Short Stories: Five Decades

by Irwin Shaw

  “Is that the truth?” McAlmon asked Mr. Gensel.

  “I put the bet down through my own brother-in-law,” Mr. Gensel said. “I swear to God.”

  “What do you think, McAlmon?” Joey shouted, “I throw away thousand-dollar bills? I’m a business man.”

  “Take my word for it,” Mr. Gensel said. “Joey is a business man.”

  “All right, all right.” McAlmon put out both his hands placatingly. “There is no harm done in straightening matters out complete beforehand, is there? Now nobody is in the dark about anything. That is the way I like to operate.” He turned to Pike and Petroskas. “O.K., boys, just sit in your seats and have a good time.”

  “Why do those two bums have to be there?” Joey demanded.

  “Do you mind if they enjoy themselves?” McAlmon asked with cold sarcasm. “It’s going to damage you if they have a good time?”

  “That’s all right,” Mr. Gensel said soothingly. “We don’t object. Let the boys have a good time.”

  “Only get them out of here,” Joey said loudly. “I don’t like people with guns under their armpits in my room.”

  “Come on, boys,” McAlmon said, opening the door. Both men smiled pleasantly and started out. Petroskas stopped and turned around. “May the best man win,” he said, and nodded soberly twice and left, closing the door behind him.

  Joey looked at Mr. Gensel and shook his head. “McAlmon’s friends,” he said. “Philadelphia boys.”

  The door swung open and an usher chanted “Joey Garr. Joey Garr is on next.” Joey spat into his bandaged hands and started up the steps with Mr. Gensel.

  When the fight started, Rocky dove immediately into a clinch. Under the thick bush of hair all over his chest and shoulders he was sweating profusely.

  “Lissen, Joey,” he whispered nervously into Joey’s ear, hanging on tightly to his elbows, “you remember the agreement? You remember, don’t yuh, Joey?”

  “Yeah,” Joey said. “Let go of my arm. What’re you trying to do, pull it off?”

  “Excuse me, Joey,” Rocky said, breaking and giving Joey two to the ribs.

  As the fight progressed, with the customers yelling loud approval of the footwork, the deft exchanges, the murderous finishers that missed by a hair, Rocky gained in confidence. By the fourth round he was standing up bravely, exposing his chin, moving in and out with his fists brisk and showy. His friends in the crowd screamed with pleasure and a loud voice called out, “Kill the big bum, Rocky! Oh, you Rocky!” Rocky breathed deeply and let a fast one go to Joey’s ear. Joey’s head shook a little and a look of mild surprise came over his face. “Wipe him out!” the voice thundered from among Rocky’s following. Rocky set himself flat on his feet and whistled another across to Joey’s ear as the bell rang. He strutted back to his corner smiling confidently at his friends in the arena.

  Mr. Gensel bent and worked over Joey. “Lissen, Joey,” he whispered, “he is pushing you. Tell him to stop pushing you. They will give him the fight if he don’t stop pushing you.”

  “Aaah,” Joey said, “it’s nothing. For the crowd. His pals. A little excitement. Makes it look good. Don’t worry, Mr. Gensel.”

  “Please tell him to stop pushing you,” Mr. Gensel pleaded. “For my sake, Joey. He is supposed to go ten rounds with us but we are supposed to win. We can’t afford to lose to Rocky Pidgeon, Joey.”

  In the fifth round Rocky kept up his charging attack, keeping both hands going, weaving, aggressive, shoving Joey back and forth across the ring, while the home-town crowd stood in its seats and shouted hoarse support. Joey kept him nicely bottled up, back-pedaling, catching punches on his gloves, sliding with the blows, occasionally jabbing sharply to Rocky’s chest. In a corner, with Joey against the ropes, Rocky swung from behind his back with a right hand, grunting deeply as it landed on Joey’s side.

  Joey clinched, feeling the sting. “Say, Rocky,” he whispered politely, “stop pushing.”

  “Oh,” Rocky grunted, as though he’d just remembered, and backed off. They sparred delicately for thirty seconds, Joey still on the ropes.

  “Come on, Rocky,” the voice shouted. “Finish him. You got the bum going! Oh, you Rocky!”

  A light came into Rocky’s eyes and he wound up and let one go. It caught Joey on the side of the head as the bell rang. Joey leaned a little wearily against the ropes, scowling thoughtfully at Rocky as Rocky strode lightly across to his corner amid wild applause. Joey went and sat down.

  “How’s it going?” he asked Mr. Gensel.

  “You lost that round,” Mr. Gensel said swiftly and nervously. “For God’s sake, Joey, tell him to stop pushing. You’ll lose the fight. If you lose to Rocky Pidgeon you will have to go fight on the team with the boys from the Hebrew Orphan Asylum. Why don’t you tell him to stop pushing?”

  “I did,” Joey snapped. “He’s all hopped up. His friends keep yelling what a great guy he is, so he believes it. He hits me in the ear once more I will take him out in the alley after the fight and I will beat the pants off him.”

  “Just tell him to take it easy,” Mr. Gensel said, worriedly. “Remind him we are carrying him. Just remind him.”

  “That dumb Rocky,” Joey said. “You got to reason with him, you got a job on your hands.”

  The gong rang and the two men sprang out at each other. The light of battle was still in Rocky’s eye and he came out swinging violently. Joey tied him up tight and talked earnestly to him. “Lissen, Rocky, enough is enough. Stop being a hero, please. Everybody thinks you’re wonderful. All right. Let it go at that. Stop pushing, Rocky. There is money invested here. What are you, crazy? Say, Rocky, do you know what I’m talking about?”

  “Sure,” Rocky grunted. “I’m just putting on a good show. You got to put on a good show, don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” Joey said, as the referee finally pulled them apart.

  They danced for two minutes after that, but right before the end of the round, from in close, Rocky unleashed a murderous uppercut that sent the blood squirting in all directions from Joey’s nose. Rocky wheeled jauntily as the bell rang and shook his hands gaily at his screaming friends. Joey looked after him and spat a long stream of blood at his retreating, swaggering back.

  Mr. Gensel rushed anxiously out and led Joey back to his corner.

  “Why didn’t you tell him to stop pushing, Joey?” he asked. “Why don’t you do like I say?”

  “I told him,” Joey said, bitterly. “Look, I got a bloody nose. I got to come to Philadelphia to get a bloody nose. That bastid, Rocky.”

  “Make sure to tell him to stop pushing,” Mr. Gensel said, working swiftly over the nose. “You got to win from here on, Joey. No mistake now.”

  “I got to come to Starlight Park, in the city of Philadelphia,” Joey marveled, “to get a bloody nose from Rocky Pidgeon. Holy Jesus God!”

  “Joey,” Mr. Gensel implored, “will you remember what I told you? Tell him to stop …”

  The bell rang and the two men leapt at each other as the crowd took up its roaring from where it had left off. The loud voice had settled into a constant, inspiriting chant of “Oh, Rocky, oh, you Rocky!” over and over again.

  Joey grabbed Rocky grimly. “Lissen, you bum,” he whispered harshly, “I ask you to stop pushing. I will take you out later and knock all your teeth out. I warn you.”

  And he rapped Rocky smartly twice across the ear to impress him.

  For the next minute Rocky kept a respectful distance and Joey piled up points rapidly. Suddenly half the arena took up the chant, “Oh, Rocky, oh, you Rocky!” On fire with this admiration, Rocky took a deep breath and let sail a roundhouse right. It caught Joey squarely on the injured nose. Once more the blood spurted. Joey shook his head to clear it and took a step toward Rocky, who was charging in wildly. Coldly Joey hooked with his left, like a spring uncoiling, and crossed with his right as Rocky sagged with glass in his eyes. Rocky went fourteen feet across the ring and landed face down. For a split second a smile of satisfact
ion crossed Joey’s face. Then he remembered. He swallowed drily as the roar of the crowd exploded in his ears. He looked at his corner. Mr. Gensel was just turning around to sit with his back to the ring and his head in his hands. He looked at Rocky’s corner. McAlmon was jumping up and down, beating his hat with both fists in agony, screaming, “Rocky! Get up, Rocky! Get up or I’ll fill you full of lead! Rocky, do you hear me?”

  Behind McAlmon, Joey saw Pike and Petroskas, standing in their seats, amiable smiles on their faces, watching him interestedly, their hands under their armpits.

  “Rocky!” Joey whispered hoarsely as the referee counted five, “good old Rocky. Get up, Rocky! For God’s sake. Please get up! Please … please.” He remembered the thousand dollars and tears filled his eyes. “Rocky,” he sobbed, half-bending to his knees, in the corner of the ring, as the referee reached seven, “for the love of God …”

  Rocky turned over, got to one knee.

  Joey closed his eyes to spare himself. When he opened them again, there was Rocky, standing, weaving unsteadily, before him. A breath, a prayer, escaped Joey’s lips as he jumped across the ring, swinging dramatically. He curled his arm viciously around the back of Rocky’s neck. Even at that Rocky started to go again. Joey grabbed him under the armpits and made violent movements with his arms as though he were trying desperately to release them.

  “Hold on, Rocky!” he whispered hoarsely, supporting the stricken fighter. “Just keep your knees stiff. You all right? Hey, Rocky, you all right? Hey, Rocky, answer me! Please, Rocky, say something!”

  But Rocky said nothing. He just leaned against Joey with the glaze in his eyes, his arms hanging limply at his side, while Joey conducted the fight by himself.

  When the bell rang, Joey held Rocky up until McAlmon could come out and drag him back to his corner. The referee eyed Joey narrowly as Joey went over to his own corner.

  “A nice, interesting bout,” the referee said. “Yes, siree.”

  “Yeah,” Joey said, sinking onto his stool. “Hey, Mr. Gensel,” he called. Mr. Gensel turned his face back to the ring for the first time since the middle of the round. Like an old man, he climbed the steps and haphazardly worked on his fighter.

  “Explain to me,” he said in a flat voice, “what you were thinking of.”

  “That Rocky,” Joey said wearily. “He got the brains of a iceman’s horse. He keeps pushing and pushing. I musta lost a quart of blood through the nose. I hit him to teach him a little respect.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Gensel said. “That was fine. We were nearly buried in Philadelphia.”

  “I didn’t hit him hard,” Joey protested. “It was strictly a medium punch. He got a chin like a movie star. Like Myrna Loy. He shouldn’t oughta be in this business. He should wait on customers in a store. In a dairy. Butter and eggs.”

  “Please do me a favor,” Mr. Gensel said. “Kindly hold him up for the next three rounds. Treat him with care. I am going down to sit in the dressing room.”

  And Mr. Gensel left as Joey charged out and pounded Rocky’s fluttering elbows severely.

  Fifteen minutes later, Joey came down to him in the dressing room and lay wearily down on the rubbing table.

  “So?” Mr. Gensel asked, not lifting his head.

  “So we won,” Joey said hoarsely. “I had to carry him like a baby for nine whole minutes. Like a eight-month-old baby girl. That Rocky. Hit him once, he is no good for three years. I never worked so hard in my whole life, not even when I poured rubber in Akron, Ohio.”

  “Did anybody catch on?” Mr. Gensel asked.

  “Thank God we’re in Philadelphia,” Joey said. “They ain’t caught on the war’s over yet. They are still standing up there yelling, ‘Rocky! Oh, you Rocky!’ because he was so goddamn brave and stood in there fighting. My God! Every ten seconds I had to kick him in the knee to straighten it out so he’d keep standing!”

  Mr. Gensel sighed. “Well, we made a lot of money.”

  “Yeah,” Joey said without joy.

  “I’ll treat you to a dollar-fifty dinner, Joey.”

  “Naah,” Joey said, flattening out on the rubbing table. “I just want to stay here and rest. I want to lay here and rest for a long time.”

  “March, March on Down

  the Field”

  “For one dollar,” Peppe said, “you could buy enough coal to keep this lousy locker room warm all week.” He laced up his shoulder pads with numb fingers. “For one stinking dollar. We’ll be stiff like concrete by the time we got to kick off. Somebody ought to tell that Scheepers something. For one dollar that Scheepers would freeze his grandmother. In sections. Yeah.” He ducked his head into his jersey.

  “We ought to get together,” Ullman said. “We all ought to stick together and go to Scheepers and say, ‘Scheepers,’ we ought to say, ‘you pay us to play football for you, but—’”

  “Ullman,” Peppe called from inside his jersey, “the City College Boy, Mr. Stalin’s right-hand man. Fullbacks of the world, unite.”

  “Hey, shake your tails,” Holstein said. “We want to go out and loosen up before the game starts.”

  “Loosen up!” Peppe finally got his head through the jersey. “They will have to broil me. On both sides. My God, I wish I was in the south of France. Along the Riviera. With the French girls.”

  “Put your pants on,” Holstein said.

  “Look!” Peppe pointed sadly to his naked legs. “I am turning blue. A dark shade of blue. From the ankle up. It’s past my knees already. Look, boys. Another foot and that is the end of Peppe.”

  Klonsky, the right tackle, a tall, thick man, pushed Peppe to one side. “Excuse me,” he said. “I want to look in the mirror.”

  “If I had a face like that—” Peppe began. Klonsky turned and looked at him.

  “What did I say?” Peppe asked. “Did I say anything?”

  Klonsky looked at himself in the mirror again, pulling down his lower lip. “It’s my teeth,” he explained without turning from the mirror. “I got three new teeth from the dentist this week.”

  “They’ll sign you for the movies,” Holstein said.

  “Fifty bucks,” Klonsky said. “The lousy dentist charged me fifty bucks. In advance. He wouldn’t put the teeth in until I put the money down. My wife, she insisted I got to have teeth in the front of my face. She said it was bad, a college graduate with teeth missing.”

  “Sure,” Holstein said. “Listen to women in a case like that. They know what they’re talking about.”

  “I lost them two years ago in the Manhattan game.” Klonsky shook his head and turned from the mirror. “They are very rough—Manhattan. All they were interested in was hitting me in the teeth—they didn’t give a damn who won the game.”

  “Watch out for Krakow,” Peppe said. “He runs like a locomotive, that guy. You could chop off his leg, he would still run. He’s got no sense. He played for Upsala for three years and he had to make every tackle in every game. It upset his brains. He plays like he don’t get paid for it. He will break your back for three yards. Oh, my God, it’s cold! That bastard Scheepers!”

  The door opened and Scheepers came in, the collar of his pale camel’s-hair coat up around his ears. “I heard somebody call me bastard,” he said. “I don’t like that, boys.” He looked at them, his face set under the brim of his soft green hat.

  “It’s cold in here,” Holstein said.

  “There’s ice in the East River,” Ullman said.

  “I am responsible,” Scheepers said ironically, “I am responsible for the weather all of a sudden?”

  “One dollar’s worth of coal.” Peppe blew on his hands. “That’s all you need to keep this locker room warm. One lousy dollar’s worth.”

  “Watch your language,” Scheepers said. He turned to the rest of the team. “I ordered coal. I swear to God.” He put his collar down and took off his pigskin gloves. “Anyway, it’s not so cold. I don’t know what you boys are complaining about.”

  “Some day,” Peppe said, “
you should get dressed here, Scheepers. That’s all I ask. They would use you to freeze ice cubes.”

  “Lissen, boys!” Scheepers stood up on a bench and addressed the whole room. “I got a matter to discuss, a slight matter of money.”

  The locker room was silent.

  “Call the pickpocket squad,” Peppe said after a moment. “Scheepers is discussing money.”

  “I know you boys are joking.” Scheepers smiled. “So I don’t get sore.”

  “Get sore, Scheepers,” Peppe said. “Get good and sore.”

  Scheepers hesitated and then spoke in a confidential voice. “Boys,” he said, “it is not a warm day. This is not a pleasant Sunday afternoon, to be perfectly frank with you.”

  “Secrets,” Holstein said. “Keep it to yourself, boys.”

  “It’s cold. It’s near the end of the season. It snowed this morning. The Dodgers are playing Pittsburgh at Ebbets Field. You fellers ain’t put on such a good show for the last two weeks. In a word, there is not a large crowd today.” He looked around him significantly. “I have made a deal with Krakow’s All-Stars. I have reduced their guarantee fifty per cent because there is hardly anybody in the stands.”

  “That’s nice,” Holstein said. “That’s a nice piece of business. You ought to be proud of yourself.”

  “What I am driving at—” Scheepers said.

  “Don’t tell us,” Peppe said. “Let us guess. Ullman, you guess first.”

  “What I am driving at,” Scheepers continued, “is that I expect you boys to take a small fifty-per-cent reduction for yourself.”

  “You know what you can do,” Holstein said. “With my compliments.”

  “Scheepers!” Peppe said. “The Season’s Leading Louse.”

  “It ain’t hardly worth the risk,” Klonsky said, feeling his teeth. “I borrowed that fifty bucks to pay the dentist. I gave a lien on my radio. If they take that radio, my wife is going to raise hell. Go ask somebody else, Scheepers.”

  “I am being fair,” Scheepers said. “Absolutely fair. It is an impartial proposition. Everybody takes a small fifty-per—”