One-Eyed Jacks

by Brad Smith

  “Come on, coon,” the kid said in his ear. “You ain’t getting paid to dance.”

  “Mix it up,” Bert Tigers called from the corner. He was the kid’s trainer and he was standing by the apron with Mac Brady.

  The kid bulled T-Bone away and then came at him low, firing punches with both hands, his blond head jammed into T-Bone’s shoulder. T-Bone tried to push him off and the kid hooked him low again, a hard left that missed the genitals but caught T-Bone on the upper thigh. T-Bone two-stepped the kid around so his back was to Mac Brady and then fired a vicious uppercut to the chin; the punch snapped the kid’s mouth shut and stole his legs for a moment. Tigers called time then, and T-Bone went directly to his corner. The kid was giving him a mean eye, but T-Bone knew he wouldn’t complain any — this kid figured he was a real hard-ass and he would never admit that T-Bone had hurt him with a punch.

  T-Bone sat down alone while Bert Tigers went over the kid with a damp sponge and sage advice. Mac Brady came by to talk to T-Bone.

  “Keep the jab in his face and make him move,” he said. “The kid doesn’t know a damn thing about defence and it’s time he learned. Jab, jab. You got it?”

  “You tell your fighter to keep his hands up, Mr. Brady,” T-Bone said. “Three times he foul me that round. That how he gonna win down at the hockey gardens? And I ain’t got no cup, either, Mr. Brady. You tell him to keep ’em up.”

  “Why haven’t you got a cup?”

  “Man there say he don’t have one for T-Bone.”

  “Bert,” Mac called over to Tigers. “This man’s got no supporter — what the hell’s going on?”

  “I don’t supply equipment to every joker who walks in here,” Bert said. “Half the time I don’t get it back. I don’t know this boy from Adam.”

  “Maybe he got a cup for a white fighter,” T-Bone said.

  “Get this man a supporter,” Mac ordered. “He’s Tommy Cochrane’s friend, for Christ’s sakes.”

  T-Bone went with Bert Tigers into the dressing room and was given an ancient athletic supporter. T-Bone put the relic on and went back out to the ring, where the Wilson kid was dancing impatiently, waiting to get even.

  “You get a supporter?” Mac asked as T-Bone went through the ropes.

  “Yes sir,” T-Bone smiled. “I got me a good one. I believe it belonged to Jack Johnson.”

  The Wilson kid gave T-Bone a rough three minutes then. Whatever Bert Tigers or Mac had told him, he’d forgotten; he had revenge on his mind and he went after T-Bone like a street fighter in an alley, grabbing with his left and throwing wild right hands one after another. T-Bone circled and jabbed for a while, picking off most of the punches, but the last minute he got tired and the kid caught up to him. T-Bone went down from a wicked right hand and got to his feet and was promptly knocked down again. The second time he knew he was finished, but there was nothing on earth that would make him stay down against the snot-nosed kid and, as he got up again, Mac Brady called time.

  He walked away from the kid’s smart face and went to his corner. He sat down to get his breath. Across the ring Wilson was catching proper hell from Mac Brady and Tigers for not listening.

  After that they went a couple more rounds, but the kid did what he was told this time — worked on his defence and a little on his third-rate jab — and T-Bone had an easy enough time of it.

  The kid was popping the speed bag as T-Bone went in to shower. T-Bone took a cold shower and as he was getting dressed Mac Brady came in and handed him fifteen dollars.

  “We say ten dollars,” T-Bone said.

  “You’re getting a raise, first day on the job,” Mac said. “I liked the way you stayed with him, nobody else has done that. Can you come back tomorrow?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “What about Tommy?” Mac asked then. “What are his plans?”

  “He take a job being doorman at somethin’ called the Bamboo Club,” T-Bone said. “Start there tonight. Man gonna pay him twenty-five dollars ever’ night just to stand there and say how-do to people who come in.”

  “That’s Buzz Murdock’s place,” Mac said. “Buzz must figure Tommy never threw the Rinaldi fight.”

  “Thomas never take no dive, Mr. Brady.”

  “I never thought he did,” Mac said. “I know Tommy Cochrane.”

  “He beat hell out of Rinaldi for five rounds,” T-Bone said. “Then his legs start to go. Thomas thirty-five when he fight, Rinaldi ten years less’n that. When Thomas’s legs went, that was it. He couldn’t last past eight.”

  Mac nodded his understanding.

  “Besides, if Rinaldi s people pay Thomas all this money to fall down, then how come Thomas flat broke today and have to come to this here Toronto to try and raise money to buy his granddaddy’s farm?”

  “Tommy’s broke, is he?”

  T-Bone would divulge anything to get the stink of a fix away from his friend.

  “His purse for the Rinaldi fight, six thousand U.S. dollars,” he said. “Now he have to pay his manager, his trainer, all that training money, and the guvamint. He end up with something like two thousand. And that mostly gone now.”

  Mac took a cigarette from a gold-plated case and offered the case to T-Bone, who said no thanks.

  “Is he going to fight again, T-Bone?”

  “No sir, he ain’t,” T-Bone replied. But he had no intention of telling Mac Brady about the headaches.

  Mac lit his smoke and blew a ring into the air above him, his philosophical pose. T-Bone was dressed and ready to get out of there, but he would wait for a dismissal. After all, the man was his employer, had just given him a raise, in fact.

  “Is he still ranked, T-Bone?” Mac asked.

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” T-Bone replied. “He number seven before this las’ business. Maybe he ranked now and maybe he isn’t. He don’t care either way.”

  Mac turned and made a short move toward the door. T-Bone followed and Mac stopped. “How much did you say he needed for the farm?”

  “Five thousand dollars, Mr. Brady.” T-Bone was at the door, his old blue sweater over his shoulder.

  “My, that’s a lot of money.”

  “Yes sir, it surely is.”

  T-Bone walked to the Jasper Hotel, where he and Tommy Cochrane had taken a room. The old pickup was parked out back; they hadn’t used it since they’d arrived in the city.

  Inside Tommy was trying on a dark grey suit he’d bought that afternoon at the Sally Ann. The jacket was a little tight in the shoulders, but other than that it fit all right. And for eight bucks it was a hell of a lot cheaper than buying off the rack these days.

  “Now there’s a fine lookin’ suit,” T-Bone said when he came in. “The folks at the Bamboo Club gonna be impressed by Mr. Thomas Cochrane, for sure.”

  “Yeah, I’m a regular Clark Grable,” Tommy said. “How’d the sparring go?”

  “Dandy fine. Got me a raise already from Mr. Brady.” He sat on the bed and removed his shoes. “This Wilson a tough kid, he have old T-Bone on the canvas today. Got a right hand like a mule kick.”

  Tommy looked around in surprise. “He’s got a hell of a right hand if he put you down, Bones. Is he dirty? He looks like a dirty son of a bitch to me.”

  “He got no ring smarts, Thomas,” T-Bone said. “Just wind up and throw the Sunday punch, that all he know. Kids like that never bother T-Bone any, T-Bone can take care of himself with a kid like that. He pretty full of himself, but I expect he’ll get that knocked out of him soon enough. That Mr. Brady a nice fella though.”

  “Sometimes he is.”

  “He stand by you, Thomas, say he know you never went down in the Rinaldi fight. Say you would never do that.”

  “He should know,” Tommy said. “When I was a kid he offered me two hundred bucks to take a dive against this Indian he had — a guy named Willy Big Bear.”

  “You skin that bear, Thomas?”

  “That I did, Bones. I was just nineteen and full of piss and vinegar, thought I was Ja
ck Dempsey. But not like this Wilson kid, that moron. I had some manners, my grandfather saw to that.”

  T-Bone laid back on the bed and put his hands behind his neck. It felt good to be working again.

  “Mr. Brady want to know if you still ranked, Thomas.”

  Tommy was re-tying his tie, trying for a longer tail. Years earlier Lee had always done it for him. Recent years, he hadn’t worn a tie much. He looked at T-Bone in the mirror.

  “If he asks again, tell him no,” he said. “All he wants is to get this Wilson kid ranked. He probably figures I’m the easy way to go. Well, he can go pound salt. I don’t know what’s his big hurry anyway.”

  “I tol’ him you ain’t gonna fight no more, Thomas.”

  “Good for you, Bones. I ain’t doin’ that kid any favours, I don’t even like the smart bastard.” He gave up on the tie. “Well, I gotta go to work, I don’t want to be late first night. You gonna stick around here, Bones?”

  “Maybe. Maybe go shoot some snooker at that place you show me.”

  “Come on down to the Bamboo if you want,” Tommy said. “I’ll stand you to a drink.”

  “Ain’t no place for T-Bone Pike.”

  “Ain’t no place for me either,” Tommy said. “But I need the dough.”

  “What we going to do about that, Tommy? Ain’t both of us going to make no five thousand dollars in only one month.”

  “If I had a plan, I’d tell it to you,” Tommy said. “We’ll get together what we can and maybe we’ll fall into something. We’ll go gambling if we have to, maybe catch some luck.”

  “We gonna have to catch some big luck,” T-Bone said.

  Snooker was Herm Bell’s game of preference, but in a pinch he would play anything — eight ball, Boston, Russian billiards. This afternoon, he’d wandered into Sully’s and directly into a game of eight ball with an off-duty streetcar driver named Saunders. Reed thin and tall, Saunders was flashy on the felt; he shot with a closed bridge and a sharp eye and he was down forty dollars to Herm Bell before he realized he was in way over his head. He paid without complaint though, and promised Herm that he would beat him next time. He walked out the front door, and Herm knew it would be a long while before he’d be back.

  Herm tucked the forty into his roll, then looked about the room for a game. The snooker tables were full, save for one, and there were no players willing to take Herm on. His hot hand had been elevated from neighbourhood rumour to enter-at-your-own-risk fact.

  Herm bought a bottle of Coke from the machine and stood watching two oldtimers playing snooker. The old men were smooth as silk on the table; great shape players, they approached the game like a chess match, always planning three or four shots in advance, never leaving their opponent much when they missed. It gave Herm pleasure just to stand and watch.

  After a time the front door opened and T-Bone Pike wandered in, loose-limbed and slow, his eyes and his walk cautious to the strange surroundings. Herm looked over; it took him a moment to recall where he’d seen the man before.

  “Hello,” he said then.

  T-Bone nodded warily.

  “We met the other morning,” Herm reminded him. “Sort of. At Lem’s. I was three sheets to the wind. You were with Tommy Cochrane. T-Bone, isn’t it?”

  “Thas’ right. I didn’t get your name, sir.”

  “Herm Bell.” And Herm extended his hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Bell.”

  Herm indicated the idle table. “Play snooker?”

  “I play a little,” T-Bone said. “It depend on the stakes.”

  “Oh — we could play straight ten dollars a game,” Herm said. “Or say, fifty cents a point.”

  T-Bone smiled and threw his hands in the air. “That way out of my league, Mr. Bell. I believe I just make my way down the other end, see if I can’t scare me up a cheaper game.”

  “What do you usually play?” Herm asked.

  T-Bone ducked his head. “Penny a point.”

  Herm looked at T-bone closely; there was discolouring above his left eye and a small slit on his lip. T-Bone was still looking at the floor.

  “Penny a point it is,” Herm said. “But I’ll warn you up front — I’m hell on wheels on a snooker table.”

  “Then it best I warn you, Mr. Bell. I’m from Missouri. That the show-me state.” And T-Bone smiled.

  Herm won twelve cents on the first game. T-Bone paid from his plastic change purse then he racked the reds for another game while Herm set the colours.

  “Fat Ollie said he saw you fight before,” Herm mentioned.

  “Thas’ right. Down at the hockey gardens.”

  “He said you won.”

  “Yes sir. I won that one.”

  Herm broke the rack, made nothing.

  “So how long you known Tommy Cochrane?” Herm asked.

  “Long time,” T-Bone said and he shot a cherry in the corner. “We meet in Florida, maybe ten years back.”

  “Not in the ring?”

  “No, no,” T-Bone said and he sank the green ball. “We never fight, Thomas and me.” He looked over, then shrugged. “We just meet down there.”

  Herm let it go then. Halfway through the second game, he was down forty points. Billy Callahan and Tony Broad walked through the front door just as Herm was making a run to get back into the game.

  “It’s the poker king,” Callahan said when he saw Herm.

  Herm nodded to the pair and went back to his game. Tony Broad flicked his cigar ash toward the ashtray, missed by two feet, then stood with his legs spread, the cheap stogie clenched in his teeth.

  “Not a table to be had, Billy. We might have to toss a coupla these bums in the street.”

  Callahan laughed and then swaggered over to lean against the wall at the end of the table. Herm sank a cherry in the side, then the blue ball in the corner. After the spot, he made another cherry, then set up for the blue once more.

  “Hey Tony,” Callahan said. “You smell that?”

  “What?”

  “It smells like a gar.”

  “A cee-gar?” Tony asked on cue.

  “No, a nee-gar.”

  Herm straightened up from the table as the two men fell into gales of laughter. He glanced at T-Bone, whose eyes were hooded, watching the felt.

  “I smell a nee-gar,” Callahan said again. “Tell Sully to open a window.”

  Herm reached slowly for the chalk, looked again at T-Bone, then at Callahan. He left the blue ball alone, shot the yellow in the corner pocket instead and left the cue ball hugging the rail in front of where Billy Callahan stood. Herm walked over, glanced behind him as he lined up his next shot. Then — in a single smooth motion — he drove the fat end of the cue squarely into Callahan’s testicles. Callahan screamed in pain and dropped to his knees.

  Herm shot and missed, then turned. “Sorry about that, Callahan. I didn’t see you there.”

  “You fucking prick —” Callahan managed.

  “Hey, it was an accident,” Herm said. “I didn’t see you. Must be all this cee-gar smoke.”

  “Accident my ass,” Tony Broad said.

  Herm looked at him evenly. “These things happen,” he said. “I blame it on carelessness.”

  Tony moved to help Callahan to his feet. Eyeing Herm darkly and muttering vague threats, the two made their way to the door and out into the street.

  Herm chalked his cue, blew off the excess.

  “Your shot, T-Bone.”

  T-Bone looked over at Herm for a moment, then bent over the table and stroked a red ball into the side pocket. He took aim at the black, then straightened up.

  “You didn’t have to do that, Mr. Bell,” he said.

  Herm took a cigarette from his shirt pocket, lit it with his Zippo. He stood looking at the door for a moment, then he blew smoke into the air above his head.

  “Maybe not,” he said at length. “But then, neither did he.”

  T-Bone looked at Herm a moment, then shot carelessly and missed. He straightened agai
n.

  “I first meet Thomas Cochrane in Jacksonville,” he said. “‘Cause of this here game we playing right now. Thomas down there training for a fight, same as me, but we never know each other then. One night, I gets into a pool game in a bar with this man. We playing a five-dollar game and I’m givin him a whuppin’, won thirty, forty dollars. Now this man don’t like a coloured man to be takin his money, especially not with his friends lookin’ on. He get to drinkin’, next thing he pulls this little pistol — no bigger than your hand — little .22 pistol. He shoot me here, two times —”

  T-Bone raised his shirt to show two small round scars, just above his navel.

  “Well, that was plenty enough bein’ shot for me, so I got no choice but to fight. And I hit this man in the side of his head, and he get hurt real bad, and they operate on ’im, but he dies two days later. Now his friends say I be hittin’ on him, then he shoot me. An’ they say my hands be lethal weapons, on account of me bein’ a fighter. So next thing I in front of the jedge for murder, and in the second degree. They give me a drunkard for a lawyer, man won’t even look T-Bone in the eye. So it look real bad, then out of the blue Thomas show up. He in the bar that night, turns out, and see the whole thing. A white man talkin’ on T-Bone’s side. So they say it self-defence, and I go free. But the sheriff say to get out of Jacksonville and don’t come back and he tell Thomas the same. So we left and we ain’t been back, not so far anyway.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Herm said. “They got the death penalty in Florida?”

  “They sure enough do,” T-Bone said. “And they was gonna try it out on me. I sure felt sorry for that man that shoot me though, him with five children too.”

  “Well, you’re a forgiving son of a gun,” Herm laughed.

  “Like the Bible says.”

  “So you and Tommy been friends ever since,” Herm said then. “He the best friend I have on this earth, Mr. Bell. He never treat me like a nigger. He just treat me like a human, I guess.”

  TEN

  All over town Tony Broad had been hearing about this new singer at the Blue Parrot and, as he fancied himself a connoisseur of beautiful women, he stopped by the club Wednesday night before the card game to check things out. He had Billy Callahan with him. Callahan had been sticking pretty close to Tony Broad all week long, trying his goddamnedest to become Tony’s right-hand man. In Callahan’s limited vision, Tony was a smooth operator, a director of movies, and a guy who knew his way in the world. That Tony Broad represented class to Callahan revealed a hell of a lot more about Callahan than it did Broad.