Sally

by Howard Fast

  “Well, you’re shouting at me now,” she said, “aren’t you? There’s no need for that. You’re shouting at me right now.”

  “I am not shouting!” he snapped.

  Then they looked at each other with embarrassment, and Gonzalez hailed a cab and they got into the cab and they rode across town and up to Fifty-third Street and Eighth Avenue.

  CHAPTER

  6

  No. 896 Eighth Avenue was a dirty and ancient red-brick building, three stories high, on the east side of Eighth Avenue between Fifty-third and Fifty-fourth Street. Over the door, painted long ago on a piece of glass that was very dirty and faded, were the words: JOEY’S GYM AND SPORTS CENTER.

  Gonzalez read the title and wondered whether he ought to wait for the lieutenant out here on the sidewalk or go in with Sally Dillman. He was nervous about standing in the street in front of the gym. He decided that they were better off inside, and he opened the door and led the way in.

  The little hallway had the dank, dreary smell of urine and garbage—the smell Gonzalez remembered very well from his childhood and from an endless series of such doorways and halls in Spanish Harlem. There was a flight of dingy stairs, and as he went up it, giving Sally courage by holding on to her arm, he heard the dull, regular thud of a bag being punched. That surprised him since he had heard from Sally that the gym was no longer being used. In any case, it would have made sense for it not to be used now that Joey Compatra was dead.

  “How about it?” he said softly to Sally. “You told me that the gym was out of use.”

  “When I was here,” she said, shaking her head.

  They went up to the top of the stairs and he opened the door into the gym. Only a single small bulb burned in a wall bracket at the other end of the big loft. The gym was empty except for one man in shorts and undershirt who punched a bag and danced in front of it with quick, light steps. He played the bag with rhythm and precision—the way an old boxing pro does—beating a steady rat-a-tat-tat like a drum beat. Something about him was familiar to Gonzalez, something about the way he danced and moved and wove as he punched.

  “It’s all right. Come with me,” he told Sally. He led her across the gym to the boxer. The boxer was of middle size, heavy in the shoulders, still light on his feet, although he appeared to be well into middle age. He paid no attention to them, but apparently he noticed them out of the corners of his scarred, ring-torn eyes.

  Gonzalez waited until he was close to the old pug and then said, “Hello, Patsy. What are you doing here?”

  The man called Patsy stopped punching the bag and turned, gloved hand open, to examine Gonzalez and the girl. He squinted and then rubbed the back of one glove across his face as if to awaken his memory. Whatever his face might have looked like once, it was now only the mask of an old and used-up pug, flat nose, ears bunched into shapeless cauliflowers, scarred mouth and eyes, squinting eyes that looked narrowly at Sally and at the detective and then suddenly widened and gleamed with recognition.

  “Hey, Frankie,” the fighter said, grinning with pleasure. “First I didn’t recognize you, Frankie. You know the eyes ain’t no good. Nah! They say the legs go first, but the truth of it is, the eyes go first. Ah, the eyes are not much good, but I recognize you now, don’t I, Frankie?”

  “You recognize me, Patsy.” Gonzalez nodded. “What are you doing here?”

  “Shaping up, Frankie. Just shaping up.”

  “You still fighting?”

  “Ah, no, Frankie, not me. I’m no good for fighting. I’m slow. You know I can still punch a bag and I’m good for sparring. You know I hang around here and I’m waiting for Joey to come back. Whenever Joey’s here, he gives me five bucks to spar a little. That ain’t bad money. You know, five bucks—oh, what the hell, fifteen minutes’ work, a half hour. I take care of myself.”

  “You should take care of yourself, Patsy. You know you can’t stand more of this. This is a lousy game.”

  “Ah, don’t I know it, Frankie? Who knows it better than me? Hey, Frankie, you still a cop?”

  “Still a cop.”

  “Yeah—that’s how it goes. You’re still a cop. I’m still a pug. Frankie, how’s your mama?”

  “She’s fine, Patsy. You know, just the other night she asked me, ‘Where’s Patsy Mendoza? Why doesn’t he ever come around for supper?’”

  “Oh, I remember your mama’s cooking. Your mama was a great cook, a great cook, wasn’t she? How about them two sisters of yours, Frankie? You know, Millie and—and the little dark one—what’s her name?”

  “I haven’t any sisters, Patsy. You got me mixed up with someone else.”

  “No, no, I—only about the sisters, Frankie. Sure, I was thinking—you know, I was thinking of Herman Gonzalez—the one who keeps the hardware store on One Hundred Sixteenth Street. You remember Herman Gonzalez? Poor bastard—his kid—”

  “I remember,” said Gonzalez evenly. “His kid got shot by a cop. That was a lousy thing, Patsy, but it happens.”

  “I didn’t want to say nothin’ to you about it, Frankie. I mean, the way you’re a cop. Ah, there are all kinds of cops; there are all kinds of pugs.”

  “Sure. What do you know, Patsy?”

  “What do I know? That’s it, what do I know? You know I’m broke, Frankie. Look, I’m not hitting you up for a touch or nothing, but I’m so goddam broke. I try to keep in shape. It pays to keep in shape. I figure Joey’s coming back some day. He’ll give me a little sparring.”

  “Joey’s not coming back, Patsy. You know that, don’t you? You know damn well Joey’s not coming back. How do you get in here?”

  “He lets me in—the kid.”

  The old fighter began to punch the bag again. Gonzalez glanced at Sally Dillman, who was watching him, fascinated by the smoothness of his movements, by the grace of his arms and hands as they punched the bag back and forth, slapping it with a marvelous precise motion. She shook her head and said to Gonzalez, “That’s not easy, is it?”

  “No. Useless art number fourteen or something like that. It takes years to learn to slap a bag around that way and for what? Look at him, look at him! I told you I was thirty-three. How old do you think he is?”

  “I don’t know. Fifty, fifty-five?”

  “He’s twenty-nine years old,” Gonzalez said with disgust, and then snapped at the boxer, “Patsy! Lay off that goddam bag and listen to me. You know damn well that Joey’s not coming back. What kind of a line are you giving me? Who lets you in here?”

  Mendoza’s hands dropped and he looked at Gonzalez like a hurt child. “What are you saying, Frank? I’m lying to you? What do you mean I know where Joey is? I don’t know where Joey is. I’m waiting here for Joey.”

  “The gym is closed, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, that’s what it looks like. There ain’t nobody here. It looks like the gym is closed.”

  “And Joey Compatra is dead, right? You know he’s dead, don’t you, Patsy? What kind of a line are you giving me—you’re waiting for Joey? He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “What are you yelling at me like that for, Frankie?” the boxer asked plaintively. “What did I do to you, you gotta yell at me like that? Just because you’re a cop, you gotta push me around?”

  Horrified, Sally whispered to him, “Don’t, don’t, please, not any more. Don’t hurt him any more.”

  “All I want is the truth from you,” Gonzalez said angrily. “Now come on, Patsy, you know that Joey’s dead.”

  The boxer nodded as if he had just recalled something that had slipped his mind, and now he agreed with Gonzalez.

  “That’s right. You know, Frank, that’s right. Funny how it slipped my mind. Joey’s dead. Yeah. Hey, what do you think, Frank? You think with Compatra dead, they’ll ever open up this place again? You know it’s funny, I’m the only one here. There’s nobody here. It’s like the place is closed down.”

  “Must you?” Sally Dillman asked him.

  He turned to her with annoyance. “Yes, I must. What do yo
u think this is—some kind of little kid’s game? We’re playing for keeps and I must do what I have to do. Look, just let me get this over with.”

  Gonzalez took the boxer by the arm gently. “Now, Patsy, listen to me. We’re old friends, Patsy, right? In the old days, when we were kids, Patsy, I never let anyone beat you up, did I?”

  “That’s right.” The boxer nodded. “That’s right, Frankie. You was always good to me, Frankie.”

  “All right, so because I’m a cop, that doesn’t make any difference, does it, Patsy? You can trust me. Don’t you believe you can trust me?”

  “I believe I can trust you, Frankie.”

  “All right. Now you know Joey Compatra is dead, right? He was pushed over, right? He was rubbed, right?”

  “Don’t make me talk about that, Frankie, please. Please, don’t make me talk about that.”

  “Patsy, it’s important for me to know who gunned down Joey Compatra. It’s not important just in the way of being a cop and wanting to come up with a killer. You see this kid here with me?”

  “Yeah, she’s a nice kid. Is that your girl, Frankie? You going to marry her?”

  “Her name is Sally Dillman. Just a nice kid from out of town. And I want you to meet her. I want to introduce you to her very formally, see, because—well, we’re old pals, we’re old buddies from when we were kids, but she doesn’t understand exactly how that is. Now, Miss Sally Dillman, I want you to meet Patsy Mendoza. He was a friend of mine when we were kids. We grew up together on the same block, and he was a good fighter. He was maybe the best welterweight fighter in his time—when his time was. He was filled with guts and courage and great heart.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you, miss,” the boxer said. “Only don’t say all them things about me in front of me, Frankie, because it embarrasses me.”

  “I’m glad he says them about you, Mr. Mendoza,” Sally said. “I don’t think it should embarrass you. If these things are true, they shouldn’t embarrass you.”

  He held out his hand and she took it. His grip was like an iron claw over her small hand and, though she winced with pain, she did not cry out. He held on to the hand for a while—for perhaps ten seconds—before he let go of it. Behind him, facing Sally, Gonzalez nodded reassurance.

  “Now, you’ve got to stop thinking about me as a cop,” Gonzalez said, “Unless I find out who killed Joey Compatra, this girl here is in awful trouble. She could be killed. Do you understand that, Patsy? She could be killed—just the way Joey Compatra was killed.”

  “Is she your girl?”

  “No, she’s not my girl. She’s just someone I have to take care of because her life is in danger. Please, Patsy, listen to me and try to understand.”

  He nodded several times and put his hand on Gonzalez’ shoulder and patted it reassuringly. “Sure, Frankie, sure.”

  “Now you know about Compatra?”

  “He was always good to me, Frankie.”

  “Whether or not he was good to you—that isn’t the point. He’s dead now. So you know about the dead. We don’t say good and we don’t say bad. We just try to find out some facts, especially when the facts concern the living. You knew that Joey was a contract man.”

  “That’s what they said about him. But you know the way they say things. You never gotta believe what they say. Joey was always decent to me. He always gave me sparring. You know, if I was hungry, sometimes two or three days I had nothing to eat, no place to sleep, he says to me, ‘All right, sleep there.’ He takes me over to the corner, you know, he’d say, ‘Take a mat. Take a gym mat and lay down in the corner. You pay me back by sweeping out the place in the morning.’ Now that’s not such a bad guy. Right, Frankie?”

  “He’s dead. Don’t you see? You say Compatra was a friend of yours, Patsy. He’s dead. I want to find out who killed him.”

  “You know, what was someone saying—you know, someone was saying something about a month ago—about some guy who is angry at Compatra? He says Compatra gives him some kind of screwing—Jesus, I don’t know what he says. I don’t remember it so good. Oh, Jesus, my head hurts! You know, I get the worst damn headaches when I try to remember. Oh, Jesus, my head hurts!”

  He turned around and walked across the gym to a folding chair next to the ring. He sat down and put his face in his hands and moaned and whimpered softly.

  “Do you have to go after him now?” Sally asked Gonzalez.

  “Look, let me do this, huh? This is no world that you know anything about. No matter what happens today, this will never be your world. You will never understand this world because this is a stinking cesspool. But it’s my world where I earn my bread and where I got to do what I have to do. I have to do it my way—please!”

  “Well, don’t get angry at me again.”

  “I’m not getting angry at you. I just want you to understand that I got a certain kind of a job.”

  “Well, I’m trying to understand. But even if I don’t understand, do it. Why do I have to understand? Why do you need my approval?”

  Gonzalez shook his head wearily and walked over to Patsy Mendoza. He bent down to him and patted his back. “Patsy! Patsy, listen!”

  The fighter looked up and said, “You got any headache pills, Frankie?”

  “I’ll get you some headache pills, I promise you, Patsy. Try to think of what you remembered before.”

  “I can’t remember so good any more, Frankie. You know, a guy like you, he just remembers all the time. He never has any trouble remembering, but it’s hard for me to remember. It’s terribly hard. It was something about how Joey had a big contract to give out and he gave it to a guy from the West Coast—some guy from the West Coast. I don’t know his name. Maybe he was from Florida. You know, I always get the West Coast and Florida mixed up. I get them mixed up in my own mind because I fought in San Diego with Stevie Wehrenrach—was that his name? Stevie. You remember little Stevie? He was tough. He was colored. He was tough as hell. Then I fought in Florida once, and I don’t know—I see a palm tree, I don’t know if it means the West Coast or Florida. You know, I had a good time in Miami Beach. I tell you, I guess that was the best time in my life that I had there in Miami Beach. You never saw such pretty dolls, Frankie. I did an exhibition fight in one of those big hotels.”

  Gonzalez interrupted him softly. “Patsy, Patsy, try to remember. Who was the contract man from the Coast? What happened?”

  “What contract man?” Patsy asked vacantly.

  “The one who felt that Joey Compatra had taken him. Look, let me suggest the situation to you, Patsy. Just listen to me and concentrate on what I say. Joey Compatra was paid a lot of money to give out a contract, say it was three grand, so he took two grand and he put it in his own pocket and he wrote this contract for one grand. Do you see, Patsy? Maybe it was some gun from out of town. Maybe he was in New York to stay and he has to make his own score in New York. Maybe he has a big reputation in Los Angeles or in San Francisco—”

  Mendoza grinned with childish delight. “That’s right. I remember! San Francisco! He was a contract gun from San Francisco! You know something, Frankie, you know me—I’d starve to death before I’d do a thing like make evidence for a cop. But this is different. Can you imagine, Frankie? Can you imagine someone gives you a grand and they say you’re going to earn it by knocking off another human being? I don’t dig that at all. I don’t dig no world where such lice live. I done some lousy things. When you’re in the fight game, you’re in a lousy, rotten game. You know that, Frankie. But no matter how lousy rotten this game is, it’s not like you make a contract to kill a man. To kill a little kid like this who don’t know the right time. I don’t do no such thing. I would die. I wouldn’t hurt a hair on her head. You know, I used to have a little puppy dog—”

  “Patsy, Patsy, try to think! Try to think! Who was this contract man? What was his name?”

  “Mother of God, I got such a headache! You going to get me some headache pills like you promised, Frankie?”

  “
Patsy, listen. Do you suppose if you sat here for a minute or two—just quietly—you might remember something?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Good. I’m going to look through Compatra’s office. You just sit here quietly. Think a little. Don’t think too hard. But think a little, and the girl and me, we’ll go in there and see what we can find in the way of headache pills.”

  “Thanks, Frankie. I’ll do that. I’ll think hard, Frankie. I know it’s important to you, Frankie.”

  “You got any money at all?”

  “I’m broke, Frankie. I’d like to lend you some money, but I’m broke. I don’t have a nickel.”

  Gonzalez took out his money and found a ten-dollar bill and pressed it into the boxer’s hand. Mendoza peered at the bill nearsightedly.

  “This is ten.”

  “That’s right.” Gonzalez nodded.

  “I don’t need no ten spot, Frankie. You want to stand me to a meal or a beer or something, that’s O.K., but I don’t need no ten spot. You got no obligation to give me a ten spot. I’m not sparring for you or nothing.”

  “Patsy, this is from a friend. You’ll make me feel rotten if you turn down an old friend.”

  “All right.” The boxer grinned foolishly. “I’ll take it. I wouldn’t turn you down, Frankie.”

  “Good. Now put it in the pocket of your shorts.”

  The boxer nodded. Gonzalez took Sally’s arm and led her to Compatra’s office.

  “Poor man,” she said. “Poor, poor man.”

  “The world is filled with poor men. So there’s no use brooding over it. Let’s get into that office and see what’s there—headache pills and what else.”

  She swallowed her retort and followed him. The door was already open—about six inches ajar—and when Gonzalez had opened it all the way and flicked on the light switch, they saw that they were late-comers. The files were opened and scattered all over the place. Every record book, every ledger in the place had been torn into shreds. A glass vase was shattered. An ash tray had been slammed against the floor and splintered into shards of glass. A picture of a pretty girl in a gold frame had been mutilated, the frame broken, stamped under foot.