by Jack Tunney
I walked back out to the gym in time to see Strayhan standing in the office.
“Where’d ya go?” her asked.
“Locker room,” I said. “This is my bag.”
“You shouldn’t be takin’ anythin’ out,” he said. “Once I’m done here I’m gonna clear it for the detectives to come in. They won’t like it if they think somebody was here ahead of them, removing evidence.” He reached behind him and pressed the cabinet lock back in. “There. Come on, let’s go. I’ve seen what I need to see.”
We made our way to the front door. I was hoping the cops outside wouldn’t want to see what was in my bag.
***
We made it past the cops and stopped at Cappy’s Packard. The doors were unlocked.
“You wanna take a look, right?” Strayhan asked.
“Yeah, I do.”
“I’ll hold your bag.”
I hesitated, then handed it over. I slid into the driver’s seat, opened the glove compartment and went through it. Not much beyond some old movie tickets, cigarettes, a flashlight, parking tickets, a deck of cards and hastily scribbled notes.
“Hey, I’m goin’ to the movies tonight,” Strayhan said. “Wanna go?”
“Huh?”
“The movies,” he said. “Maybe a few beers. The Barefoot Contessa with Bogie and Ava Gardner, or maybe the new Spencer Tracy western, Broken Lance?”
I closed my fist over the scribbled notes, and closed the glove compartment.
“You like Westerns? I do, but I’m really gone on Ava Gardner. Whataya say?”
“Huh?” I got out of the car.
“A movie? A few beers?”
“Um, I’ve got work to do, but maybe another time, okay?”
I had the feeling he was really disappointed by my reply.
“Yah, sure,” he said. “Another time. Look, I gotta go.” He handed me my bag. “I’ll catch you later, okay?”
“Sure.”
As he walked away, I had the feeling he’d embarrassed himself by asking me to go to a movie and get a beer. If I was right, Strayhan didn’t have many — if any — friends. But I wasn’t looking for a new friend. I was looking for whoever killed my old one.
Before leaving, I went through the front and back seat of the Packard. I couldn’t get into the trunk because I didn’t have the key and I didn’t want the cops in front of the building to see me force it. Hopefully, there was nothing important in there. Maybe I’d come back later with a flashlight and a crowbar.
***
All I knew about Candy Marquez was he hit hard, didn’t like to crowded in the ring, and worked on the docks. I took a cab to Red Hook, in South Brooklyn. The Hook was the only neighborhood in New York City with a full frontal view of the Statue of Liberty. Al Capone was born there.
Albert Anastasia, the Mafia don known as “The King of the Brooklyn Docks,” had also been well on his way to controlling the Manhattan and New Jersey docks when the government closed in on him for tax evasion and was looking to deport him. It was supposed to happen over the next view months.
I remembered Cappy saying Candy wanted to stop working at Pier 41. Stevedore work was perfect for a fighter who wanted to stay in shape. It kept your legs and arms well muscled.
I found Candy sitting on some crates with a bunch of other guys, having lunch. Most of them were eating out of metal lunch boxes or paper bags.
“Candy!”
He turned his head, looked around and spotted me. He said something to his buddies, dropped down off his crate and walked over.
“Cappy send you lookin’ for me?” he asked. “I tol’ him I hadda work till noon for the next few days.”
“You haven’t been anywhere near the gym today?” I asked. “At all?”
“No,” he said, “why?”
“There was a fire,” I said. “Cappy’s dead.”
He took a step back, as if I’d punched him.
“What?”
“Hey, Candy?” somebody yelled. “You okay? Dat guy buggin’ ya?”
He waved at the man, who then turned back to his friends.
“Wha’ hoppen?” he asked.
“Somebody killed him, and started a fire,” I said. “May or may not be the same person.”
“Madre de dios,” he whispered.
“What was goin’ on, Candy?”
“Whataya mean?”
“Why would somebody kill Cappy? Burn his place down?”
“I dunno.”
“Come on, Candy,” I said. “You’re Cappy’s only fighter—you were his only fighter. Anybody else lookin’ to sign you?”
“Um, n-no . . .”
“You sure? Maybe somebody you don’t know about?”
“If somebody offered to buy my contract from Cappy he woulda tol’ me.”
“You sure?”
“Si, I am sure.”
I took a pad and pen from my pocket.
“Write down your address for me,” I said. “I wanna be able to find you.”
He took it, scribbled something I could just barely read. He lived nearby. Probably a rooming house.
“Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”
I pocketed the notebook, turned to leave.
“Hey.”
I turned back.
“W-what I do now?”
“I don’t know, Candy.”
“How do I train? And fight?”
“You’ll have to find a new trainer.”
“C-can you help me find somebody?”
The look on his face was so lost, yet hopeful, I didn’t have the heart to tell him no.
“I’ll ask around,” I said. “See what I can find out.”
“Gracias,” he said.
I nodded and walked away.
ROUND TEN
I didn’t necessarily believe Candy when he said no other trainers were after him. Trainers were always trying to steal each other’s fighters. There just weren’t that many good fighters to go around. But I didn’t want to call him a liar to his face—not yet, anyway. Not when I had an alternative.
My friend Dick Louth, who had a New York Daily Mirror sports column called “Louth Mouth,” pretty much knew everything going on in the boxing world. I found a pay phone, dropped a nickel in, and dialed his work number from memory.
“Louth!” he barked.
“It’s Frank,” I said. “I’ll buy you a beer.”
“And food?”
“If you insist.”
“I do,” he said. “O’Brien’s. Where are you?”
“Brooklyn.”
“Meet me there in an hour.”
I hung up and headed for the subway.
***
It was rush hour if you were headed home. If you were heading into the city, like I was, it wasn’t so bad. I paid my fifteen cents for a token, dropped it into the turnstile and boarded the next train. I got off at West Twenty-Third Street and walked two blocks to O’Brien’s, which was on Eighth Avenue. Louth liked eating in Hell’s Kitchen as much as he could, because he grew up there. He just didn’t want to live there.
I was Brooklyn born and bred—except for the time I was under Father Tim’s watchful eye in Chicago—but I made it into “the city” about two days a week, sometimes more if a case took me there. The atmosphere, walking through among all those skyscrapers and trying to avoid being battered by the people walking quickly to or from work (sometimes worse than ever at lunchtime) was very different from walking in a relatively more relaxed Brooklyn.
When I walked in, Louth was already at the bar with a beer and a bowl of peanuts. As usual, he looked like somebody dumped a pile of laundry on a stool.
“Hey, Piston.”
I made the mistake early in our friendship of telling him what Father Tim used to call me. He became the only person who still called used the moniker.
I grabbed a stool next to him and ordered a Ballantine.
“I already ordered,” he said.
I grabbed the bartender and said, “Bring m
e the same.”
“Right.”
I knew Louth always ordered a steak, and the bartender knew I knew. Louth’s would come well-done, while mine would be medium rare.
“Why are you springin’ for dinner?” Louth asked.
“Because I’m gonna be pumpin’ you for information.”
“Well,” Louth said, raising his half finished beer, “you keep buyin’ and you can pump was long as you want. What’s the subject? Baseball? Football?”
“Boxing.”
“Ah,” Louth said, eyebrows raised. “My favorite.”
“Did you hear about Cappy?”
“The fire? Yeah,” he said. “A tough one. Cappy was good people. You involved?”
“I am.”
“Maybe,” Louth said, putting down his beer and taking out his pad, “I should be doing the pumping.”
“Maybe we can feed each other information, then. Tit-for-tat.”
He clicked his ballpoint and asked, “But you’re still payin’, right?”
“Yeah, I’m still payin’.”
“So, tell me what happened—”
“How about I get to ask my questions, first?”
He put his pen down on the bar and picked up his beer glass.
“Okay, shoot.”
“I’m wonderin’ if there were any other trainers tryin’ to pry Candy Marquez’s contract out of Cappy.”
“Somebody you think could have wanted Marquez’s contract badly enough to kill Cappy and burn down his gym? Or did he die in the fire?”
“He was apparently hit either just before or just after the fire. The fire investigator and detectives are working on that angle. And before you ask, we don’t know if the same person who set the fire also killed Cappy.”
“But someone did start the fire?”
“Yes.”
“So, it’s definitely arson.”
“Yes.”
Louth picked up his pen and wrote in his notebook.
“Now answer my question,” I said. “Who would kill for a fighter’s contract?”
“That would depend on the fighter,” Louth said. “Ray Robinson? I can name a dozen. Candy Marquez? I’d say no one.”
“None?”
“He’s just not good enough or important enough,” Louth said. “Not yet, anyway. How good is he?”
“He’s good, but he’s got a lot to learn.”
“And you know this how?”
“From sparrin’ with him.”
“And were you sparrin’ with him the night before the fire?”
“Yeah, I was.”
“And you didn’t see anythin’ or anyone suspicious?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“Talk to Candy?”
“I did, today. He didn’t even know Cappy was dead. I don’t think I’m gonna get anythin’ out of him until he comes to terms with the loss.”
“Unless he killed Cappy, himself.”
“And why would he do that?”
Louth shrugged, said, “Maybe there was somebody sniffin’ after his contract and Cappy wouldn’t sell.”
“I asked him if anyone had come around lookin’, but he said no.”
“Which is what he’d say if he was the killer.”
“I suppose . . .”
“Did he look properly shocked when you told him Cappy was dead?”
“I thought so at the time.”
“And now?”
“I dunno,” I said. “I’m gonna have to talk to him again. But first you’re gonna have to tell me who you think was after his contract.”
“I told you,” Louth said. “I don’t know who’d want Candy Marquez’s contract. He’s not on anybody’s radar, yet.”
“Then tell me who the best judge of young talent would be.”
“Other than Cappy?” Louth asked. “That’d be Eddie Lonigan.”
“Lonigan? He’s the biggest promoter in the business,” I said.
“Yeah, he is, which is why I don’t think he’d be after Marquez, not at this point in his career,” Louth said. “Have you considered this might have been personal? Somebody with an old grudge against Cappy?”
“I have considered it,” I said, “I just haven’t had a chance to look in that direction.”
“Well, brother,” Louth said, removing his hands from the bar so the bartender could put down his steaming plate, “maybe you better start lookin’.”
ROUND ELEVEN
I don’t like Manhattan very much. I find the people there phony. That’s why I didn‘t go there very often, except on business . . . or to see April.
The Leopard Club is a cheap knockoff of more successful venues like the Stork Club and the Cotton Club. This year it was on 33rd and Eighth and had a tacky neon Leopard over the door. I went inside and waved to the hat check girl, who knew me from other visits even though I never wore a hat.
The inside was all black chairs, white tablecloths, and harsh lighting, which didn’t go down until the show started. The show that week—and much of the time—was April Elkins. April was thirty, talented in a limited sort of way, but pretty enough to almost make the difference.
We’d met some years ago, but it was three months ago, while I was on the case of a missing girl, that we reconnected and she invited me in to hear her sing. Since then we’d been seeing each other on-and-off because neither of us was ready to commit to one person. Being young and living in New York was just too tempting, and we each knew ourselves well enough to know we weren’t temptation free, yet.
At her age, the Leopard Club was her last chance. She’d auditioned all over town, and finally worked her way down to the Leopard. Now, her only chance was to keep performing and hope someone would come into the club and “discover” her. With a club like the Leopard, the chance was very small, but it was the only one she had.
One of the bouncers waved at me and allowed me to go backstage. I made my way to the dressing room April shared with several other girls, and knocked. A bare-breasted blonde opened the door.
“Hey, Frankie,” she said. “Come on in.”
“Thanks, Cricket.”
I entered and closed the door behind me. The only other girl in the room beside the semi-nude Cricket was April. She was sitting at a dressing table in front of a mirror surrounded by light bulbs.
“Hey, sweetie,” she said, into the mirror. “You just made it for my last set.”
Cricket went back to her own table and sat down.
“Cricket,” April said, in a scolding manner, “man in the room, cover ‘em up, hon.”
Cricket sighed, took a silk robe from the back of her chair and slipped into it. Still distracting.
April was wearing a blue, off the shoulder gown and was busy piling her black hair up over her head. She had Linda Darnell’s face on top of Mamie Van Doren’s body, which was part of the reason she got work.
When she was done she jumped up from her chair, turned and posed.
“How do I look?”
“Great!”
She came over to hug me, then pulled back.
“You smell like smoke. No, like fire.”
“Yeah, well, I was in one, sort of. That’s why I’m here. I’ve got something to tell you.”
“Is it important? I have to go on—“
“it’s important,” I said. “It’s about your father.” Oh yeah, I didn’t mention that. April was Cappy’s daughter. They didn’t get along, though. It was an old grudge having to do with the way Cappy treated April’s mother. That was why April used her mother’s maiden name. But even though they hadn’t spoken in years, he was still her father.
“I’m really not intere3sted in anything that has to do with my father,” she said, backing away from me.
“Honey . . . he’s dead.”
She stared at me with no expression. Her eyes were cold.
“How?”
“In a fire. His gym. But he was murdered before the fire was set.”
“And you’re working on the
murder?”
“Yes,” I said, “well, me and the police. Also, I was there. I ran in to try and find him.”
“I wondered why you didn’t come by last night,” she said. “I’m so sorry, I know you were friends, but that was a crazy thing to do, running into a fire like that. Are you all right?”
“A little smoke in my eyes and my lungs, but I’m okay,” I assured her.
“Good. Well, I’ve got to go out and do my set, but let’s have something to eat after, okay?”
“Sure,” I said. “Do ‘Someone To Watch Over Me,’ will ya?”
She touched my cheek and said, “Just for you, baby.”
She walked to the door. Before she was out of the room Cricket sidled up to me and said, “That was an odd reaction to hearin’ that her father was dead.”
“Has she ever talked to you about him?”
‘No, she’s never even mentioned him.”
“Well, there you go,” I said. “That’s why.”
She leaned in and sniffed me.
“I like a man who smells like smoke.”
“Down, Cricket,” April said.
Cricket made a face, shrugged, and went back to her table.
***
I woke the next morning in April’s bed. She was lying with her back to me, the sheet thrown off during the night. I traced the lovely line of her back with my eyes. Her skin was pale and smooth. I reached over and ran my finger down the center of her back.
“Mmmm,” she said. “Not now, baby, I still gotta get some sleep. You wore me out last night.”
The truth was we’d made love briefly when we got in, and when I came back from showering, she was fast asleep already. Maybe the bloom was off the rose of our relationship, but I didn’t have the time to think about it, at the moment.
I grabbed the sheet and covered her with it, then kissed her on the shoulder.
“I gotta go,” I said. “I’ll call you later.”
“Okay.”
I ‘d put on the same clothes I’d worn the night before. They did smell a bit like smoke from the short time Strayhan and I had been in the burnt out hulk of Cappy’s gym. Luckily, April hadn’t had to smell me fresh from the fire the night before.
I left and stopped at a Choc Full O’Nuts for breakfast. Best cup of coffee thirty-five cents could buy.