by Brad Smith
None of this touched T-Bone Pike this day. He was hurrying now, tying his shoes and taking his jacket from the hook on the wall, nodding to Mac Brady as he went out the door, past the ring and the mats, around the heavy bag, and through the scarred wooden door and onto the sidewalk where he began to walk in long strides, not feeling like an old man now, hurrying for the Jasper Hotel where he hoped he would find his friend Thomas Cochrane.
Back in the gym, Tony Broad was after Mac Brady for a little information.
“So who you gonna fight — the Polack or Cochrane?”
Mac looked Tony over. “Cochrane,” he said.
“Does he know it?”
“Not yet. But it’s as good as done. It’ll take a week or so to sign him, but Tommy’s going to fight. He’ll have no choice, because I’ve got something he wants. I’ve got his farm.”
“You’ve got his farm?”
“In a manner of speaking, I do,” Mac said. “You see, I understand Tommy Cochrane — he’s a straight-ahead, stubborn son of a bitch, but he’s smart enough to recognize facts when he’s faced with them. He’s got no choice but to fight.”
Tony Broad was turning it over in his mind, wondering if there was a dollar with his name on it somewhere in all of this.
“You got the dough?” he asked.
“Now why would you ask a question like that?” Mac asked. “You looking for something?”
Always, Tony Broad thought to himself. “Let me know what happens,” he said to Mac. “I’ve always got an eye out for a good investment. Tell the kid to enjoy the movies.”
“Sure,” Mac said. “He’s out running, I’ll tell him when he gets back.”
When Tony Broad was gone, Mac went out into the gym to find Bert Tigers, the trainer. Bert was working with a young welter, a cream puff who couldn’t punch a hole in a cloud of smoke, and whose only chance to win a fight would be if his opponent dropped dead of a stroke during the ring announcements. Still, the kid’s old man was paying Bert Tigers twenty dollars a day to teach his kid how to box, and Bert was collecting the double saw and going through the motions. Once the old man saw his kid on the deck a couple times, that would be the end of it.
“What’s with this Tony Broad?” Mac asked, walking up beside Bert. The kid was skipping rope like some schoolgirl.
“Beats me,” Bert said. “I only seen him around the last month or so. He’s from the States, I hear. Claims he makes beaver movies, that’s the story.”
“So I’ve heard,” Mac said. “Keep on eye on him, Bert. He’s a little too slippery for my liking. Son of a bitch reminds me of myself when I was younger.”
Bert stone-eyed his boss a moment, then turned his attention back to the gangly youth tripping over the rope.
“Feet together, kid,” he called. “Feet together.”
When Tommy Cochrane walked into the Bamboo that night, Mac Brady was already there, waiting for him at the bar. Tommy didn’t bother to wait to be invited, he just went over and sat down. Mac offered a drink and Tommy told him no.
“Somehow I figured you to show today,” Tommy said. “You’re getting awful damned predictable, Mac.”
“You get old enough, there’s no such thing as a new trick, Tommy. That’s the tragedy of life.”
“The tragedy of life,” Tommy repeated. He laughed and shook his head. When he looked up, he saw himself and Mac Brady in the mirror behind the bar, an unlikely pair, as much now as it always had been. Yet somehow they seemed to fit together, and maybe that bothered Tommy a little, but not much. He knew which one of the two he was.
“What the hell, might as well cut to it,” Mac said and he reached into a pocket and brought out an envelope. “No sense bullshitting each other. There it is, two thousand dollars.”
Because Mac Brady said there was two thousand dollars in the envelope, Tommy knew that there wasn’t. He opened the flap and counted fifty twenties inside. Then he smiled at Mac.
“I make it a thousand.”
“That’s right,” Mac agreed. “A thousand now and a thousand later, after the fight. Two grand.”
Tommy placed the envelope gingerly on the bar. “First of all, Mac — if I’m dealing with you, I get everything up front. And second of all — I’m not dealing with you.”
“What do you mean, you’re not dealing with me?” Mac asked. “You’re not being realistic, Tommy.”
“I’m not fighting, Mac. Now I’ve told you, I’ve told that pecker-head you call a fighter, I’ve told your newspaper hacks, and I’ll tell it in church if you like — I’m not fighting.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not.”
The bartender came near to freshen Mac’s drink, but Mac waved him off.
“I have information which indicates that you are in need of money,” Mac said then. “Something to do with a farm once owned by your beloved grandfather.”
“Leave my beloved grandfather out of this, Mac. My financial affairs are none of your damn business. Never were. All you need to hear from me is one word, and that word is no.”
Mac pushed his glass away and then reached reluctantly for the envelope. His jowly face was downcast, a chastised bulldog. Beside him, Tommy was enjoying the performance.
“The least you can do is tell me why not,” Mac said.
“Because I don’t want to, Mac. Do you hear me?”
“I can’t believe you’re afraid, Tommy.”
“You believe what you want.”
Mac shook his head like a man greatly confused and got to his feet. He jerked his vest over his gut with both hands and made an ineffective pass at his tie.
“How much money do you need for the farm, Tommy?” he asked.
“A million dollars, Mac.”
“Okay, Tommy,” Mac said. “If that’s the way you want it. I come here as a businessman, and all you want to do is make jokes about a million dollars. And me just trying to do you a favour.”
“Oh yeah, you’re a real philanthropist, Mac.”
“No need for name calling, Tommy.”
“See ya around, Mac.”
Bert Tigers was waiting in the car outside. Bert had a habit of popping off at the wrong time — Mac always said that Bert couldn’t get laid in a Mexican whorehouse — so Mac had made him wait in the car while he went in to talk to Tommy Cochrane. Now Mac came out of the Bamboo and got in the passenger side. It took him a moment to adjust his bulk in the seat of the Nash.
“Well?” Bert asked.
“He’ll fight.”
“That was awful goddamn easy,” Bert said. “How’d you get him to say yes?”
“He didn’t say yes. But he will, it’s just a matter of time and money.” Mac laughed. “Mostly, it’s a matter of money.”
“He’s a bullheaded mick,” Bert said. “What makes you so sure?”
Mac indicated the street with a wave of his hand. “Drive,” he said. As usual Bert pulled into traffic without looking, causing horns to blow and brakes to screech. Mac waited for things to calm down.
“I’ll tell you a story, Bert,” he said then.
“A story?” Bert asked.
“There’s this pretty girl,” Mac said, “sitting at a bar, and this guy comes up and says, ‘Will you go to bed with me for a million dollars?’
“And the girl says, ‘For a million dollars? Sure.’
“So the guy says, ‘Well, will you go to bed with me for one dollar?’
“And the girl tells him to take a hike. ‘What kind of girl do you think I am?’ she asks.
“And the guy says, ‘Hey, we’ve already established what kind of girl you are. All we’re doing now is talking price.’”
Bert Tigers didn’t have much going for him, and what he had didn’t include a sense of humour. He regarded Mac unhappily a moment and then went back to his erratic driving.
“I swear, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about sometimes,” he told Mac.
Mac sighed. “We already know what Tommy wants,�
�� he said. “All we have to do now is agree on a price.”
FOURTEEN
Tony Broad had staked his claim at the bar. He was drinking hundred proof bourbon and running his fingers over the coarse bristles of his mustache. He was watching the stage, listening to Lee Charles sing ‘Tennessee Waltz.’ He was thinking of what it was going to be like to have the smell of Lee Charles on his fingers, to have her sweet juices on his mustache, to have those tits in his mouth and in his hands.
Tonight Tony was dressed in his best pinstripe and he was wearing his stick-pin with the imitation diamond and his gold-plated cufflinks. His mustache was clipped close and his thick hair Brylcreemed back. Best of all, he had that moron Nicky Wilson sitting in a hotel room somewhere, watching third-rate stag movies and polishing his cane, no doubt.
Tony had a handful of hundred-dollar bills in his wallet, with fifty or sixty singles stuffed in between. It looked like he was carrying ten grand. It was an old trick, but then they were the tricks Tony knew.
And he had one of his famous movie contracts tucked away in his jacket. He was prepared tonight, was Tony Broad, and he took another hit of bourbon and listened as Lee Charles finished the song.
“Thank you,” Lee said from the stage when the audience had responded. “That was ‘Tennessee Waltz’ — song made famous by the renowned singer — um, Satchel Page.”
Doc said behind her, “Patti Page. It was Patti Page sang ‘Tennessee Waltz.’”
Lee turned. “You sure about that, Doc? What’d Satchel Page sing?”
Doc smiled. “‘Take Me Out To the Ballgame’ maybe?”
“Naw, that wasn’t it,” Lee said. “We better take a break and find out. We’ll ask Mel Dunston, the man knows his music.”
She came down off the stage and walked to the bar, where Tony Broad was standing. As usual, the Callahan kid was with Tony, but tonight he was hanging back a little farther than usual. A fringe player if she ever saw one, Lee thought. She pushed back her hair and said hello to Tony Broad.
“I got your note,” she said. “Thought it was a song request at first. What’s up?”
“Let me buy you a drink. Lee.”
“Sure. Rum and coke, we’ll drink a toast to Castro.”
“Who?”
Lee shook her head and smiled. “Don’t you read the papers?”
When Tony Broad paid for the drinks he left his billfold open on the bar long enough for Lee to see, then he carelessly put it away.
“I was talking to Mel Dunston,” he said, handing her the libre. “He said the gig’s going good here.”
“Mel actually admitted making money?” Lee asked. “Gotta be a blue moon.”
“He kinda let on that he was breaking even anyway,” Tony said. “What’ve you got — three more weeks?”
“Depends,” Lee said. “Maybe more.”
“You figuring on staying longer?”
Lee sipped at the cheap bar rum. “It hasn’t been offered. I’d have to think it over if it was. I mean, we’re having a good time, but I don’t know if I want to take my pension here.”
Tony adjusted his stick-pin, that gorgeous rhinestone. “What else you got in mind?”
“Nothing.”
Tony was actually getting nervous, the skin at his hairline was moist, and his pulse was racing. He took a drink of bourbon.
“Ever think about getting back into acting?”
“I just got out of it,” Lee said. “And I think I know where this conversation’s heading.”
Tony had a look that he liked to think was sincere and he tried it on Lee. “Oh no,” he said. “It’s not what you think. I have this property.”
“Yeah?” Lee said. “How many acres?”
Tony smiled. “Seriously, Lee, I’m moving away from the other stuff. This movie is experimental, there’s nothing like it out in Hollywood.”
Lee drank some rum and turned her back against the bar to look at the people sitting and eating. The joint was putting out truck-loads of food, ignorant slobs with their mouths full applauding and telling Lee what a wonderful talent she was. Thank you, ma’am, just don’t be spitting those peas at me, if you don’t mind.
“You telling me there won’t be any screwing in this movie?”
“God, but you’re the bluntest woman I ever met.”
“What do you want me to say — lovemaking?” Lee laughed. “Tell me, Mr. Movie Director, is there any lovemaking in this movie of yours?”
“Only if it falls into the context of the story.”
“Holy smokes,” Lee laughed. “You really are in the movie business. Nobody else could come up with a line of shit like that.”
“Listen to me, Lee —”
“Hey, I’m sorry, Tony, but I think you got the wrong woman here. I’m not passing judgment, you understand, it’s just that I don’t think I’d be very good at this kind of... artistic endeavour.” She laughed again, then apologized for it.
“There are girls from my films who have gone on to be very big in Hollywood,” Tony told her.
“Name one.”
“I can’t do that. Most of ’em have changed their names, and they wouldn’t appreciate me offering this kind of info around. After all, I’m a professional too.”
“Really? You belong to the director’s guild, Tony?”
“Sure.”
“Where’s your card?”
“Back at the hotel. I don’t carry it with me as a rule.”
“Why? Is it heavy?”
Tony was getting pounded and he knew it. He managed a smile. “You’re one fast dame,” he said.
Lee finished her drink.
“Listen,” Tony said quickly. “You can pick up some real easy money doing this. I know what you’re making here a week, I could give you twenty times that for one night’s work.”
“I just broke a contract, Tony.”
He was pressing and he caught himself. He fell back and leaned casually on the bar, his pudgy hand curled around his bourbon.
“It’ll be a couple weeks before we hold auditions,” he said. “Take some time and think it over.”
“You hold auditions?” Lee asked. “What do you do — rent a church basement?”
“You’re a pistol,” Tony Broad told her.
“No, my daddy was a pistol,” Lee said. “I’m a son of a gun.” And she went back to work.
When she was gone Billy Callahan moved closer; he’d been told to keep his distance while Tony talked to Lee Charles. Now he put his empty glass on the bar, a hint for Tony Broad, and moved in to lean against the railing there. He had the .44 stuck in the side waistband of his pants — out of sight but not out of mind, at least not where Billy Callahan was concerned. Since picking the pistol from the greasy linoleum of the diner he’d become a different man. He was nobody to fuck with anymore and he was looking forward to the day when people would find that out.
“So what’s Miss Hollywood got to say for herself?” he asked now.
Tony had a drink. “We’re negotiating,” he said. “The lady wants to think it over.”
“That what she said?”
“Did you ever see lips like that, Billy?” Tony asked. “A man could make a movie of those lips and nothing else. That mouth is a masterpiece on its own.”
“Aw, you just want to fuck her like everybody else,” Callahan said. “We gonna have another drink or not?”
Tony waved to Lucky Ned then turned back to the stage.
“Yeah, but I’m not like everybody else, because I’m gonna get her. What you have to learn, Billy my boy, is that everybody in the world has got something they want. All you have to do is find out what that something is, and you own that person. They’ll do anything you want. Anything.”
Callahan dunked the ice in his newly arrived drink. “What do you figure Lee Charles wants?”
“I don’t know yet,” Tony Broad said. “But there’s something she’s not telling. She’s got a smart mouth, and she acts like she don’t give a shit, but she’
s hiding something.”
“Maybe not.”
Tony looked at Callahan. “If there’s one thing I know, it’s people. Everybody’s got something eatin’ them.”
“What’s eatin’ you, Tony?”
“Right now?” Tony took a drink of bourbon and smiled at the stage. “Lee Charles.”
For a man who liked to brag that he never took no for an answer, the truth for Tony Broad was far from that. Growing up in Cleveland during the thirties, he heard the word every day. His father was an out of work railroad man, a mean drunk with no money to drink who took to imbibing wood alcohol, aftershave lotion — even melted-down 78 records when the need grew strong enough. Tony was the oldest of eight kids and when he was thirteen, his father killed his mother in a drunken fit, clubbing her to death with an axe handle. When the old man went to prison the kids were put into a home; Tony lasted maybe a month and then left forever. He hadn’t seen his brothers or sisters since. He hadn’t seen his father either, couldn’t remember what the old man looked like.
Tony became a small-time hustler, but not a good one; a petty thief who lacked nerve; a runner for bookies, pimps, and operators who needed a bum boy. Then one day he and Mike Boston hit a small studio in Philadelphia and made off with fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of film equipment, and Tony Broad became a movie maker.
It had been Mike Boston’s idea to make stag movies. He’d seen enough of the flicks to know that there wasn’t much skill and even less imagination involved. For women, they hired prostitutes and for men, whatever hard-luck kid or wise guy they could find in whatever city they were in.
One day Tony got lucky and connected with a man in Newark who offered to buy copies of whatever Tony and Mike Boston turned out. The man called himself Mr. Jones and he had a network of buyers all over North America. He was crying for new material and he didn’t give a shit about quality.