by Ed Lacy
“How about me?”
“I have plans for you. Just remember, all this has to be kept quiet. I mentioned you to the promoter, he was interested in your record. We're moving up, Tommy lad. But not a word to anybody.”
“Who would I talk to?”
Arno stood up. “Have breakfast? I'm going down for potato pancakes.”
“Naw, I'm full of Java. Think I'll take a shower and get some sack time.”
In the gym that afternoon Tommy glanced through the morning papers, didn't see Jake's name or any out of town fight results except for a fight down in Australia. But he knew the papers usually listed only the bigger bouts. Jake wouldn't be mentioned anyway, unless he'd been in a main go.
Cork trained hard, refusing to let himself be tired. This sure proves, he thought, Arno is on the level. What a smart cookie, picking a town off TV limits—the only place a fight club can make it. Wonder how he'll build Jake up? Even if he puts me in with Jake, a main event in a hick town only means a five hundred buck purse to split. But dough don't mean a thing to Arno. He must have his angles working—perhaps this hick promoter will lure in a good welter for Jake to flatten, or I will, then we get an offer to fight here, a TV deal. But Arno will have to piece Jake off before they'll let him show here, and he said he doesn't want that. I'll have to explain to Arno about keeping Jake under wraps, not looking too great, or he'll never land us a main....
Alvin Hammer came across the floor, moving carefully between the heavy bags, by far the tallest man in the gym. He whispered like a conspirator, “Irish, anything shaking?”
Tommy had been so deep in thought as he stepped around the big bag, he hadn't seen Al. He jumped, said, “You scared the daylights out of me. Don't ever creep up on me.”
“Arno say anything new? Jake had any fights?”
“Naw,” Tommy lied.
“They'll be moving soon, old cock. You must let me or Walt know the second Jake fights, or anything new pops.”
“Sure,” Tommy said and suddenly he was full of a depressing weariness, decided to call it quits for the day.
The next few days passed in the usual routine: road-work, gym, hanging around the Between Rounds Bar and chewing the fat, having supper with May as often as she could make it—yet Tommy was full of a restless tension. He'd only felt this once before, the time when May lost the baby and was in the hospital. Now he had the same feeling of waiting for something to happen, something bad. Even in his gym workouts he was listless, always tired, and the half-filled gym gave him the feeling of training in a graveyard. Although he kept pestering Bobby, and any other promoter he saw around the gym, for a bout, and tried to keep himself in shape, in case of the last-minute need for a substitute on any card. He didn't have his heart in it, felt it was hopeless.
One afternoon Walt Steiner was waiting outside the gym and the second Walt asked if anything new had come up with Jake or Arno, Tommy snapped, “Goddamit, leave me alone! You and Al keep after me and after me, even got May doing it. You think I'm a child, an idiot? If I learn anything, I'll let you know.”
Walt said, “Don't be so jumpy. I'm only trying to...”
“I know, but lay off me for a while.” Tommy suddenly landed a mock left on Walt's shoulder. “Don't pay me no mind. I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm on edge all the time.”
“Perhaps you're stale?”
Tommy's thin face brightened. “Yeah, that could be the ticket. I haven't been training this hard for a long time.”
In the hotel room, Tommy took a good hooker and stretched out on the bed. But sleep didn't come. He lay there, his mind racing; thinking of everything and nothing. When Arno came in to ask if he wanted to eat Spanish food with him for supper, Tommy said, “I haven't missed a day's training in a month now, and hitting the road every morning, I think I'm going stale. Okay if I take it easy for a few days?”
“Sure. You know all about keeping in shape. You certainly have been training faithfully and I appreciate it. Tell you what, Tommy, suppose you and I go out on the town tonight?”
“That'll be fine.”
“I'll get a couple of girls and well make the rounds of the gin mills.”
“I'm a married man. That is, skip the girls for me.” Arno gave him a fat smile. “You haven't been married long enough or you wouldn't talk like that. Okay, no gals. When we get to the top and you're fighting at the Garden, I'll show you a time on Broadway. Sure like to be in old New York City right now. Look, I'll call for you in a few hours.”
Tommy walked over to May's rooming house and left a note explaining why he couldn't have supper with her at nine. When he came back to the hotel, Arno was waiting. Tommy asked where Jake was and Arno said, “In bed. And he'd better stay there. I wish he had your determination, trained the way you do.”
Actually Tommy hadn't been in a night club more than twice in his life, he was strictly a bar man. Arno was out for a big evening and they visited several spots, watched the floor shows, drank heavily, even had pictures taken toasting each other. Arno was full of corny jokes and stories about the various cities he'd lived in—Havana, Mexico City, Los Angeles, Chicago, New York. Tommy talked about the only thing he knew, boxing... his fight with Robinson. He thought Arno was a hell of a good guy and several times was on the verge of telling him about Alvin and his crazy suspicions.
Arno was drinking Scotch and milk and Tommy was taking his whiskey straight. By two in the morning Arno was still fairly sober while Tommy was nearly stiff. The elevator operator had to help Arno walk Tommy to his room. They dropped Cork on his bed and as Arno loosened his belt and collar, the elevator man said, “He sure is carrying a load.”
“Fighters have to unwind, I suppose,” Arno said. “We'll let him sleep it off.”
“Want me to open the window a crack?”
Arno shook his head. “No, he might catch a cold. All he needs is sleep.”
JAKE
Jake awoke when Arno shook him. It was always hard for Jake to leave sleep. Now, he sat up and thought how old Arno looked, the bloodshot eyes and nose, wrinkles in the doughy face. Then he glanced at his wrist watch, snapped, “What's the matter with you, it's only seven o'clock?”
“Get Tommy on the road. Run the hell out of him. I had him good and crocked last night. He'll want to sleep but talk him into running. He's in bad shape.” Arno yawned. “I'm beat myself. Come on, get going.”
Jake stepped out of bed, shivered with the early morning cold. As he dressed, he watched Arno slip back into the comfort of his bed. On the dresser he saw several pictures of Arno and Tommy drinking in the night spots. “You had a rough night.”
“What?” Arno mumbled, watching him through half-closed eyes.
Jake waved the pictures at him. “You're beat, huh? I bet!”
“Come on, we're on the last lap now,” Arno said, turning his back, but watching Jake in the dressing mirror, “so stop being a dummy. Those photos are a little insurance, in case anything goes wrong, just in case, they're proof of what great pals Tommy and I were. Get going!”
TOMMY
Tommy was sprawled across the bed, still wearing his clothes, including his overcoat and shoes. When Jake shook him Tommy moaned, “Go way.”
“Wake up, Pops.” Jake slapped his face.
Tommy sat up slowly, rubbing his cheek, blinking and trying to swallow the thick taste in his mouth.
Jake was dressed for the road and said, “Come on to the park with me. I don't like to run alone.”
“Not this morning.”
Jake laughed. “Your room smells like an old bottle. Look at you, didn't even undress. I see you're training to be a champ—a champ rummy. I warned Arno you'd never snap out of the bottle. Go back to sleeping it off, old man.” Jake started for the door.
Tommy struggled out of bed. “I'll meet you in the lobby in ten minutes.” Tommy rushed to the bathroom and before he left his room, took a nip to “quiet” his stomach.
They took a long run, Jake full of pep and sarcasm.
Tommy kept up with him, his head hurting. He felt exhausted. When they returned to the hotel Tommy breakfasted on a pint of milk and went right to bed. A few minutes later Arno came into his room and asked, “How do you feel after last night?”
“Okay.” Tommy wondered how long he'd slept, didn't know it had been only a few minutes.
“How about sparring a few rounds with Jake? I know you want to take the day off, but just a few rounds. I can't use any other sparring partners—you know.”
“My stomach is kind of upset. I was on the road this morning and...”
Arno's round face showed mild horror. “After last night? What did you run for?”
“I don't know,” Tommy said, trying to collect his thoughts. “Jake asked me to and I did.”
“I want to keep Jake sharp, but we'll skip the sparring. You get your rest.”
“No, no, I'm okay,” Tommy said. “I'll get my things from the gym and meet you guys uptown.”
“Well, if you think you're up to it....”
Tommy grinned. “I'm fine. How soon you want me up there?”
“At noon. And remember, not a word—you know.”
He and Jake went six fast rounds. Tommy was sober and the exercise seemed to give him pep. He jabbed and out-boxed Jake in the early rounds, but began to tire fast after the third round. Arno called out, “Take it easy, Jake,” and Jake never tried to hit Tommy's face, but gave him a hard body pounding. After the fourth round Arno told Tommy, “You'd better knock off for the day. I'll have Jake shadow-box the next couple of rounds.”
“Don't worry about me. I'm feeling fine,” Tommy said, not wanting to admit he was bushed. “I'll go another two rounds.”
After the workout, his body sore, he nearly went to sleep on the rubbing table. Arno asked if his stomach was still acting up and took him to a bar for blackberry brandy and a few drinks.
May was off at six that night and when they met in the cafeteria she sniffed after his kiss, said, “You've been boozing again.”
“Arno took me on the town last night. I told you he's a pal. I bet he spent at least fifty bucks and...”
“I don't care what he spent. Look at you, all pale. You need a good bowl of soup.”
“I don't want any food,” Tommy said, nearly throwing up at the thought. “And stop lecturing me. I've been training so hard I'm stale, needed a few shots. Get a good night's sleep and I'll be tip-top.”
But May kept nagging him about drinking and when was he going to quit Arno. And Tommy was relieved when she said she had a date with Ruth that night. Something about a story Ruth was doing. May was to talk into a tape recorder, or something. May wasn't sure what it was all about. She wanted Tommy to come along, since Ruth wanted to have May talk about the “old days,” but he begged off. After he promised to eat a “decent” meal before going to sleep, she left him.
Tommy stopped for a few beers, still feeling giddy with tiredness, and when he got to his room and undressed, Arno came in with a bottle and they had a few drinks. Arno told Tommy to get some sleep and he'd leave the bottle on the bed table.
Tommy was so overtired he took a few big belts and finished the bottle. The next thing he knew it was noon and the sun streaming through the window was sickly hot on his face. Arno was grinning down at him, fully dressed. Jake was leaning against the door. Arno said, “Get your things on, Tommy. We're leaving town.”
“W-what for?” Tommy's head was full of sickly cobwebs and he kept his hands under the covers because he knew he had the shakes.
“I got a phone call this morning. We got us a fight for tomorrow.”
“Us...me?”
Arno nodded.
“Where?”
“Out of town. Don't worry about the details.”
Tommy tried hard to gather his drunken thoughts.
“I'm not in...”
“You'll be fine by tomorrow. And you don't have to be in shape for this one.” Arno winked at Tommy and put a finger across his lips as he motioned with his head toward the door and Jake.
“Okay... but...”
“But what?” Arno asked abruptly.
“I thought we'd wait for a main event?”
In what was either a whisper or merely keeping his voice low, Arno bent over and told Tommy, “This matchmaker is very hot for Jake, so I figure at this stage, why risk anything going wrong? What if they throw Jake in with a guy who holds all night, and the fight is a stinker? The promoter won't be keen to have Jake back again. We clinch it by you taking a dive—make it look like a fast, clean kayo, in the first round. Then you can claim you never had a chance to get started, ask for a return bout. Perhaps you'll floor Jake first, then he gets up and you dive—slambang stuff. Make the return go a main event. We have a long drive ahead of us.-We'll iron out the details.”
Tommy took a quick cold shower, tried to think straight— with his mind still clogged with drunken slush. “Why the whispering act?” he asked himself. “Jake has to be in on this. Or was Arno whispering? Maybe my ears are foggy. “I'll be seeing pink leprechauns next. And maybe this is it, like Walt warned me? Now why think like that? Doesn't it also show Arno really had a plan all the time, like he said? Sure, after feeling so low, resting my luck, now it's working for me again. Damn, cold water feels good, stopped the shakes.”
He dressed and as he was packing his bag he said, “I'll have to go by the gym and get my ring stuff.”
“You have your shoes and protector from sparring with Jake yesterday. I've bought you a set of new trunks. No time to waste, have to be up there to close the deal.”
Tommy nodded, suspicion flooding his hazy mind. Still, trunks were only a few bucks and if they really were in a hurry.... The rough knot of tension inside him began to slowly uncoil. Closing his bag, he asked, “Have we time to grab a bite?”
“We'll stop on the road for chow, Pops,” Jake said.
Tommy tried again to clear his mind of sudden doubt. Was it his imagination or was Jake really nervous? Why be on edge for a fight which was in the bag? And why hadn't Arno closed the deal over the phone? This wasn't any last minute substitution, why all the big hurry? But then, some things couldn't be said over the phone.
Now I'm in a fine spot, Tommy thought. If I don't call them—when they learn I've battled Jake—Walt and Al will be sore as boils. At the same time, I don't want them spoiling this payday for me. Hell, they have been good friends. What harm can phoning them do? I'll be in a big rush and they'll sputter, over the phone, and I'll have kept my end. What the devil was Walt's number? I can phone May. No, she won't be on the job yet. And I don't want to hear her crying. Hell with it.
But as he was closing the door, Tommy told them, “Say, I got to make a call. Only take a second. My bookie owes me a few bucks and I want to tell him I won't be around, to hold it. I'll stop at the cigar store in the lobby and...”
Arno pushed the door back, pointed to the hotel phone on the table. “You might as well make it now. But be quick.”
“Sure,” Tommy said, sorry he'd started the whole thing, suspicion rising strong within him again. And it would certainly sound 'funny' to Arno if he called a precinct house or a TV office now, with them listening. But why where they listening? Aw, here I go again, jittery as a kid having his first bout. The phone is right here, so Arno says make the call here. What's wrong with that?
He told the operator, “Let me have the number of a magazine called the Make-Up Age.” Tommy grinned at Arno over the receiver. “My bookie is sharp, uses this for a front— gets all his calls through his wife.”
“That won't save him if the cops are out to bust him,” Arno said. “All these bright slobs who think...”
“What are we standing around and gassing so much for?” Jake asked, his voice practically a growl.
Tommy held up a hand for silence, asked for Ruth and told her, “This is Tommy Cork. Please tell your husband I'm leaving town for a few days, to hold my back pay for me. He'll know what it's all about.”
“To
mmy, what is it?” Ruth asked. “Can you talk? Where are you going? Are you boxing?”
“Just tell him I'll be out of town on business and not to give my dough to anybody until I come back. Good-bye.”
Downstairs, as they got into the flashy car, Arno asked Tommy, “Want to drive?”
“Sure. Where?”
“Get on the parkway and head upstate. I'll take over the wheel later. We have a good six hour drive ahead of us. Want some mint toffee?”