in plenty of brawls, but Big Burt ain't as soft as he looks. He's handy with a knife. Said to have cut up lots of guys.”
“I only want to tell him you and I are straight, so hell leave May alone. I'll see you soon.”
“I'll be waiting.”
Tommy found West Street. There was only one open bar, an ancient place with neon beer signs in the dirty window. A few produce men were having “lunch” and beers. Tommy asked the bartender, “Where's Big Burt?”
“He'll be around.”
“When?”
“What's the matter, you guys can't wait to lose your dough? Must of had a hot dream. He's got his rounds to make. He'll be here. Want anything?”
“Later.” Tommy leaned against the bar, yawning. He was usually in bed before midnight. Jeez, he thought, even the barkeep has plastered down hair. All they need is gas-light.
Fifteen minutes later the bartender came over. “Ready now?”
“Gin—straight.”
Tommy was on his second gin belt a half hour later when Big Burt entered. He sported a worn blue beret and was well over six feet and fleshy. He wore a blue work shirt, dirty white bow tie, a once-white sweater, and a baggy heavy overcoat. These were his work clothes. He knew it was poor advertising to dress in his usual flashy manner around the markets. His large-featured face was loose, and almost over-handsome. Tommy took in the soggy chins, the padded shoulders, the lardy backside, decided Burt was big, but that was all. Not that it mattered. He wasn't here to fight. And while he believed the old fight maxim—a good big man can whip a good little man—he also was aware of the difference between a pug and the ordinary man.
Burt stopped to talk to a man at a table, and pocket a half a dollar. Burt took out a deck of cards. He was using hearts for the first figure, spades for the second, and clubs for the last number. On the joker he wrote the man's initials and one-half. Then he penciled the initials on one comer of the five of hearts, in the same comer of the two of spades, and on the comer of the nine of clubs. He had the man down for fifty cents on 529. Thus if Burt was ever picked up —and now and then he had to stand still for a routine arrest (but 'somehow' never for an indictment or conviction) Burt didn't have any slips or evidence on him. There wasn't any law against carrying a deck of cards, even marked ones.
The barkeep called Burt over and whispered. Burt approached Tommy, asked, “You looking for me? You're n
ew around here.”
“Aha.” Tommy counted the overcoat buttons. Between the third and fourth buttons, if it came to that, as he thought, “Main thing is to control myself, get this settled. He said, “I came to tell you that May, the waitress at the diner, squared the play with Shorty. It's all settled.”
Burt grinned. He was certain Tommy wasn't a dick. His face shouted pug, but a small one. “Who settled it?”
“I did. I'm making arrangements to pay Shorty off. May's sorry, and don't want no more trouble with you. Okay?”
“Who are you?”
“What's the diff? The beef is squared.”
“I like to know whom I'm talking to.” Burt had a vague fear the syndicate brass might be behind Tommy.
“I'm May's husband. Now you know. Everything okay?”
“Tell your bitch if she ever shows her ugly puss around here, I'll...”
Tommy's right hand moved. Burt's raced for his coat pocket. But Tommy was merely feinting with his right; a perfect left hook landed in the middle of Big Burt's groin, then a short hard right thudded between the third and fourth buttons into the solar plexus. It was so fast Burt still had his hand at the top of his pocket. As he started to sink to the floor, big face tight with pain, another left slashed Burt's eye, a right closed the other eye, a left broke his nose.
All of this took less than a brace of seconds. Tommy glanced around to see what the others were going to do, watched the bartender out of the corner of his eye. Everybody seemed scared, motionless.
Tommy shook his fingers, felt of his knuckles. Burt's head was resting on the bar railing, then hit the floor with a dull sound. His face was red with blood, right hand still in his pocket, left hand pressing between his legs. Tommy said, “You big bastard, you didn't have to slap her around. She didn't know what she was doing. She would have made the money good.” He walked out of the bar. No one made a move to stop him. In fact, when he had left the bar the first sound was a produce man muttering, “Geez, did you see that little redheaded guy go? Wow!”
Outside, Tommy walked fast, turning comers and listening for any following footsteps until he found himself out of the market area, in a silent street of dark office buildings. Tommy trotted over to a bus and thirty-five minutes later he was in his hotel room, undressing. It was after three. His knuckles were swollen but not broken. The skin wasn't even cut. He got into bed and fell off to sleep at once. Tommy felt very good.
ARNO
Arno was a light sleeper. He had returned to the hotel at one o'clock after reading the morning papers while eating sweet Greek pastry in an upstairs coffee shop he'd found. He had noticed Tommy's key was still at the desk.
Now, he awoke as Tommy closed the door across the hall. For a moment Arno listened to the heavy breathing of Jake in the bed next to his. Then he sat up, lit a match, looked at his fancy wrist watch. (Worth a hundred dollars in any pawn shop.) He smiled at the time, blew out the match, and turned until reaching a comfortable sleeping position. He made a mental note to get Jake on the road early, then dozed off.
Arno was also feeling quite contented.
TOMMY
Jake awoke him at seven. Jake was dressed in a woolen cap, sweat shirt, old pants, a windbreaker, and heavy shoes. He was half asleep himself, Arno having forced him out of bed a few minutes before. It was almost with a feeling of revenge that he shook Tommy, asked, “What you say, Pops, going to hit the road? Or are you too sleepy?”
“Never too sleepy to strengthen my legs,” Tommy said, in a daze, not wanting to show how tired he really felt.
They walked over to the park, then jogged and ran three miles, stopping now and then to shadow-box. It was the first time in a week Tommy had seen Jake on the road and when they stopped to spar for a second, both of them sweating freely, he asked, “Arno have a fight set for you?”
“Who knows? I always keep in shape.”
“Did you tell me you used to fight in New York, that you'd worked out with Basilio and Jordan at the old Still-man's gym?”
“I never told you nothing, Pops,” Jake said coldly. “Let's run.
Tommy said sure and shut up. They were the only pugs out but he could remember when one would see a dozen or more boxers, all guys he knew, running in the park any morning. Or the “old days” when Tommy might take a few close pals up to a training camp, how excited they'd be to hit the road with him, and puffed out after the first quarter of a mile. Tommy even paid their way, had them take off from their jobs. When he once mentioned this to Alvin while gassing over a beer, Hammer had told him, “I'll never understand you pugs; you make a hard dollar but you're always carrying around an entourage of freeloaders, throwing away your money. Why did you do it?”
“You see, it gets lonely in a training camp,” Tommy had tried to explain. “Bobby was much older than me, and my trainer was always telling me what John L. Sullivan had told him. I needed some guys my own age around... talk to, make jokes. No, that wasn't money thrown away.”
Back in the hotel, after they showered, Arno joined them for breakfast, face carefully shaved and powdered, his nose no longer looking like a road-map. He told Tommy, “Guess you came in after I did last night.”
“Running a bed-check on me?”
Arno smiled, his lips almost feminine against the aftershave powder on his face. “I should say not. You know far more about conditioning than I ever will. Any time you feel the need for relaxation, go ahead. If you want a woman, let me know. I'll fix you up.”
Tommy rubbed the wedding ring on his finger. “I have a wife. I saw her last night.”
Jake actually leered as he asked, “Why didn't you tell me? You must have been real pooped this morning.”
“Nothing to tell. I'm feeling fine. Plan to start working out at the big gym today, try to get myself a fight.”
Arno nodded as he spread mint jam on a well buttered piece of toast, then sprinkled dried ginger over it. Watching the ginger sink into the jam, he said, “Tommy, just keep in mind there's no rash. I want you to be ready. By the by, in case anybody around the gym asks, remember, I'm not your manager. Since the fight mob hangs out there, best to also keep my being your... uh... patron quiet. Understand?”
“Sure.”
“Until fake is established we have to keep our deal top secret. Don't even tell your wife. Did you tell her?”
“No. I'm not much of a talker,” Tommy said, ordering more eggs. “May, that's the wife, doesn't ask about boxing. She don't exactly like the game. We been apart for the last couple years. You know how it is.” He turned to Jake. “You married?”
“Me?” Jake grunted with astonishment. “Naw.”
Tommy said, “A leatherpusher shouldn't get hitched until he's done with the ring. Do you have a family, Arno?”
“Not that I recognize. Guess I've knocked up my share of gals. I was married twice. Didn't work out; I was too busy making money. There's too many pretty things floating around for a man to settle down with one of them.”
“May is all the woman I want,” Tommy said, remembering again the heat of her kiss last night, and then the money he had to raise for Shorty. Watching Arno eating, his dainty enjoyment of the food, the fat face above the expensive clothes, Tommy was tempted to ask for a loan of five hundred and forty dollars. But he thought, Might sour Arno on me. I'd seem like a pig. Be different if I'd had a few fights for him, had paid him back a little of what he's laid out.
After breakfast Tommy bought a paper and went to his room to rest and listen to the radio. Arno slipped in and held up a bottle of Irish whiskey. “Thought you'd appreciate this, Tommy. I lucked up on it last night. Ten years old and a hundred proof. Be wasted on a kid like Jake. Figured you might want to take a taste now and then, to relax.”
Tommy thanked him and when Arno left Tommy told himself, “Guy is so good to me I can't ask him for a big bite like five hundred and forty dollars. Use a sip of this now.” He opened the bottle, took a whiff of the rich aroma and stopped the bottle half way to his l
ips, remembering what Walt had said about being poisoned. Then he said, “Damn, those clowns are spoiling everything for me—even a shot.” He took a small sip of the smoky-tasting liquid, then a good belt and put the bottle away in his dresser.
The whiskey relaxed him and he stretched out on the bed, thought, The hell with worrying about Arno, more important I get something working on raising Shorty's dough, get May done with the numbers guys.