Bobby said, “Hammer, you know how I feel about Tommy. But I can't buck... nobody. Why don't you do it? You pull the strings. You TV crew-cuts control boxing now. A real pitch by Madison Avenue and the fight game would be clean within a month.”
“You're the promoter, matchmaker, or whatever your title is, so don't give me the ball, you gutless wonder!” Al said, hanging up, remembering, with disgust, Becker taking his cut of Tommy's last purse, thinking, By God, if they cut the lousy few bucks from an emergency four-rounder, how cheap can you get? If I ever get out of fight announcing, I'll blast the sponsors for not cleaning up the game. Their silence is consent. What a page-one story that will make, and they'd probably send the mob gunning for me. Make another headline which I wouldn't be around to read.
Alvin taped a commercial on the first take and phoned Walt again, left a message he would be in the Between Rounds Bar later that afternoon. Then he had lunch with an agency man who had an audience participation contest gimmick: they would show films of the various old championship fights in each division. The listener would then send in a one hundred word letter as to why he thought Dempsey or Louis was the greatest heavyweight champ ever, along with the all important box top. A panel of sports writers would pick the winning letter and if the champ named was still alive, he would present the letter writer with the grand prize. As the agency man said, “Why we'll even have old maids buying shaving cream to get into the contest.”
Alvin wanted to say the man was demeaning the sport, but all he did say was, “I'd be glad to m.c. this, if you get the package off the ground.” And in his mind he again saw the shooting of last night and felt sincerely proud of himself—Al now felt his courage was on a par with Tommy's, or Walt's... or any other fighter. He was sure he now truly belonged.
JAKE
Finishing breakfast after his roadwork, Jake had gone right up to his room arid to sleep. Training annoyed him and this morning he'd been doubly irritated because Arno hadn't been around when Jake returned from running in the park. “The slob is probably stuffing his fat face,” Jake told himself, “with some of the weird chow he goes for, while I'm running my legs out. I'm sure getting the hard end of this deal. All the work and I still only get a fifty-fifty split.”
Actually Jake disliked the training grind because it reminded him of the time when he had gloried in it. Not too many years before, Jake had accidentally turned to boxing and immediately ceased being merely another rough punk: he had at last found his racket. Jake knew he was a sensational fighting machine, that fame and fortune awaited him—trite words which Jake translated into: girls. In those days he would spend much of his time in the movie theatres and upon seeing any girl on the screen who struck his liking, Jake would think, Okay baby, keep looking stuck-up, and keep all that stuff warm. In a few months I'll be knocking on your door, a big money fighter. You'll welcome me—here comes the champ, the free-spender. Damn, won't be a broad I can't have.
It was a shock which left Jake on the brink of a breakdown to finally realize all that would never be. The first time he thought it was one of those things—it happens to all fighters. But after the next few times he knew the truth. He had flashy skill, a punch in either hand, and sharp reflexes: the trouble was—and it was terribly frustrating trouble—he was like a complex and beautiful machine, but a machine which would never run because a simple bolt was missing.
It was rough to take. At times Jake still thought Arno was wrong, felt he could make it as a fighter. But Jake was hardly a fellow with much imagination, and except for these rare fights of fancy, he knew Arno was right, that he was done as a pug almost before he had started. If this had been in the old days, with hundreds of fight clubs, Jake might possibly have picked up some bucks, fighting here and there, leaving before anybody got wise to him. But Jake had been a child during the “old days.”
Even when he turned to being a muscleman with a small gang of cheap stick-up jerks and would-be angle sharpies, Jake realized the days of the strong-arm men were over, too. It was then that Arno had found him.
Jake rarely dreamed, and when he did he had only two kinds of dreams. One might concern some babe he'd recently seen on the street or in a bar. The other was always about Arno....
Now, Arno shook him awake, asked, “Didn't you read the morning papers.” Arno was sucking on perfumed hard candies from Vienna.
“Sure.” Jake blinked. “You know, I start at the back and only look at the sport pages and the jokes. Why?”
Arno waved the folded paper in his hand. “The why is we got to make a fast trip to hocksville. I'll need your star sapphire ring, the money clip with the diamond and... Cut the dumb look, you got 'em, haven't you?”
Jake came awake fast. “Sure I have 'em. I thought we still had a grand?”
“We have. But we need another five hundred,” Arno said, sitting on the bed, spreading the paper so Jake could read about Tommy. “I've had a chat with Cork. He says this is all a numbers rap, needs five yards to get even.”
Jake skimmed through the news story, muttered, “Tight-mouthed old bastard never said a word when we were out running just now. Don't say a word about no numbers here?”
Arno explained the real story Tommy had told him, ended with, “So we have to pay up. Otherwise in a week or so this Shorty joker may go to the cops or the goons. Either way Tommy will be no good to us.”
“I think this is great. Let the numbers boys kill him for us.”
“You think—you dummy! What if they had killed him last night? Most likely they'd merely break a leg, cripple him. Then where are we? Or suppose the cops throw his skinny ass in the can? No, we're set, got our chips on the table, and we have to play the hand out. Maybe we'll have to speed up things—if we can. That's why I don't want to touch our grand, that's working money, gives us time to maneuver.”
“How come I'm always the one has to go to the hock shop?”
“Because you're the thrifty ant, putting your dough in rocks. What you worrying about? You'll get it back. You'll be able to buy that set of diamond cufflinks, if the fence still has them.”
“The stuff I have now is hot,” Jake began.
Arno shook his head. “It was hot in California a year ago. Here it's okay.”
Jake tried hard to think. All he could come up with was, “Why can't we raise some dough on the car?”
“Because it's dangerous. Depending on how things work out, we may not want to leave any traces. I can easily make us a grand with the car mortgage swindle. You don't know that one—pick up a guy in a bar and offer him a hot bargain; three hundred interest for a one month loan of a one thousand on the car. He sees the car, the papers, and I insist he take a chattel mortgage on the car. He's up the creek and can't get his dough or the car because over six per cent is usury in this state and that cancels any agreements... Look, what are we wasting time with talk? Get your stuff, I'll give you the pawn tickets. I'm sweetening the pot with my watch.”
“For a hundred, while I'm putting up four times as much to pay up a debt the dumb mick got into. Four to one, fine rooking you're handing me.”
“I never asked you to save your dough, stupid, that's for marks. Now give me the stuff and stop whining. Jake, don't get me riled. I haven't forgot you disobeying me, going with that whore. Just don't get me sore.”
After Arno left for the nearest pawn shop, Jake had a hard time falling asleep—it took him at least five minutes. At times Arno's smug manner gave him a hell of a pain. When he did doze off, Jake had his other favorite dream— where he was punching Arno's fat face out of shape.
TOMMY
Around four in the afternoon Tommy dropped into the Between Rounds, accepted the good natured kidding of the bar regulars. He saw Alvin and Walt in a booth, talking earnestly over beers. Tommy walked over and heard Walt saying, “I don't know, always thought I'd have more remorse at killing a man... even in the line of duty, as the saving goes. But it's been business as usual with me all day long—to my amazement. Anyway, thanks for making me a detective, first grade.”
“Thank me? Congratulations, Walt, old man, you've certainly earned your promotion. And the hard way.”
Walt didn't tell Alvin how bewildered he still was by the day's happenings. He couldn't explain that when he was called down to the headquarters in the morning he had expected to be broken to a beat cop. But with full publicity he had been promoted, the Commissioner himself giving Walt his new badge. Evidently the syndicate was as anxious as the police to keep things quiet. (A new man had been assigned to Big Burt's territory twenty minutes after Burt died.)
Alvin asked, “I suppose you didn't have time to check on Jake Watson's fingerprints?”
“I did. I had most of the day off. Nothing, except I know his real name.”
Tommy sat down in the booth, all smiles, cutting in on Walt with, “Well you guys were all wrong about Arno! This morning, after I came in from the road, Arno was waiting for me. He'd read the papers. He says, 'What's the matter with you, Irish, fooling around with gangsters? Why you might have got yourself killed.' Yes sir, Arno was all concerned and upset over me. To show you what an ace he is, when I told him about May... why an hour ago he took me down to the market and paid off Shorty James. Gave him five hundred bucks just like that. Of course, I owe it to Arno, but...”
“Who's Shorty?” Alvin asked.
“Some fellow Tommy's wife owed money to,” Walt said quickly, giving Tommy a slight kick under the table.
“Yeah, May happened to bust up his car,” Tommy said. “But the main thing is, Arno volunteered to pay the debt, said he didn't want me worried. You see how wrong you were about him wanting to kill me? If that was so, Arno wouldn't have been so concerned about last night.”
“By the way,” Walt said, “Jake Watson's real name is Hal Bari. No real police record, except for some minor j.d. stuff.”
“So what?” Tommy asked. “Lots of pugs take fancy names, or they used to.”
Walt nodded. “Except they're supposed to put their right name on their license application.”
“Wait a minute.” Alvin ran a long finger down a typewritten list of names. “Had my secretary check on all ring deaths in the last five years. Yes, thought that name rang a bell. Here it is. On March 17th, 1958, a fighter named Harold Barry killed a pug named Teddy Smith in the third round of a bout in a place called Preston, Utah!”
Walt glanced at the paper. “Hal—Harold. Barry—Bari... It's too much of a coincidence.”
Tommy, who had been peering at the paper over Walt's shoulder now said triumphantly, “Naw! Not only is the name spelled wrong, but look at this—Harold Barry weighed a hundred and thirty-five pounds, a lightweight. Why Jake is a good hundred and fifty pounds!”
Walt said slowly, “But in two years, a guy would grow, put on weight. Tell you, Al, for the first time I think you may have something.”
“Exactly what I've been trying to get through to you,” Alvin boomed. “Now what do we do?”
“We could alert the D. A. I suppose, but so far we haven't any real proof. Even if Bari and Barry are the same guy, that still doesn't prove any insurance tie-up or...”
“I shall wire the Preston papers for full information at once,” Hammer announced.
“It might help. What we need most is a run-down on this Arno. He isn't listed with the Commission as Jake's manager, either. I think our best bet is for the insurance company to cancel the policy and see what Arno's reaction is. Of course, even if he dropped Tommy, it still wouldn't be proof of anything.”
Tommy, who had been trying to hold himself in, now said softly but firmly, “You guys listen to me. Walt, I'll never forget what you did for me. Same goes for you, Al. But I can't blow my last chance to get some ring money. Now wait... I sure don't plan on getting myself killed, either, but now that May is okay—I'm to call for her tonight and bring her back—well, that makes this opportunity all the more special. May and me getting together again—I got to make it this time. Like I said, you fellows have been swell to me, no doubting that, but so has Arno. But he couldn't get me to turn on you two. Hell, I'm into him for over a grand now. I'm living good. I have a fight set for next week, and Arno has real plans for me. I can't cancel the policy, do anything to make him sore. Walt's a cop and he says we don't have a thing to go on except Jake using a phony name. When I was a kid fighting bootleg bouts, I used a dozen names to keep the AAU from knowing. Another thing, Barry sounds Irish while Bari is probably Italian. What I'm trying to say, you guys are only guessing. I can't risk everything I have going—on a bum guess.”
Alvin looked at Walt, who asked, “What did Arno tell you when you told him you had a fight set for next week?”
“He said fine, for me to train and to be sure and stay in shape, keep off the bottle,” Tommy said, thinking of the fine Irish whiskey he'd been nibbling on. “Of course, I'm doing that anyway.”
Alvin told them, “I wish I could get a look at this Arno and especially at Jake. I've seen a great many fighters in my time, and managers. Perhaps I'd remember them. Has Arno said anything more about you fighting Jake?”
Tommy gave him a pained look. “Al, for the love of Mike, keep your voice down, you ain't broadcasting. I keep telling you that's a big secret. No, he hasn't said anything. I'm telling you, Arno is a sweet guy, leaves me alone, doesn't rush me or nothing.”
“We have to play it careful and slow—policy won't go into effect for at least another week,” Walt said. “But it also won't hurt to get a look at these two. I'd like to see Arno, then check our rogues gallery. Tommy, your hotel is only a couple blocks from here. Suppose you call and tell them you left your money in your room, or lost your wallet—no, you left it in the gym—and you need a few bucks. They'll bring it over and Al and I will be in this booth, while you wait at the bar.”
