by Brad Smith
For Tony’s part, he always found a kid like Callahan as he moved from city to city. Somebody tough and ruthless and poor, who didn’t know a line of bullshit when it was handed him. Somebody anxious to get ahead in the world without asking a lot of questions. And Tony Broad liked to have a roughneck nearby because Tony sometimes rubbed people the wrong way and he preferred to have someone around to watch his back and, if necessary, fight his battles for him. Because, as Tony liked to boast, he was an artist, not a fighter.
This Wednesday night they were at the bar in the Blue Parrot, drinking bourbon and waiting for this dame, Lee Charles, to come out and sing. Tony Broad was standing for the drinks.
“We staying here all night?” Billy Callahan asked. “I might call my girl, tell her to come down.”
“We’re going to the fat boy’s for poker,” Tony said. “I told you that.”
“I got no money to play,” Callahan complained. “How ’bout you spot me fifty?”
“No chance, Billy. You want money, you have to earn it.”
“How do I do that?”
Tony Broad shrugged his thick shoulders. “We’ll think of something for you to do.” He had a drink and then wiped bourbon from his mustache. “Like tonight, for instance, when I’m ready to bet, you could wander around and give me a sign if you see a better hand than mine.”
Callahan was shaking his head. “Not at Ollie’s,” he said. “That fat man would snap my neck for that, you don’t know him.”
Tony Broad backed it up a little. “Hey, just putting you on, kid. I play a straight game. Tony Broad’s a winner, he doesn’t need any help. The rest of those saps need the help.”
While they were talking Nicky Wilson walked into the club, wearing a bright yellow turtleneck and black pegged pants. His blond hair was parted on the side and combed carefully back. Callahan said hello, but Wilson ignored him and settled in at the bar, next to the stage, and asked for a beer.
“Who’s the goddamn redwood?” Tony Broad asked.
“That’s Nicky Wilson, the fighter,” Callahan said. “He’s Mac Brady’s heavyweight, everybody says he’s gonna be champ someday.”
“I know Mac Brady.”
“Well, that’s his boy.”
The bartender at the Parrot was Lucky Ned — he had one eye and was missing the thumb on his left hand. When he walked down the bar with Wilson’s beer, Tony Broad flagged him down and paid for the brew. When Wilson looked over, Tony gave him the nod.
“How you doin’, kid?” he asked. “I’m a friend of Mac Brady’s. I seen you fight once, kid. I like your style.”
Nicky Wilson was the kid’s favourite subject and he moved closer. “Which fight?” he asked.
“It was in... New York.” Tony Broad was winging it now. “I can’t remember the stiff’s name. You laid him out.”
“Archie Wyatt?”
Tony snapped his fingers. “That’s who it was. At Madison Square — right?”
Nicky Wilson gave him the look. “It was the Polo Grounds.”
“That’s right, it was the Polo Grounds.” Now Tony took a chance. “But didn’t I see you fight at Madison Square?”
“Maybe last year,” Nicky said. “I knocked out Stan Swartz at the Gardens.”
“Oh, did you lay him out,” Tony said. “Ba-boom. It was a right hand, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah.” Nicky was happy. “This right hand’s got a lot of ba-boom in it. What’d you say your name was?”
“Tony Broad. This is my associate, William Callahan.”
Callahan was pleased as hell to be elevated to the role of associate. When he shook with Wilson, the kid squeezed his knuckles until Callahan thought his hand would bust. He pulled back and looked at the grin on the kid’s face. Go fuck yourself, Callahan thought, but he returned the smile.
Then Tony Broad was filling the kid Nicky with stories about the movie business and the films that he made. The kid got pretty excited and asked Tony to bring some reels down to the gym that week. As newly appointed associate, Billy Callahan decided to get in on the conversation.
“We gonna make a movie here in Toronto, Tony?” he asked.
Tony Broad took a moment to give the matter some artistic consideration. “I don’t think so,” he decided. “As a director, I’m always looking for new talent, but I haven’t seen anybody in this city that really turns my crank, know what I mean?”
“You haven’t seen Lee Charles,” Callahan said.
“I’ve seen ’em all, Billy.”
Callahan looked over at Wilson. “He knows Marilyn Monroe, personally.”
Nicky Wilson had no idea in hell who Marilyn Monroe was and he just shrugged. He took a long pull on his beer and looked at his hair in the mirror behind the bar.
“You can forget about Lee Charles,” he said. “Me and her got something going.”
“She’s your girl?”
“Good as.”
She could have been listening for her cue, because at that moment Lee Charles walked out onto the stage, with the band following. Lee was wearing a black silk dress, with her shoulders bared, and she walked directly to the microphone and began to sing ‘Please Don’t Talk About Me When I’m Gone.’
At the bar, the movie director, his associate, and the boxer fell quiet as three dimwitted church mice until she finished. Billy Callahan glanced over once and saw both Nicky Wilson and Tony Broad with their mouths open. Catching flies, Billy thought.
“I’m Lee Charles,” Lee said when she’d finished. “And this is the, uh, Blue Parrot Orchestra. Yeah, I just named ’em. We’ll be entertaining you good people tonight with some fine musical selections and some real professional-type rapport. We hope you enjoy the show. If you have any requests, just write ’em down on a piece of paper and... and give ’em to your neighbour or somebody, not me. We don’t do requests.” She glanced backstage. “Hey, just kidding, Mel.” And she swung into “Sunny Side of the Street.”
Nicky Wilson wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked over at Tony Broad. “She’s got this thing for me,” he said. “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”
Tony Broad fingered his mustache thoughtfully. “You get her between the sheets yet?”
Nicky Wilson turned those eyes of inconsistent blue on Tony.
“You watch what you say about the lady,” he ordered. “She ain’t one of your actresses, pal.”
“Hey, hey,” Tony said. “It was a joke, I meant no disrespect.”
“I don’t like that kind of joke,” the kid said. “You better remember who I am.”
“Sure, kid, sure. Let me buy you another beer.”
They listened to a couple more songs, then Tony Broad told Callahan they were going to the poker game.
“What’s the matter — you don’t like her?” Callahan asked outside.
“Like her?” Tony asked. “Jesus H. Christ — let me tell you something about Lee Charles, kid. I’m gonna put that broad in a movie, I swear by God. I’m gonna put her in a movie and I’m gonna fuck her. If it’s the last thing I do, I’m gonna fuck her.”
“What about that jerk Wilson? She’s his girl.”
“That’s what he says. A dame like that isn’t gonna waste time with a knucklehead like Wilson. He’s nothing but a fucking farm boy — strong like bull, smart like tractor. Lee Charles wants somebody with class, somebody who can give her what she wants.”
“God, she’s a gorgeous woman,” Callahan said. “We really gonna make a movie?”
“You bet,” Tony Broad said. He waved to flag down a cab. “But right now we’re gonna go make some money. Jesus, I’m hotter than a half-fucked fox in a forest fire.”
Tony Broad made it five for poker, along with Fat Ollie, Herm Bell, Danny Bonner and Mac Brady. Herm’s luck was holding — he’d had four winners at Greenwood the day before. Fat Ollie liked Herm and told him he was welcome to the Wednesday night game any time. Herm had broken a date with Sheila Mosconi — who had promised over the phone to fuck his b
rains out — to come and play cards. He’d made a date with Sheila for the following night.
“Sit on the stove and keep it warm for me,” he’d told her.
“So I got this coon name of Pike sparring with him now,” Mac
Brady was saying as Tony Broad and Callahan came in. “Went four rounds with my kid today, that was something. I tell you — you can’t hurt a darky.”
Tony and Callahan avoided eye contact with Herm and they made no mention of the earlier incident; they’d been embarrassed enough at the time.
“Tommy Cochrane’s friend, isn’t he?” Ollie asked. He was dealing seven card and drinking grape juice, still on the wagon.
“That’s him,” Mac said. “Tommy’s back in town, I spoke with him the other day. Looks like he’s finished with fighting.”
“Well, he’s smart then,” Herm said. “You hang around that game too long, you end up getting beat by bums. Look at Lamotta, look at Louis.”
“They miss the spotlight,” Tony Broad said, sitting down and taking a mickey of bourbon from his jacket. “It’s the same in my business, everybody wants to live forever. I wish I had a nickel for every dame who’s begged me to put her in a movie.”
“Yeah — but what can you buy for ten cents these days?” Herm asked, and Tony Broad snapped him a look.
“King bets,” Ollie said.
Danny Bonner bet a deuce, and the table called. Fat Ollie delivered again.
“But it would be nice,” Mac Brady said, looking at a one-eyed jack, “if Tommy Cochrane would fight one more time. I made a phone call to New York today, and it seems that Tommy is still ranked — number nine. A fight with Tommy Cochrane would fire my boy right into the top ten.”
“If he won the fight,” Danny Bonner said.
“Oh, he’d win the fight,” Mac said. “I’ve always liked Tommy Cochrane, but in his prime he couldn’t handle the Nick, the kid’s got too much pop. And if I can get him ranked, I’m betting I could set something up with Patterson’s people. To them, Nicky Wilson’s just a nobody from nowhere, easy money.”
“You gonna bet those sevens or just look at ’em?” Herm asked Tony Broad.
Herm had come to the decision that he didn’t like the acclaimed filmmaker Tony Broad. Last time, he’d been bragging on Floyd Patterson being his friend; now, with Mac Brady sitting there, he doesn’t open his mouth.
“This pair of sevens will cost you ten bucks, wise guy,” Tony said.
The bet chased Mac Brady and Fat Ollie. Bonner stayed in; Herm figured him for a king in the hole to match the one on board, and not much else. Tony Broad was either working on three sevens or already had them. Herm was sitting on a four-card straight, nine high, and open both ends. He tossed a sawbuck in the pot and waited for the sixth card.
Herm drew a jack, Danny Bonner a trey, and Tony Broad — goddamn his oily soul — caught another seven. Tony touched his mustache and looked across the table to Herm, who had to be thinking four of a kind now.
Then Herm remembered that Fat Ollie had folded the seven of clubs — he recalled the card because it had been part of a three flush, possible straight. Ollie’s discarded hand was lying on the table at Tony Broad’s elbow. Herm reached over and swept it away.
“You got a problem?” Tony Broad asked.
“Just keeping the table neat.”
“Twenty dollars,” Tony Broad said.
Herm looked over at Tony’s hand. There was still the possibility of a full house. Danny Bonner folded and Herm threw a twenty into the pot.
Fat Ollie dealt the down card. Herm knew by the way Tony Broad went after the hole card that he was still looking for his tight. Herm flipped the corner of his own and saw the five of hearts, filling his straight.
“Sevens bet,” he said.
Herm watched for hesitation in Tony Broad’s eyes, and he saw it — a flash, maybe a tenth of a second — and Herm knew there was no full house. Then Tony came at him with a smile.
“Twenty dollars,” he said. “No, make it thirty.”
“Make it fifty.” Herm gave him the smile right back.
“Who is this fucking guy?” Tony Broad asked and he looked around the table. “Whoever taught him how to play cards? Maybe I’m holding four sevens here.”
“Bet you a hundred on the side you’re not,” Herm said. “Ollie folded the fourth seven.”
And Ollie began to laugh, his great belly bouncing with the effort.
“Fuck it,” Tony said and he folded his hand. “You got lucky on your little straight — take the money, you need it more than me.”
“Just the same, I’d like to thank you for contributing so generously,” Herm said and he pulled in the pot.
“He’s got a habit of getting lucky at the right time,” Billy Callahan said. He was standing beside Herm all of a sudden, up on the balls of his feet, thumbs tucked in his belt.
Herm put his money aside and got to his feet. “Didn’t I see you in the pool hall today? You got a short memory.”
Without rising, Fat Ollie reached over and pulled Herm back into his chair. Then the fat man looked at Callahan.
“You want to put your mouth in this game — you put your money in this game. Right now you’re just a spectator.”
Callahan shifted his hard stare to Tony Broad, who closed his eyes in dismissal.
“Don’t be looking over there,” Ollie said. “You’re dealing with me. If you ever make a suggestion like that in my place again, you’d better be able to back it up. You understand?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“And don’t pull that hard-ass stuff on me,” Ollie advised. “This fat man has eaten a hundred punks like you for breakfast, and he still gets hungry from time to time.”
Callahan shifted his eyes. “All right.”
“All right,” Fat Ollie said and he let it go.
Danny Bonner wasn’t much for trouble and he switched the subject right away. “How old is this kid of yours, Mr. Brady?” Danny figured Mac Brady to be some sort of legend — Mac had led him to believe as much — and as such deserved a certain respect.
“Just twenty years old,” Mac said. “That’s the exciting part.”
“Why the big hurry to get him ranked?”
Mac was drinking scotch neat. He sipped from his glass and did a slow theatrical turn of the room, like a man suspicious of eavesdroppers. Mac was a master of such small drama. He set his glass aside and leaned forward over the table.
“I’ll share a little secret with you gentlemen tonight,” he began. “In the next couple of years there’s going to be a new heavyweight champion — a man who is virtually unbeatable. His name is Charley Liston, but he goes by Sonny.”
“I’ve heard of him,” Danny Bonner said. Danny read every word in the sports section, never missed a day.
“You’re one of the few then,” Mac said. “I saw this Liston fight in Miami in April. He knocked out Big Cat Williams in the second round and never raised a sweat. He took some shots from Williams that would have hospitalized most men and he never batted an eye. He’s got a shady past, so they’re giving him the shuffle right now, but sooner or later he’s going to get his shot and when he does — look out. It’s goodnight, Lucille.”
“You gonna put your boy in against this guy?” Tony Broad asked.
“I figure in a year — maybe less — Nicky will be ready for Patterson. But we have to move now — if we wait, we’re going to be dealing with Sonny Liston.”
“You’re gonna have to deal with this Liston kid anyway.”
“He’s no kid,” Mac said. “He’s pushing thirty, some say he’s older than that. Either way, we want to fight for the title before he does. Then we can put him off a couple years. By then, he’ll be slowing down and the Nick will be that much better. We want the shot now — and the way we get it is through Tommy Cochrane.”
“Tommy’s finished fighting,” Ollie said. “I got that from the source.”
Mac shrugged. “Maybe he is and maybe he isn�
�t. I hear he’s trying to raise some cash. I’m going to leave it up to him though — I have nothing but respect for Tommy Cochrane.”
Herm Bell was waiting for Tony Broad to deal the cards. He’d heard enough of this talk — if Tommy Cochrane didn’t want to fight, that was his business. They were talking about sending him in to get his head taken off by this Wilson kid; to Herm they were talking behind Tommy Cochrane’s back. Herm lost his bankroll on the fight but he still didn’t figure that Cochrane went down against Rinaldi. When you bet money, sometimes you lose. Otherwise it wouldn’t be called gambling.
“How bout we play some cards?” he suggested.
Tony Broad, deck in hand, ignored him. “What’s this other guy’s name?” he asked Mac Brady.
“Sonny Liston. Big man — big and black as a freight train.”
Tony made a show of drawing a pad from his pocket and writing the name down. “Let me know about this Cochrane deal, Mac,” he said. “I might be interested if you need some backing.”
“Deal ’em,” Herm said.
Tony Broad smiled. “This talk about fighting make you nervous?” he asked.
“Nothing you do makes me nervous.”
“Deal the cards,” Fat Ollie said, and Tony Broad dealt them.
ELEVEN
It was a long night for a man who was used to the open road, a man who wasn’t big on small talk, neckties or gladhanding with strangers. A man who didn’t, in Lee’s words, suffer fools gladly.
A man like Tommy Cochrane. He spent the evening talking to drunks and posing with the wives of drunks for a photographer Buzz Murdock had hired for the night. He even signed a few autographs. He heard a couple of women ask their husbands, just who the hell is Tommy Cochrane anyway?