One-Eyed Jacks

by Brad Smith

  “Tommy’s smart though,” somebody else said.

  “If he was smart, he wouldn’t be fighting Nicky Wilson.”

  After a while Herm went out and strolled down to the paddock where Red Lamare, who’d been Frank Bell’s best friend, was watching a grey gelding walk.

  “Hi, Red.”

  “Lookit this horse, Herm,” Red said. “I can’t let this horse run on that tendon. How can I let this horse run on that tendon?”

  To Herm there was nothing wrong with the tendon, but he knew that there was, because Red had said so.

  “I don’t know,” Herm said. “Don’t let him run.”

  “Ha,” Red told him. “I have to let him run, on account the owner says so. His wife’s family is up from Montreal and he wants to show off, big thoroughbred owner and all. Dumb son of a bitch, the horse’ll run last, maybe cripple itself doin’ it.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” Herm said. “That cuts one field for me anyway.”

  “Think about the horses, Herm,” Red said. “Didn’t your father teach you nothing? You have to care about the animals.”

  “My father cared too much about the animals, that’s what he taught me.”

  Red shook his head — the hair white now, the nickname still Red — and leaned his small hands against the top rail of the paddock fence. “Well, this horse is not running today. Not with me as trainer. I’ve quit better people than this asshole before, and I’ll do it again.”

  “You got a tip for me today, Red?”

  “Yeah, always be your own boss.”

  Herm left him there and went out and had a terrible day at the wickets. He stayed for nine races and never cashed a ticket, never really came close until the ninth, when he put fifty to win on the favourite, figuring to double up before leaving — that at least — and got beat by a photo. He took a streetcar into town and went to the Rooster for a beer. Herm never drank at the Rooster and he hoped that he wouldn’t see anybody he knew there. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation.

  He stood at the bar and drank a pair of draught, taking them down slow, drinking just for the drinking, not for the taste or the effect or the companionship of the hops. When he was empty he called to the bartender for two more.

  “How do you like this new draught?” the man asked. “Gold Label.”

  “Just set ’em up,” Herm said. “It’s no different than any other beer.”

  The bartender placed the beer on the bar. “Ain’t you the friendly bastard.”

  “What I am is none of your fucking business,” Herm said. “I ain’t looking for conversation, bub.”

  “Too bad,” the bartender said. “You’re a joy to talk to.” He walked away and picked up a cloth to wipe clean some drink glasses, a real bartender’s move. Herm stood with his fresh draught and thought about this lousy Monday. The money didn’t bother him, never had. But he wondered if the streak had run its course.

  And he was wondering about Tommy Cochrane too — if he was going to be alive when Monday rolled around again.

  When Lee Charles walked in, Herm was glad to see her. Of course, any man with the strength to blink would be glad to see Lee Charles, but it was different with Herm today. She was looking about the room as she came over to say hello.

  “I’m supposed to meet a friend,” she said. “Patty Simmons — you know her?”

  Herm said that he didn’t. He offered to buy Lee a drink while she waited, and she asked for a beer.

  “I’m damn sorry about that race the other day,” Herm said. “I was pulling for Tommy to get his farm.”

  “Well, he’s not sore, if that’s what you think,” Lee assured him. “He went in with his eyes open.”

  “So now he’s going to fight.”

  “I guess he is.” There was something about the kid’s tone though, and Lee looked at the green eyes beneath the pompadour and in a moment she knew.

  “He told you.”

  Herm put away his third draught and reached for number four. “Yeah, he told me. I didn’t know he told you.”

  “I heard from T-Bone.”

  Herm looked at her. “So you’re going to spend the next week holding your breath.”

  “I’m going to spend the next week trying to raise five thousand dollars. He can’t fight, that’s all there is to it.”

  “You got any ideas?”

  Lee shook her head. “I asked my mother for a loan, and she laughed at me.” She took a drink. “At least, she claims to be my mother. Be nice to find out different someday.”

  “Close family.”

  “You got it.”

  The front door opened and Howard Coulter — Lee’s luck running today — came in. In a moment he was beside her, eyeing Herm suspiciously and whispering sweet shit in Lee’s ear. At first she was polite.

  “For God’s sakes, just tell me,” he said, his breath too close on her neck. “What can I do to make you happy?”

  “You can fuck off,” she said, loud enough.

  Howard stole a look at Herm and then followed the advice.

  “Problem?” Herm asked.

  Lee shook her head. “Some guy I held hands with once — hundred years ago.”

  Patty came in then, and Lee waved to her. “See you later,” she said to Herm. “Thanks for the beer.”

  “What’re you gonna do?” he asked.

  “I got a hole card, but not a good one,” she told him. “I’m going to talk to Mel Dunston at the Parrot, see if I can swing something long term with him.”

  “What’s your chances?”

  “Shit,” Lee said. “You thought the ponies were a long shot — you don’t know Mel Dunston.”

  She went off to join her friend at a table. The bartender came by. “Another draught, chief?”

  “I’m going to the Bamboo,” Herm told him. “This beer is horse piss.”

  Billy Callahan waited in the shadows in the alley behind the Old Kentucky Tavern long enough to smoke a cigarette. The light from the window above him came from the manager’s office. At least Callahan was pretty sure of the fact; it may have come from the dames’ washroom, in which case the next window over was the manager’s. Either way, he was pretty close.

  He smoked his Export down to a nub, then turned his watch to the light. Ten past twelve. Any stragglers would be gone by now. He grabbed the knob on the rear door and it turned in his hand. Security wasn’t a priority at the Old Kentucky.

  He checked the load in his pistol and walked right in, down the short hallway, past the washrooms and into the office, where Harold Stedman was sitting at a desk, counting receipts and writing lies in his ledger.

  Young Billy came into the room like Eliot Ness on the television, feet spread apart, both hands on the pistol, barrel at eye level.

  “Stand and deliver,” he said, a line he’d long admired.

  “What?” Harry the Horse asked.

  “The money, you old fuck. This is a heist — what’d ya think?”

  Billy took a cloth sack from his coat pocket and tossed it on the desk. “Put it in the bag.”

  Harry shook his head and began to stuff the cash inside.

  “You might as well hit the newspaper stand as hit me,” he said. “You think you’re making a score here?”

  “Shut up,” Billy told him. He’d been expecting the old man to show some fear. “I’ll shoot you,” he reminded Harry.

  “Go ahead.”

  “You’re one brave son of a bitch,” Billy said. “Talking to me like that.”

  Harry threw the bag on the desk and motioned to it with his chin.

  “I don’t have to be brave,” he said. “You got nothin’ I’m scared of. The worst you can do is shoot me and that’d just be doing me a favour.”

  Billy put the sack inside his coat. Then he just stood there; he was green at this and he didn’t know what to do next. It seemed though that there was something he should say or do before taking his leave. Like Cagney in the movies. Top of the world, ma.

  He point
ed the gun at the manager again. “You better forget my face, pops. If you know what’s good for you.”

  Harry stood up and showed his long yellow teeth. “Go fuck yourself, punk. I’ll forget your face all right. Just like everybody else who’s ever met you. You’re just a piece of shit and you’ll end up face down in the alley soon enough without my help. Now get the fuck out of here.”

  Harry the Horse was no gelding anyway. Billy bounced on the balls of his feet a moment, weighing what the little man had said. Then he leaned over and whipped the barrel of the gun across Harry’s face, opening a gash there and knocking Harry back into his chair.

  “Take that in the alley,” Billy said and he left.

  Outside he began to run, through the parking lot and out onto Montague Street. On the sidewalk he forced himself to slow to a walk, his hands in his pockets, hat pulled low. Any cop driving by would have pulled him in on looks alone.

  He made it to Tony Broad’s hotel on Isabella, walked past the desk clerk, who knew his face by now, and went up to Tony’s room on the third floor. Tony was sitting on the bed, with bourbon in a pint and the radio on. Billy Callahan was laughing as he came through the door.

  “Piece of cake,” he said and he tossed over the bag. “The kid comes through.”

  Tony grabbed for the bag. “Nobody saw you?”

  “Just the creep running the joint. I gave him a little Sam Colt to shut him up.”

  “Christ, you shot him?”

  “Naw, just roughed him up a little.”

  Tony dumped the bag on the bedspread and began to count. Callahan moved over easily to pick up the bottle. He was feeling cocky and indestructible. The night had gone smooth as silk, and it was just the beginning. Times had changed for Billy Callahan.

  “Three hundred and seventeen dollars,” Tony Broad said then. He looked at Callahan in disgust. “What the fuck is this — cigarette money?”

  “Gotta be more than that,” Callahan said, but he knew there wasn’t.

  “Three hundred bucks,” Tony said. “Can you do it ten times a night? ‘Cause that’s what we’re gonna need.”

  He came over and took the bottle away from Callahan. “Who’d you rob — an ice cream vendor?”

  “Shit,” Callahan said.

  Tony flopped on the bed, his back against the headboard. “Aw, don’t sweat it, kid,” he said. “Maybe I underestimated you. Maybe you’re not ready for big time yet. You better stick with nickel and dime for a while.”

  Callahan was standing on the cheap carpet, hands in his pockets. “It was a mistake, Tony. I was — whatdyacallit — misinformed. How did I know the Kentucky was such a dump?”

  Tony began to ignore the kid then. He drank from the bourbon but didn’t offer it over. Tony was in his undershirt, sweating bullets in the close room. The whiskey made it even warmer.

  “Air conditioning,” he said out loud to no one. “That’s what I need — air conditioning. And a television. I like to watch Lucy, and Topper too. God, I love that fucking ghost.”

  By the bureau Callahan stood unhappily. Wanting a drink. A look. Anything.

  “You ever watch that Topper, Billy?”

  “I never see television too much. What’re we gonna do, Tony?”

  “He’s this fucking ghost, see.”

  “What’re we gonna do, Tony?” And then he said it. “Boss?”

  “How’s that?”

  “What’re we gonna do, Boss?”

  Tony smiled and sat up. “The Parrot,” he said.

  “You want me to take the Parrot?”

  “Mel Dunston — who could be easier? Little bastard walks out of there every night with that leather bag under his arm. Won’t let nobody but himself touch a nickel. The fucker’s a holdup waiting to happen.”

  “Jesus, they know me in the Parrot, Tony.”

  Tony threw him a look from the bed. Sometimes Billy Callahan caught on faster than others.

  “They know me at the Parrot, Boss.”

  “You wear a stocking, kid. Nobody knows nobody wearing a lady’s nylon. Maybe I’ll get you one of Lee Charles’, how about that?”

  But Callahan wasn’t sure. When was he about anything?

  Tony Broad drank and then waved his hand carelessly. “Hey — forget it, kid. I got a pal coming in from Cleveland. A pro. He’ll take care of it.”

  “No.” Callahan all but shouted the word. His face was flush. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Tony looked at him doubtfully, not saying a word for maybe a full minute. And Callahan was left dancing like a monkey on a string, waiting — like he’d waited all his life. Then Tony capped the pint and tossed it over.

  “Okay,” was all he said.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Tommy ran in a pair of faded army pants and a t-shirt and a pair of old BlackHawk runners he’d had for ten years. He jogged along Front Street to River and then north on River Street and down into the Don Valley. T-Bone ran with him, breathing easily, breaking into song now and then. The arrowhead bounced against T-Bone’s chest as he ran, reminding him it was there, buoying him up. Luck was in the flint, he knew.

  After two miles, Tommy was winded badly and they slowed to a walk before climbing out of the valley again. They stayed by the bank of the Don, heading south now, hearing the noise of the traffic on the viaduct overhead.

  “Shoulda brung our fishing poles, Thomas.” “Can’t train for a fight sitting on a river bank, Bones.” “That’s a fact.” T-Bone stepped up and over a log along the way. “But there’s somethin’ to be said ’bout sittin’ by a river with a piece of bamboo in your hand.”

  “Wait’ll we get to the farm, Bones. There’s a stream that runs down from a spring in Jake Bergsma’s place, it pools up above some rocks in the bush. There’s trout there, fat as hogs. All you need is a hook and a piece of bread.”

  “More partial to catfish myself.”

  Tommy looked over. “You spent too many years on that Mississip, that’s your problem.”

  “That old muddy give T-Bone a good many dinners, Thomas. More than he remember.”

  T-Bone turned then and began to jog backwards in front of Tommy, throwing open hands in the air, bobbing his head with the punches.

  “We got lots to do, Thomas.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Have to look for the timin’. You be all rusted up after this time away. You can catch him inside, this Wilson, he mighty ’ceptible to a uppercut.” T-bone fired a punch to illustrate. “But you got to move to your right, all the time, to your right, stay away from his Sunday punch. He got some kick in his right hand.”

  “I’ve been hit before, Bones.”

  “I had the clap once too, Thomas. Don’t mean I’m wantin’ it again.”

  Tommy kicked into a slow jog then, looking ahead to the incline. His legs were cramping some and he hoped he could run it off.

  “My wind is in the outhouse, Bones,” he said. “I have to get in some kind of shape, good enough for five anyway.”

  “You figure on finishin’ in five?”

  “I have to go after him. No way I can go the distance. I’m not kidding myself, not with a week’s running. I have to get inside and get him early. Remember, he’s as dumb as a stump fence.”

  “He like to talk in the ring,” T-Bone said. “And he rattle easy, lose his head.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Sure enough, Thomas.” T-Bone turned around now to run beside Tommy again. He pointed ahead to the hill. “You figure them old legs get you up this hill?”

  “I can climb it,” Tommy said. “Better than an old darky anyway.”

  “Put your feet where your mouth is, Mr. Cochrane.”

  Back in the city they ran directly to the gym. Mac Brady had done his part, provided gloves and equipment for them. Nicky Wilson was not around. There were a handful of writers milling about, but Tommy passed them and their questions without a word. Bert Tigers came into the dressing room as Tommy and T-Bone were changing.

  “Co
uple reporters want to talk to you, Tommy.”

  “Tell ’em to talk to Wilson. He’s good at it.”

  “You gotta talk to the press, Tommy. It’s part of the game, you know that.”

  “I got nothin’ to say, Bert. And when I got nothin’ to say, I keep quiet. I’m not running for office here.”

  “Well, shit. Mac ain’t gonna like it.”

  “Try to imagine how that upsets me, Bert.”

  Bert sat on the table and watched as Tommy pulled on the light gloves. T-Bone helped with the laces, head down, talking to himself beneath his breath.

  “What about a corner man?” Bert asked. “I can set something up.

  “I got a corner man right here,” Tommy said.

  “You got a cut man?”

  Tommy stood up and pushed the gloves one into the palm of the other.

  “Don’t you be worrying your empty head about what I got, Bert,” he said. “T-Bone is my corner man, he’s my cut man, my trainer, my manager, and he’s handling my stock portfolio too, if you want to know. So get your greedy eyes off my purse and worry about your own fighter. You hear me?”

  “You saying I should be worrying about Nicky Wilson? You figure on taking him out?”

  “What I figure is none of your damn business. Now get out of here, Bert. I don’t want you in the building when I’m here.”

  Bert climbed stiff-legged down from the table. “I remember a time when a person could talk to you, Tommy. Way back when. I guess you’re just a little bit better than everybody else these days. Well, we’re gonna see about that. A week from now, it might be a different story. Maybe nobody’ll want to talk to you a week from now.”

  “Suit me fine. Goodbye, Bert.”

  Tommy waited until Bert had left the building and then he went out and worked for the better part of an hour, hitting the speed bag and the heavy, skipping rope, doing sit-ups and push-ups, staying away from the weights, which would only slow him down. At the end he sparred with T-Bone for ten minutes, or rather Tommy sparred while T-Bone offered targets with his gloves, Tommy working the hook off the jab and combinating. Looking for timing.

  The writers followed him around for a while, but when he wouldn’t answer questions, one by one they gave up. They had all vanished by the time Tommy packed it in.