The doorway from which Spit had come was a store entrance. On the plate glass of the window were the words: FIELDS CHEQUE CASHING SERVICE. “Okay,” I said. You don’t slough off a guy like Maxie Fields down here. Not if you like being happy. Fields was the big man in the neighbourhood. Politics, gambling, shylocking—the works. He was top dog.
I remembered how envious some of the gang had been when Spit had told us that his uncle, who was a numbers runner, had talked Fields into giving him a job as an errand-boy. He had shown us his working papers proudly and bragged that he wouldn’t have to go to school any more; that some day he, like Fields, would be a big man in the neighbourhood while the rest of us would be knocking our brains out trying to make a living. I didn’t see much of him after he got the job, but when I did, I couldn’t see that he was doing so well. Like now, he was still wearing the same sloppy clothes he always wore, the saliva-stained shirt, shiny trousers, and dirty, scuffed shoes.
I followed Spit into the store and through a small room with cages in it like a bank. A man behind a cage looked at us without curiosity as we walked through a door in the back. We passed through a horse room, where a few men were standing, idly studying the big blackboard. They paid no attention to us as we went through another doorway, behind which was a stairway. I followed Spit up to the first landing, where he stopped in front of a door and knocked softly.
“Come in,” a voice roared.
Spit opened the door and walked in. I stopped dead in my tracks, blinking my eyes. I had heard about this, but I’d never really believed it. This room was out of the moving pictures, it didn’t belong in a partly condemned dump like this.
A big man with a red face, a fat stomach, and the largest shoes I ever saw came toward us. Nobody had to tell me: this was Maxie Fields. He didn’t look at me. “I thought I told yuh not to bother me, Spit,” he roared angrily.
“But, Mr. Fields,” Spit stammered, “yuh tol’ me to bring Danny Fisher here as soon as I saw him.” He turned to me. “This is him.”
Fields’s rage disappeared as quickly as it had come. “You Danny Fisher?”
I nodded.
“I’m Maxie Fields,” he said, holding out his hand.
He had a good warm grip—too warm. I didn’t like him.
He turned to Spit. “Okay, kid, beat it.”
Spit’s smile disappeared. “Yes, Mr. Fields,” he said hurriedly, and the door closed behind him.
“I wanted to meet yuh,” Fields said, walking back to the centre of the room. “I heard a lot about yuh.” He sat down heavily in a chair. “Care for a drink?” he asked casually.
“No, thanks,” I replied. Maybe this guy wasn’t so bad after all. At least he wasn’t treating me like a punk. “I got a fight tonight,” I added quickly.
Fields’s eyes sparkled. “I seen yuh last week. Yer good. Sam’s a lucky guy.”
I was surprised. “You know him?”
“I know everybody an’ everything,” he replied, smiling. “Nothin’ goes on down here that I don’t know about. There ain’t no secrets kept from Maxie Fields.”
I had heard that. Now I believed it.
He waved his hand at me. “Sit down, Danny. I want to talk to you.”
I stayed on my feet. “I gotta run, Mr. Fields. I’m late at the gym.”
“I said sit down.” His voice was friendly, but an undertone of command had come into it.
I sat down.
After watching me for a moment, he turned his head and yelled into the next room: “Ronnie! Bring me a drink!” He turned back to me. “Sure you won’t have any?”
I shook my head and smiled. No use getting him sore at me. Just then a young woman came into the room carrying a drink. I blinked my eyes again. She was out of place too. Like the apartment, she belonged uptown.
She walked over to Fields’s chair. “Here, Maxie.” She looked at me curiously.
He almost drained the glass with one draught, then he put it down and wiped his mouth on his shirt-sleeve. “Man, was I thirsty!” he announced.
I said nothing, I was watching the girl standing next to his chair. He laughed. His hand went out and patted her. “Beat it, Ronnie,” he said jovially. “Yer distractin’ my friend here an’ I wanna talk to him.”
She turned silently and left the room. I could feel my face flush, but I couldn’t take my eyes off her until the door had closed behind her. Then I looked at Fields.
He was smiling. “Yuh got good taste, kid,” he said heartily, “but yuh gotta be able to afford it. That kind of stuff sets you back twenty bucks an hour.”
My eyes widened. “Even when she’s serving drinks?” I asked.
His laughter roared in the room. When he stopped laughing, he said: “Yer okay, Danny I like yuh.”
“Thanks, Mr. Fields.”
He took another swallow of his drink. “Yuh gonna win tonight, kid?” he asked.
“I think so, Mr. Fields,” I answered, wondering what he wanted.
“I think yer gonna win too,” he said. “An’ so do a lot of people. Yuh know a lot of people down here think yer gonna take the championship.”
I smiled. Maybe my father didn’t think I was much, but a lot of other people did. “I hope they’re not wrong,” I said modestly.
“I don’t think they will be. The boys downstairs tell me they took about four grand in bets on you from the neighbourhood. That’s a lot of dough even for me to shell out, but you look like a right guy an’ I don’t mind it now that I met you.” It was a long speech for him and he finished out of breath. He picked up his glass and emptied it.
“I didn’t think you bet the little guys,” I said.
“We bet anything. That’s our business. Nothing too big, nothing too small, Fields takes ’em all.” He finished in a semi-chant, laughing.
I began to feel bewildered. What did he want me up here for? I wondered what he was getting at. I sat there silently.
Fields’s laughter stopped suddenly. He leaned forward and slapped my knee. “Yer okay, kid, an’ I like yuh.” He turned his head. “Ronnie!” he shouted. “Bring me another drink.”
The girl came back into the room carrying the drink. I watched her. She put the drink down and started from the room.
“Don’t go, baby,” Fields called her back.
She turned around in the centre of the room and looked at us.
Fields’s face leered at me. “Yuh like that, huh, kid?”
I could feel my face aflame.
He grinned. “Well, I like yuh, kid, an’ tell yuh what. You win tonight ’n’ then come back here, an’ the treat’s on me. How yuh like that?”
I gulped. I tried to speak, but the words couldn’t get past the lump in my throat. There was nothing wrong with it that I could see, but Nellie had changed a lot of things.
Fields was watching me closely. “Don’t be bashful, kid,” he grinned.
I found my voice. “No, thanks, Mr. Fields,” I stammered. “I got a girl. Besides, I’m in training.”
His voice was persuasive. “Don’t be a fool kid. It won’t kill yuh.” He turned to the girl. “Take yer dress off, Ronnie.”
“But, Max!” the girl protested.
His voice went cold and harsh. “You heard me!”
The girl shrugged her shoulders. She reached behind her and unfastened a button, and the dress slipped to the floor. Fields got out of his chair and walked over to her.
“Take a good look, kid. What d’yuh say now?”
I was on my feet, edging toward the door. Something about him scared me. “No, thanks, Mr. Fields.” My hand found the door-knob behind me. “I gotta be goin’. I’m late down at the gym.”
Fields grinned at me. “Okay, kid, if that’s the way yuh want it. But remember, the offer holds any time.”
“Thanks, Mr. Fields.” I looked at the girl. She was standing there, her face a mask. Suddenly I was sorry for her. Twenty bucks an hour was a lot of dough, but it couldn’t buy you pride. I smiled awkwardly at her.
“Goodbye, miss.”
Her face flushed suddenly and she turned away from me. I stepped outside the door and began to close it. “Goodbye, Mr. Fields,” I said.
He didn’t answer.
I shut the door quickly and ran down the steps. I was glad to get out in the street. Even the dirty streets seemed clean after being inside that room with him. But I had the feeling as I headed toward the gym that I hadn’t seen the last of Maxie Fields.
Chapter Ten
I CAME back to my corner moving stiffly, my back and sides a red, welted sheet of pain. Slowly I slumped back on the stool. I leaned forward, my mouth open, taking great gulps of air.
Zep was on his knees in front of me, pressing a damp towel to my forehead. Mr. Spritzer was massaging my side, his hands moving in a slow, circular motion.
Zep peered into my face. “Yuh all right, Danny?”
I nodded painfully. I didn’t want to speak, I had to save my breath. Something had gone wrong. This was supposed to be a cinch for me. I couldn’t understand it. According to the papers, I should have taken him by the second round, but here it was going into the third and I hadn’t been able to land one solid punch.
“He okay, Mr. Spritzer?” Zep’s voice was anxious.
Spritzer’s voice was dry. It cut through the fog that was beginning to gather in my head. “He’s okay. He’s been reading the papers too much, that’s all.”
My head snapped up. I knew what he meant. He was right, too; I had been too sure of myself. I had begun to believe everything I had read about myself. Across the ring, Passo was sitting in his corner, breathing easily and confidently, the lights shining brightly on his ebony skin.
The bell sounded and I sprang to my feet, moving toward the centre of the ring. Passo was coming toward me confidently, a sort of smile on his face. I knew the look. I had worn it many times when I knew I had the fight won. Seething anger began to surge through me. The wrong face was wearing that look tonight. I shot my right viciously.
A fountain of pain geysered through my side. I had missed and Passo caught me with a left to the kidneys. I dropped my hands to cover my side. A flashbulb exploded in my face.
I shook my head to clear it. There was blackness in front of my eyes as if I had just come from staring at the sun. A hollow sound came floating toward me. “Five!” I turned my head and looked in the direction of the sound.
The referee’s arm was going up again, his mouth shaping another word. I looked down and a dull surprise came through me. What was I doing on my hands and knees? I hadn’t fallen. I stared at the gleaming white canvas.
“Six!” A shock tore through me. He was counting me out! He couldn’t do that. I scrambled to my feet awkwardly.
The referee seized my hands and wiped my gloves off on his shirt. I could hear the crowd roaring as he stepped back. It sounded different, somehow. Tonight they weren’t yelling for me; they were yelling for Passo. They were yelling for him to finish me off.
I fell into a clinch. Passo’s body was wet with perspiration. I gasped gratefully for the moment’s respite. The referee pushed us apart.
Again a pain shot through my side, then on the other side. Passo’s dark face was dancing in front of my eyes. He was smiling. He was coming toward me. His gloves were flashing at me, tearing at me. I had to get away from them, they were cutting me into ribbons. I looked desperately toward my corner.
Zep’s eyes, wide and frightened, stared at me. I turned my head quickly back to Passo. He was swinging. The punch was coming at me, the kayo punch, I could see it. It was coming with a tantalizing slowness. A crazy fear tore through me. I had to stop it. I swung wildly, desperately at his uncovered jaw.
Suddenly Passo was falling. I stumbled toward him. The referee turned me around and pushed me toward my corner. Tears of pain were streaming down my face. I had to get out of there; I couldn’t stand any more.
Zep was coming through the ropes, grinning. I looked bewilderedly at him. What was he grinning about? It was over and I had lost. Relief came over me, I was glad it was finished. Nothing else mattered.
I lay on the dressing-table, my head cradled in my arms, feeling Spritzer’s hands moving soothingly on my back. I could feel the pain subsiding slowly and a sense of comfort coming over me. I was tired. I closed my eyes.
I heard Zep put down the bottle of rubbing alcohol, and his voice drifted toward me. “He gonna be all right. Mr. Spritzer?”
Spritzer’s hands were still kneading my back. “He’ll be okay. He’s tough an’ young an’ he’s got guts.”
I didn’t move. At least he wasn’t sore because I’d lost. There was a knock on the door and Zep opened it. I heard a heavy footstep in the room.
“Is he okay?” Sam’s voice was worried.
The trainer’s voice was flat. “He’s okay, Sam. Nothing to worry about.”
“So what happened, then?” Sam’s voice was harsh with anger. “He looked lousy out there tonight. He took a hell of a beating.”
Spritzer’s voice was patient. “Take it easy, Sam. The kid was just beginning to believe his own clippings, that’s all. He went out there thinkin’ all he had to do was look at Passo an’ it was all over.”
“But you’re supposed to keep him on edge.” Sam’s voice was still harsh.
“There’s some things even I can’t do,” Spritzer answered. “I been expectin’ this before, but from now on he’ll be all right. He learned his lesson.”
I heard Sam’s footsteps coming over to me and felt his hand rest lightly on my hand. He ruffled my hair gently. I kept my eyes closed. I began to feel good; he wasn’t angry with me.
The last trace of harshness disappeared from his voice; there was a note of pride in it now. “You see that last wallop he hit the boy? It was murder!”
“It almost was,” Spritzer replied soberly. “That boy’s jaw is broke in two places.”
I spun around on the table and sat up. They were all staring at me. “That true?” I asked.
Zep nodded his head. “I just got the word a few minutes ago, Danny.”
“Then I—I won?” I still couldn’t believe it.
Sam smiled. “Yeah, kid, you won.”
I sank slowly back on the table, but there was no triumph in me. All I could think about was what my father had said: “Go on, Killer, for a dollar you can murder all your friends.”
We stood on the corner of Delancey and Clinton Streets. It was a few minutes after midnight. The lights still shone brightly in the store windows and people still thronged the sidewalks.
“Kin yuh get home okay, Danny?” Zep asked.
“Sure I can,” I laughed. Most of the pain had gone, leaving just an aching soreness in my back and sides. “Don’t be an old woman.”
I left him on the corner and walked down Clinton Street, heading for home. I took a deep breath. It had been a close one. Mr. Spritzer had been right, though. I had been reading the papers too much. I wouldn’t after this. I turned my corner and walked toward home.
A figure came out of the shadows next to my door. “Danny!” Spit was standing there.
“What d’yuh want?” I asked impatiently. I wanted to get to bed.
“Mr. Fields wants to see yuh,” he answered.
“Tell him I can’t,” I said quickly, pushing past him. “I’ll see him some other time.”
Spit’s hand caught at my arm. “Yuh better come, Danny,” he said. “Fields is no guy to give the brush. He might take a notion to make it tough for yuh.” Spit’s eyes were blinking rapidly, as they always did when he was excited. “You’d better come,’ he repeated.
I thought for a moment. Spit was right. You didn’t stall when Maxie Fields sent for you. I had to go, but I would only spend a few minutes and then get out. “Okay,” I said gruffly.
I followed Spit back around the corner. At the doorway next to Fields’s store Spit took a key out of his pocket and opened the door. I followed him into the hallway.
He turned to me and held out the key. “
Go on upstairs,” he said. “You know the door.”
I looked at the key, then at him. “Ain’t yuh comin’ along?”
He shook his head. “No. He said he wanted to see yuh alone. Don’t ring; the key’ll let yuh in.” He pressed the key quickly into my hand and vanished out into the street.
I stared after him and then looked down at the key in my hand. It twinkled brightly in the hall light. I took a deep breath and slowly began to climb the stairs.
The key worked smoothly in the lock and the door swung open with hardly a sound. I stood in the doorway looking into the room. It was empty.
I stepped in leaving the door open behind me. “Mr. Fields!” I called. “I’m here, Danny Fisher. You wanted to see me?”
The door on the other side of the room opened and the girl I had seen earlier in the day came out. “Close the door, Danny,” she said quietly. “You’ll wake the neighbours.”
Automatically I shut the door. “Where’s Mr. Fields?” I asked. “Spit said he wanted to see me.”
There was a doubting look in her eyes. “Is that why you came?” she asked, her disbelief echoing in her voice.
I stared back at her. Then my face flushed as I remembered Fields’s invitation. “That’s why,” I answered gruffly. “Where is he? I want to see him and get home to bed. I’m dead tired.”
A quick smile came over her face. “You sound like you mean it.”
“Of course I mean it,” I said coldly. “Now take me to him. I want to get this over with.”
“All right,” she said. “Follow me.”
She led me through a small kitchen, past an open bathroom door and into a bedroom. She flicked on a light and gestured toward a bed. “There he is—the great Maxie Fields in all his glory!” There was a raw grating hatred in her voice.
I stared down at the bed. Fields was stretched across it, fast asleep. His shirt was open to the waist exposing the heavy mass of black hair on his chest. He was breathing heavily, one arm thrown across his face. There was strong reek of liquor in the room.
A Stone for Danny Fisher (1952) Page 17