by Ed Lacy
Jake tried hard to think. All he could come up with was, “Why can't we raise some dough on the car?”
“Because it's dangerous. Depending on how things work out, we may not want to leave any traces. I can easily make us a grand with the car mortgage swindle. You don't know that one—pick up a guy in a bar and offer him a hot bargain; three hundred interest for a one month loan of a one thousand on the car. He sees the car, the papers, and I insist he take a chattel mortgage on the car. He's up the creek and can't get his dough or the car because over six per cent is usury in this state and that cancels any agreements... Look, what are we wasting time with talk? Get your stuff, I'll give you the pawn tickets. I'm sweetening the pot with my watch.”
“For a hundred, while I'm putting up four times as much to pay up a debt the dumb mick got into. Four to one, fine rooking you're handing me.”
“I never asked you to save your dough, stupid, that's for marks. Now give me the stuff and stop whining. Jake, don't get me riled. I haven't forgot you disobeying me, going with that whore. Just don't get me sore.”
After Arno left for the nearest pawn shop, Jake had a hard time falling asleep—it took him at least five minutes. At times Arno's smug manner gave him a hell of a pain. When he did doze off, Jake had his other favorite dream— where he was punching Arno's fat face out of shape.
TOMMY
Around four in the afternoon Tommy dropped into the Between Rounds, accepted the good natured kidding of the bar regulars. He saw Alvin and Walt in a booth, talking earnestly over beers. Tommy walked over and heard Walt saying, “I don't know, always thought I'd have more remorse at killing a man... even in the line of duty, as the saving goes. But it's been business as usual with me all day long—to my amazement. Anyway, thanks for making me a detective, first grade.”
“Thank me? Congratulations, Walt, old man, you've certainly earned your promotion. And the hard way.”
Walt didn't tell Alvin how bewildered he still was by the day's happenings. He couldn't explain that when he was called down to the headquarters in the morning he had expected to be broken to a beat cop. But with full publicity he had been promoted, the Commissioner himself giving Walt his new badge. Evidently the syndicate was as anxious as the police to keep things quiet. (A new man had been assigned to Big Burt's territory twenty minutes after Burt died.)
Alvin asked, “I suppose you didn't have time to check on Jake Watson's fingerprints?”
“I did. I had most of the day off. Nothing, except I know his real name.”
Tommy sat down in the booth, all smiles, cutting in on Walt with, “Well you guys were all wrong about Arno! This morning, after I came in from the road, Arno was waiting for me. He'd read the papers. He says, 'What's the matter with you, Irish, fooling around with gangsters? Why you might have got yourself killed.' Yes sir, Arno was all concerned and upset over me. To show you what an ace he is, when I told him about May... why an hour ago he took me down to the market and paid off Shorty James. Gave him five hundred bucks just like that. Of course, I owe it to Arno, but...”
“Who's Shorty?” Alvin asked.
“Some fellow Tommy's wife owed money to,” Walt said quickly, giving Tommy a slight kick under the table.
“Yeah, May happened to bust up his car,” Tommy said. “But the main thing is, Arno volunteered to pay the debt, said he didn't want me worried. You see how wrong you were about him wanting to kill me? If that was so, Arno wouldn't have been so concerned about last night.”
“By the way,” Walt said, “Jake Watson's real name is Hal Bari. No real police record, except for some minor j.d. stuff.”
“So what?” Tommy asked. “Lots of pugs take fancy names, or they used to.”
Walt nodded. “Except they're supposed to put their right name on their license application.”
“Wait a minute.” Alvin ran a long finger down a typewritten list of names. “Had my secretary check on all ring deaths in the last five years. Yes, thought that name rang a bell. Here it is. On March 17th, 1958, a fighter named Harold Barry killed a pug named Teddy Smith in the third round of a bout in a place called Preston, Utah!”
Walt glanced at the paper. “Hal—Harold. Barry—Bari... It's too much of a coincidence.”
Tommy, who had been peering at the paper over Walt's shoulder now said triumphantly, “Naw! Not only is the name spelled wrong, but look at this—Harold Barry weighed a hundred and thirty-five pounds, a lightweight. Why Jake is a good hundred and fifty pounds!”
Walt said slowly, “But in two years, a guy would grow, put on weight. Tell you, Al, for the first time I think you may have something.”
“Exactly what I've been trying to get through to you,” Alvin boomed. “Now what do we do?”
“We could alert the D. A. I suppose, but so far we haven't any real proof. Even if Bari and Barry are the same guy, that still doesn't prove any insurance tie-up or...”
“I shall wire the Preston papers for full information at once,” Hammer announced.
“It might help. What we need most is a run-down on this Arno. He isn't listed with the Commission as Jake's manager, either. I think our best bet is for the insurance company to cancel the policy and see what Arno's reaction is. Of course, even if he dropped Tommy, it still wouldn't be proof of anything.”
Tommy, who had been trying to hold himself in, now said softly but firmly, “You guys listen to me. Walt, I'll never forget what you did for me. Same goes for you, Al. But I can't blow my last chance to get some ring money. Now wait... I sure don't plan on getting myself killed, either, but now that May is okay—I'm to call for her tonight and bring her back—well, that makes this opportunity all the more special. May and me getting together again—I got to make it this time. Like I said, you fellows have been swell to me, no doubting that, but so has Arno. But he couldn't get me to turn on you two. Hell, I'm into him for over a grand now. I'm living good. I have a fight set for next week, and Arno has real plans for me. I can't cancel the policy, do anything to make him sore. Walt's a cop and he says we don't have a thing to go on except Jake using a phony name. When I was a kid fighting bootleg bouts, I used a dozen names to keep the AAU from knowing. Another thing, Barry sounds Irish while Bari is probably Italian. What I'm trying to say, you guys are only guessing. I can't risk everything I have going—on a bum guess.”
Alvin looked at Walt, who asked, “What did Arno tell you when you told him you had a fight set for next week?”
“He said fine, for me to train and to be sure and stay in shape, keep off the bottle,” Tommy said, thinking of the fine Irish whiskey he'd been nibbling on. “Of course, I'm doing that anyway.”
Alvin told them, “I wish I could get a look at this Arno and especially at Jake. I've seen a great many fighters in my time, and managers. Perhaps I'd remember them. Has Arno said anything more about you fighting Jake?”
Tommy gave him a pained look. “Al, for the love of Mike, keep your voice down, you ain't broadcasting. I keep telling you that's a big secret. No, he hasn't said anything. I'm telling you, Arno is a sweet guy, leaves me alone, doesn't rush me or nothing.”
“We have to play it careful and slow—policy won't go into effect for at least another week,” Walt said. “But it also won't hurt to get a look at these two. I'd like to see Arno, then check our rogues gallery. Tommy, your hotel is only a couple blocks from here. Suppose you call and tell them you left your money in your room, or lost your wallet—no, you left it in the gym—and you need a few bucks. They'll bring it over and Al and I will be in this booth, while you wait at the bar.”
“I'd be an awful jerk doing a thing like that after Arno just went for a bundle on me,” Tommy said.
Walt didn't say it, but the expression on his hard face said he had looked like a jerk last night, for Tommy's sake. Alvin merely looked sad. Tommy shrugged and got up. He kept the door of the phone booth open, but held the receiver hook down as he went through the motions of dialing and talking. Then he returned to the booth, said, “The
y were out. Look, May's waiting for me.”
“Has she got a room?”
“Won't be no trouble getting one—now. But not in the market section. And May'll be able to pick up a waitress job.”
Walt nodded, “Keep in touch, Tommy. Be sure and phone me if Arno mentions anything about you fighting Jake. In fact, let me know if Jake fights anybody. In general, watch yourself—keep out of their car, be careful what you eat.”
“Thanks for cheering me up!” Tommy said, winking. “Sure, I'll see you fellows around. Don't worry about me— and my Irish luck.”
When he left, Walt told Alvin, “Perhaps we are rushing. It is fantastic to plan on killing a guy in the ring. Even a shell like Tommy.”
Alvin patted the paper with the list of ring deaths. “I don't see why you're so cautious, Walt. These say it isn't fantastic at all.”
Walt glanced at his watch and stood up. “Having supper with my wife. You see, Al, assuming Arno is a real clever crook, there's too many loose factors to be certain of a ring death. The ref could stop the fight—we could—and a hundred other things could happen. Running him over with a car would be far more certain. The main doubt in my mind comes from what Tommy's told us about Jake. With a fighter that good, no matter how he'd be pieced up by the mob, Arno and Jake could make much more than fifty grand in the long run. And with no risk. I can't understand keeping a pug that good under wraps.”
“A gun is kept under wraps until it's used,” Alvin said. “I'll check on that Utah bit, let you know.”
“I'm going to do some checking myself,” Walt said, buttoning his overcoat. “I want to get ahold of this Arno's prints, see what they reveal in the FBI's crystal ball. And I'll keep an eye on Tommy.”
“So will I,” Alvin said.
The moment he left the Between Rounds, Tommy ducked into the nearest bar for a fast belt. Over his second drink he thought, Lord, that was close! All I needed was to have Arno and Jake in the Between Rounds with all the fight boys there. I wish Walt and Al would leave me alone. They mean well but don't know what they're doing. An ex-amateur and a fight buff. What was it Bobby told me about the advice of the fans when I was starting as a pro? Yeah, yeah, fan is short for fanatic! Walt and Al, a couple of dumb fanatics! Well, I'll have to play it cool and keep an eye on those poor dopes.”
WALT STEINER
Three days later, when he was off on his fifty-six hours swing, Walt went to see a patrolman named Pete who was a fingerprint technician. He told him about wanting to get a set of Arno Brewer's prints, without telling Pete why. Scratching his thick blonde hair, which had almost landed him on the vice squad, Pete said, “Okay, you know I'm always willing to do you a favor. But when you start picking up prints unofficially, it can be a rough tab if there's any complaint. Best place will be his hotel room. You know the house dick?”
“No. And the hotel would be too risky, even if we had the house man working with us. Arno might get curious and at this point I can't do much explaining, as you notice. I thought of stopping him while he's driving, but that's also risky and might take too much time. I have a better thing going. Arno and his pug train every day at a small uptown gym which is more or less private due to the lack of fighters. I haven't had a workout in a long time. Suppose we go up there this afternoon, you're my manager, and see what Arno touches?”
“Okay, but you know prints aren't all they're cracked up to be. Damn hard to get a decent set of prints unless the guy puts his paws on something flat, or grasps a glass, say, heavy enough so he'll use all his fingers to hold it.”
“I know. I was thinking of the water bottle—Arno will probably be acting as a sort of second, I hope. The main thing is, not to let on we're police officers, no matter what happens.”
Pete, who was a fairly slight man with a long lantern jaw, shrugged. “I'm with you only because I've nothing else on for this afternoon. I'll be your manager and I hope I'm not sorry.”
“Sorry about what?”
“Walt, I haven't got a nickel in this dime. It's always the volunteers who end up with a hosing.”
“Pete, don't get in an uproar. Worse comes to worse, I think I have enough to make it official.”
“Except you're doing it on your own, which makes it unofficial. What's with you? I was surprised when I read about you killing that punk. I always thought you were smarter than the eager-beaver type. You bucking for something?”
“Stop it. I'm merely doing a friend a favor, I think.” They reached the unheated gym, which had once been a small motion picture house, at noon. It had one ring, a mossy shower, and several bags. The owner was a glum ex-pug who complained when he took Walt's two dollars, “TV killed movies so I got this dump cheap. But just when I get it paid off, it's all mine, TV rains boxing. So I own a big fat hunk of nothing. Of course I sleep here, save room rent. But outside of a couple amateurs at night and a few busy weeks when the Golden Gloves is on, I ain't got bread.”
“Ever think of selling or renting it to some youth organization?” Pete asked, brightly.
The old pug laughed, showing teeth so crooked they looked as if they'd been thrown into his thick gums. “You know one that wants to buy this gym? I'll cut you in. No kidding.”
Walt undressed, giving his gun to Pete, then wearing old bunks and a sweatshirt, he came out and shadow-boxed to warm up. The gym owner said, “You move nice for a guy your size. But ain't you a little old to be starting?”
“I boxed amateur, years ago. I figure with the shortage of heavys, I might make a comeback. I want to find out what kind of shape I'm in.”
“And if you're in condition, where you going to get a bout?” the gym owner asked. He turned to Pete, who was standing around, hands in his windbreaker. “Ain't no shortage of fighters, but of fights. The... Aw, why should I talk myself out of some business. I'll be in my office over there if you want anything. I got some cheap tape and bandages, can get you a discount on ring togs, if anybody is silly enough to still manufacture 'em.”
Working out on the light and heavy bags, Walt was puffing after a round and realized how far out of fighting condition he really was. Old age and my recent workouts with Ruth, he thought, grinning at nothing as he remembered the old joke from grade school days—what a way to die. By one-thirty Arno and Jake still hadn't showed and Pete whispered, “If they don't come along soon, you'll drop dead. Easy does it old man.”
“I'll old man you,” Walt said, jabbing Pete lightly in the gut and then slamming a tremendous right into the heavy bag, as if to reassure himself.
Minutes later Arno walked in with Jake and Walt knew they were his men. He was impressed by their clothes. Jake dressed like a big-time fighter. As they disappeared into the locker room Walt shadow-boxed over to the owner's office and casually asked, “That pug who just came in, is he a pro? Seems to me I've seen him around someplace. Where's he from?”
“I don't know. They're two guys named Brown and Jones. I never laid eyes on either of 'em before they came here. The fighter looks like a hell of a good boy.”
As Walt forced his tired body through more rope skipping and stomach exercises, he watched Jake work out on the bags, impressed with the sure way Jake moved, the good body. This was indeed a pug who'd been around; it seemed impossible he could be so unknown. Even at its height the fight game was a small world and news went about fast.
Arno sat on a stool, nibbling on tiny hunks of dried fish, looking bored as he watched Jake work. Walt decided Arno could be an old-time bunko artist, or actually a retired businessman, but somehow the eyes shouted con man. Jake did three rounds of bag punching—and he beat the light bag like an expert drummer—skipped rope for another two rounds and wanted to quit. Arno told him, sharply, to go a few more rounds on the heavy bag.
The only thing Arno had touched so far was the back of the chair next to his stool. Pete glanced at Walt and shook his head. Jake had a soda bottle criss-crossed with tape, on the ring apron, which he was using as a water bottle. Walt nodded toward Pete, slippe
d on heavy gloves, and started into the ring to shadow-box. He 'kicked' the water bottle over. Walt went through the routine of trying to pick the bottle up with his gloved hands while Pete was busy setting his wrist watch. The gym owner yelled from the office to be careful of the canvas and started toward the ring, as Arno finally picked up the bottle—using all the fingers of his right hand.
Jake climbed into the ring to shadow-box, growled at Walt, “Why don't you look what you're doing?”
Arno walked over to the sink, washed the bottle, filled it, and carried it back to the ring apron—using both hands to hold the bottle while he took a drink himself. Then he sat down and returned to eating bits of fish. Pete smiled up at Walt.
“It was an accident,” Walt said, puffing a little as he boxed around Jake. “Nothing broke.” He sure has the face of a fighter, Walt thought. Not marked, but the slightly thickened nose, the hard eyebrows—the entire tough cast of his puss. In looks, anyway, he's sure a champ.