The Big Fix

by Ed Lacy

  When the bell gave them a minute's rest, Walt told Jake, “I'm an amateur. You a pro?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What's your name? Maybe I seen you box.”

  “Floyd Patterson,” Jake said abruptly, turning away, loosening the muscles in his bull neck.

  After another round Jake jumped out of the ring. He walked around for a few minutes, waving his arms, cooling off. He headed for the shower and the locker room, followed by Arno. Walt was standing outside the ring as Pete untied his gloves, Walt's big body hiding the water bottle. He whispered to Pete, “Get the bottle under the other side of the ring apron and start working. How much time do you need?”

  “Few minutes—if the bottle's dry,” Pete said, pulling dusting powder and a roll of Scotch tape from his pocket. “Ah-ah, he's coming back.”

  Walt looked up to see Jake crossing the gym, his right glove still on. As Pete shoved his stuff back into his pocket, Walt leaned against the ring, covering the bottle. Jake glanced around the ring, the floor, the few seats. Then he asked, “You see my bottle?”

  “Why, you training on whiskey?” Walt cornballed.

  “Okay, wiseguy, it has to be...” He suddenly pushed Walt aside, picked up the bottle with his ungloved hand. In a hard voice he asked, “What's the matter, you like to play games?”

  Walt stared down at the smaller man. “Why? You know some interesting ones?”

  “I know you give me a pain in the can,” Jake said, walloping Walt on the chin with his gloved hand. It was a short, hard blow. Walt went stiff as he fell back against the ring apron, then slid to the floor with a bang. With an evil grin Jake turned to Pete. “Want to sweep up your heavy, blondie?”

  When Walt came to, finally got the gym in focus, he saw three faces bending over him: Pete's long troubled face, the wrinkled and ugly puss of the gym owner, and Arno Brewer's fat face smiling down at him—a glass of water in his hand. As Walt sat up, shaking his head to clear it, working his numb mouth and jaw, he realized his face was wet: Arno must have thrown a glass of water on him.

  Walt stumbled to his feet, his face set as he looked around for Jake. Both the bottle and Jake were in the locker room. Pete said, “Easy, now.”

  “That's it,” Arno said smoothly. “Just because you're big, no sense in acting that way. Calm down,” Arno turned, put the glass on the ring apron, and strolled toward the locker room.

  The gym owner said, “You crazy? I don't allow no rough-house in here. I got a baseball bat to...”

  “Shut up,” Walt said, the movement of his mouth hurting him. So this is how a kayo feels, he thought. Except for the pain, not much different than waking up from a hard sleep. A...

  “Listen, don't tell me to shut up,” the gym owner said. “I ain't afraid of you punks of today. And you don't train here no more.” He reached for the glass. Pete suddenly put an arm around the owner's shrunken shoulders, said, “Leave me handle him, mister. And leave the glass—get my fighter a drink.”

  “You guys dress and scram. I'm not kidding about that baseball bat.” The old pug went back to his office.

  Walt started for a chair, stumbled. Pete helped him. Walt sat very still for a moment, holding his head which had started to throb. Minutes later he saw Arno and Jake leave, Arno quietly bawling Jake out. Jake sent a quick glance at Walt, a cocky look. Walt said dully, “They must have dressed fast as firemen. Lord, did he clout me with the bottle?”

  “They had plenty of time to dress,” Pete told him. “You've been out eleven minutes. By the clock. You sure got the full treatment. Thought you were dead, for a second. Gave me a bad turn. I...”

  “Come on, see what you can find on the glass!”

  Pete nodded. As he crouched under the ring and started dusting the glass, he glanced up at Walt, asked, “Are you okay?”

  “Sure, only a mild headache.”

  “I would have stepped in but I couldn't pull my gun without giving us away as cops. That guy sure belted you. The punch didn't travel more than six inches and... Hey, we have clear prints of at least three fingers. Maybe we'll learn something.”

  Still holding his head Walt said, half aloud, “I've already learned plenty. Our boy really has a murderous wallop.”

  ARNO

  Sitting beside take, who was driving the flashy car, Arno was pale with anger. “... and of all the dumb moves! Suppose the big guy had clouted you, maybe cut your eye? Or...”

  “He didn't. Just a clumsy fat cat,” Jake cut in. He was feeling very good, the old dreams of himself as a champ flashing through his mind.

  “And if he had? Told you we had to speed up our plans and you have to play things stupid! What if he'd been hurt, banged his noggin on the floor, and the cops had been called in? Don't know what's got into you recently, Jake, you're acting...”

  “I'm on edge, stale from training too much.”

  Arno said, “No, you don't—don't ever try to kid the ladder. We forget this, but step out of line once more and I'll really give you something to keep your mind on! I found a Spanish restaurant that looks good—real thing. You want to see a movie before or after supper?”

  “I'd like some plain ham and eggs, for a change.”

  Arno sighed, with disgust.

  TOMMY

  Waiting in the cafeteria for May, Tommy was worried, about May and about himself. He knew he should be feeling good. Arno's plans were starting to take shape. Jake and Arno had left town that morning, said they'd be back in a few days. Although Arno didn't say, and Tommy didn't ask, Tommy thought from the way Jake had been training that he had a fight set. He was supposed to let Alvin or Walt know when Jake had a bout, but Tommy hadn't said a word. For one thing, he didn't know for sure.

  It was now almost two months since he had signed with Arno and Tommy was pretty low, at times he was beginning to half believe Walt and Alvin. Even though Arno's fingerprints hadn't turned up a thing. Mostly Tommy doubted Arno could actually do much for him—and if that was the case, then why was Arno interested in him? Things seemed to move so slowly. At other times Tommy wondered what he was worrying about. If Arno didn't complain why should he?

  But for the first time in his career Tommy was impatient, had doubts about the whole fight game. For one thing, he suddenly seemed to be growing old very fast, every wasted day was like a month. He found himself bored and dreading the training grind, feeling very tired at the end of the day. Even a few belts of Arno's whiskey no longer relaxed him. He had won the stand-by four-rounder at Bobby's arena two weeks before in convincing style—a TKO in the third round. Oddly enough, winning the bout had upset him more than any of Alvin's ravings about murder. He had been up against a strong kid having his first bout. It made Tommy realize his own ring status. A vet of over one hundred fights in with a kid having his first bout. And he had felt sorry for the boy. In the old days a kid like this might have had a chance to get someplace—at times he moved with natural grace—but the boy didn't have the smallest idea what boxing was all about, slugged wildly. Tommy had outboxed him with ease, grand-standing at times. In the second round he had been tagged by a glancing left to the stomach, but Cork's own left hook had cut the kid's eye. A cut can take all the fight out of even an experienced pug and Tommy knew the kid was finished. In the third Tommy's jabs had stung the eye until blood covered the kid's bewildered face. Tommy dropped him with a neat right and the ref stopped the fight, even though the boy was up at three.

  The fans had given Tommy a big hand, Alvin bubbled with praise, and even Bobby said Irish had been his old self. Arno had given him a bottle of expensive whiskey and a pat on the back. But Tommy knew how tired and empty he'd been in the second round. If the left to the belly had been a solid punch he would have gone down. Cork couldn't understand it. With steady training and eating he should have breezed through a lousy four-rounder. The following day, as the gym hangers-on were telling him how sharp he looked, Tommy had pestered Becker for another bout.

  Bobby shook his head. “You showed so good the
managers ain't keen on throwing their kids in with you. Before, they figured you were a sure win and exercise for their boys.” That same afternoon, over a drink in the Between Rounds, when Tommy complained about lack of bouts to a ranking feather-weight, the other fighter had asked, “What are you hissing and moaning about? You had five or seven bouts the last year. Sure, they were all emergency fights, but take me—rusty as an old gate—haven't had a bout in over ten months.”

  Tommy was startled to realize that even with his half a dozen fights he hadn't made five hundred for the year. If the thought of the fight game really being done disturbed him, Walt's constant snooping also annoyed Tommy. He was afraid the detective might come up with the true answer. They still hadn't proof of anything—yet. Alvin found out the pug killed by this Harold Barry had been insured for five grand. The beneficiary was one Samuel Smith, and who he was nobody knew. Alvin was certain he could rum up other ring deaths at the fists of Barry.

  All this made Tommy uneasy. Some days Tommy was sure Walt and Alvin were ruining his chances with their snooping, telling him to cancel the policy. On other days, like tonight, Tommy felt as if his Irish luck was dead; if Arno wasn't actually planning on murdering him, he was merely a bungling rich man incapable of ever getting Jake or Tommy a big payday.

  Ruth had to tell May of Walt's suspicions and she had been carrying on. All told it had been a lousy Christmas. Tommy had been able to buy May a cheap dress but they had lost out on the apartment. May-was also down in the dumps. Ruth had found her a job as a file clerk on the Make-Up Age and while May had been flattered, at first, to have an office job, after a week the work gave her a headache and she was now picking up dishes in a chain restaurant.

  As May entered the cafeteria, bundled in an old coat, her eyes hunting for Tommy, he thought she looked good. And it gave him a warm feeling to know her eyes were only for him. He stood to show her where he was sitting. Her face was flushed with the cold and she seemed to have gained a few pounds. He squeezed her hand, asked what she wanted for supper. May said, “Oh, I ate on the job. Tom, I have a lead on another apartment! The cook on the job has a house out in Bayside and he expects the family in the basement to move soon. I understand it's a large private house and against the zoning laws to have two apartments. The point is, he can't advertise. It's two small rooms, kitchen and bath. He wants fifty-five a month. It's also two bus fares from my job but... Oh, Tom, best of all, he'll let us have some furniture he has in the attic... but what's the use, if you don't get a job.”

  “Don't start that, honey. Give me more time to see what Arno will do for me.”

  “He'll kill you!” May said, eyes tearing.

  Tommy reached over the table, pressed her hand. “Come on, May, don't spoil our evening. I keep telling you not to listen to Ruth and Walt. After all, Arno has been keeping me all these weeks, and he was damn good about not taking his cut out of my last bout—said he'd wait until I made a good purse. But let's forget all that. Listen, he and Jake are out of town and they gave me eating money for the next couple days. I was thinking, let's you and me take in a movie and spend the night in my room.”

  “Tom Cork, you expect me to go up to a hotel room like a...?”

  He grinned at her. “What's wrong with it, May? We're married and it's been a long time for us. Come on, let's step out for a change. Al gave me tickets for a TV show but I'd rather take in a movie, like old times.”

  She dried her eyes with a napkin. “I'd love a movie, but... Maybe we can go to my room?”

  He shook his head. “Naw, the hotel is classy. Please, May. Please.”

  Tommy didn't tell her he'd also touched Bobby for a ten spot. They went to a movie which had a stage show and cost a dollar-eighty each. May enjoyed it except she was so tired she slept during most of the motion picture. Then they went out and had Chinese food and May even took a cocktail. Although she was unhappy about going to his hotel, she went, and the room clerk never even glanced at her. They slept late, Tommy skipping his roadwork, but in the morning she cried in his arms, begging him to leave Arno, find a job. “Tom, Tom, don't you see, it can be like this every night if we have our own place, steady money coming in. The bus boys get forty dollars a week in my restaurant, and meals. Shall I ask for you?”

  “Gee, May, it means I'm through. May, why can't we wait a little longer? Give my luck its last fling. One or two main events and I'll have a couple thousand to put down on a rooming-house. Well be in business for...”

  “And maybe I'll be a widow!”

  “That's no way to talk. Look, neither Alvin or Walt have come up with any real proof. You think I want to get myself killed? Let's make a deal. You said we can't get this apartment right away, the tenant may not move for a month or so. Okay, by the time the guy is ready to move, if Arno hasn't done anything for me, or if Walt comes up with any real facts, then I'll quit the ring and get a job.” Tommy added, to himself, “If I can get a job.”

  “I'm afraid for you.”

  “For Irish Cork? Remember, you were afraid when I first started fighting. Honey, I can handle myself in the ring, you know that. There's another thing, if I quit now—I mean if Arno isn't the one who gives up on me—why I'm into him for nearly sixteen hundred bucks. I guess he could sue me, take it out of my salary each week, if I had a job. Then where would we be?”

  “Then it's hopeless.”

  “No, no. Look, with the hard time I'm having getting bouts because I looked so sharp in my last fight, why in a month or two, Arno may see he can't work his deal and break things off himself. But if he should get me bouts, or start building Jake up, why... Then we'll take the apartment anyway! This hotel room rents for twenty-eight dollars a week, and he gives me eating money. Ill work out a deal where he gives me the dough and I live and eat with you in the apartment. I'll be bringing home as much as if I was working. Honey, you tell the cook today we'll take the place! Either way, we'll make it.”

  “You make it sound good. But I worry so. If you took a job now...”

  “And be sued? Don't forget, I still may be champ!”

  “I never forget. Be a champ, Tom.” May turned away and he ran his hand over her tiny, thin breasts, marveling as he always did at the pale pink of her nipples.

  “Hon, the crazy way things are in the game, within a year I can be up in the money. I'll buy you a big house of your own. And we'll even take that trip to Ireland.” He kissed her nipples as he asked, “Would you like seeing Ireland?”

  “I suppose so. Yes, I'd love that,” May said, holding back her tears. Suddenly she pushed his mouth back on her breasts, said quietly, “Ah, kiss me again. It makes me feel so... so young and... pretty. Ah, my Tom, my Tom.”

  At noon they dressed and went downstairs and had breakfast. Tom said, 'Isn't this something, living in a nice hotel?”

  May nodded. “I'll only take coffee. Sinful to spend money on food when I can eat on my job. Tom, I feel good, like singing.”

  “Well do plenty of singing yet, May. You wait and see.”

  “Yes, we will. I believe it. Right this minute I believe God will grant us happiness. I believe... Look at the time. I have to scoot.”

  Tommy felt so swell himself he went over to the gym but didn't train, merely hung around, pestering Bobby for a bout. He put two bucks on a horse named Deep Green, sat around and read a morning paper. Alvin asked how he'd liked the TV show and Tommy said it had been great. Later in the afternoon he returned to his room and took a few nips out of a pint Arno had given him. He listened to the radio for a while, thought about entering a contest, and went to sleep. It was midnight when he awoke and although he was hungry, he merely took a warm bath, a few more shots of whiskey, and went back to sleep.

  When he got up in the morning he felt dizzy from lack of food but couldn't eat if he was going to run. He took a last sip of the bottle to keep him going and went over to the park. After running a few blocks he felt tired and walked for a half hour. On the way back to the hotel he stopped into a cheap st
ool joint, had coffee and a sandwich.

  He saw the car parked in front of the hotel and found Arno and Jake in the hallway outside his room. Jake had a slight mouse under his left eye. Arno said, talking indirectly to Jake, “See, here's a man who won't be puffing after the fifth round. I told Jake you were out on the road.”

  “You have a bout?” Cork asked.

  Jake nodded and said, “All this driving has left me bushed. I'm going to hit the sack.” He shut the door to their room and Arno followed Tommy into his, asked, “Got a drink handy?”

  Tommy took the bottle from the drawer and Arno said nothing about it being almost empty. He poured two drinks, killing the bottle, and smiled at Tommy as he whispered, “We're on our way! I got Jake a fight last night. Took him a few rounds to warm up, but he won by a clean knockout. Made quite an impression.”

  “Where'd he fight?”

  “Way out of town. Little club but they only see one TV channel there, and no fights. I can get Jake another match any time I want. The build up is on.” Arno actually rubbed his hands together. “Also had the most delicious cherry cider up there. Real spicy and...”