Ed Lacy - The Big Fix

“I don't know. They're two guys named Brown and Jones. I never laid eyes on either of 'em before they came here. The fighter looks like a hell of a good boy.”

As Walt forced his tired body through more rope skipping and stomach exercises, he watched Jake work out on the bags, impressed with the sure way Jake moved, the good body. This was indeed a pug who'd been around; it seemed impossible he could be so unknown. Even at its height the fight game was a small world and news went about fast.

Arno sat on a stool, nibbling on tiny hunks of dried fish, looking bored as he watched Jake work. Walt decided Arno could be an old-time bunko artist, or actually a retired businessman, but somehow the eyes shouted con man. Jake did three rounds of bag punching—and he beat the light bag like an expert drummer—skipped rope for another two rounds and wanted to quit. Arno told him, sharply, to go a few more rounds on the heavy bag.

The only thing Arno had touched so far was the back of the chair next to his stool. Pete glanced at Walt and shook his head. Jake had a soda bottle criss-crossed with tape, on the ring apron, which he was using as a water bottle. Walt nodded toward Pete, slipped on heavy gloves, and started into the ring to shadow-box. He 'kicked' the water bottle over. Walt went through the routine of trying to pick the bottle up with his gloved hands while Pete was busy setting his wrist watch. The gym owner yelled from the office to be careful of the canvas and started toward the ring, as Arno finally picked up the bottle—using all the fingers of his right hand.

Jake climbed into the ring to shadow-box, growled at Walt, “Why don't you look what you're doing?”

Arno walked over to the sink, washed the bottle, filled it, and carried it back to the ring apron—using both hands to hold the bottle while he took a drink himself. Then he sat down and returned to eating bits of fish. Pete smiled up at Walt.

“It was an accident,” Walt said, puffing a little as he boxed around Jake. “Nothing broke.” He sure has the face of a fighter, Walt thought. Not marked, but the slightly thickened nose, the hard eyebrows—the entire tough cast of his puss. In looks, anyway, he's sure a champ.

When the bell gave them a minute's rest, Walt told Jake, “I'm an amateur. You a pro?”

“Yeah.”

“What's your name? Maybe I seen you box.”

“Floyd Patterson,” Jake said abruptly, turning away, loosening the muscles in his bull neck.

After another round Jake jumped out of the ring. He walked around for a few minutes, waving his arms, cooling off. He headed for the shower and the locker room, followed by Arno. Walt was standing outside the ring as Pete untied his gloves, Walt's big body hiding the water bottle. He whispered to Pete, “Get the bottle under the other side of the ring apron and start working. How much time do you need?”

“Few minutes—if the bottle's dry,” Pete said, pulling dusting powder and a roll of Scotch tape from his pocket. “Ah-ah, he's coming back.”

Walt looked up to see Jake crossing the gym, his right glove still on. As Pete shoved his stuff back into his pocket, Walt leaned against the ring, covering the bottle. Jake glanced around the ring, the floor, the few seats. Then he asked, “You see my bottle?”

“Why, you training on whiskey?” Walt cornballed.

“Okay, wiseguy, it has to be...” He suddenly pushed Walt aside, picked up the bottle with his ungloved hand. In a hard voice he asked, “What's the matter, you like to play games?”

Walt stared down at the smaller man. “Why? You know some interesting ones?”

“I know you give me a pain in the can,” Jake said, walloping Walt on the chin with his gloved hand. It was a short, hard blow. Walt went stiff as he fell back against the ring apron, then slid to the floor with a bang. With an evil grin Jake turned to Pete. “Want to sweep up your heavy, blondie?”

When Walt came to, finally got the gym in focus, he saw three faces bending over him: Pete's long troubled face, the wrinkled and ugly puss of the gym owner, and Arno Brewer's fat face smiling down at him—a glass of water in his hand. As Walt sat up, shaking his head to clear it, working his numb mouth and jaw, he realized his face was wet: Arno must have thrown a glass of water on him.

Walt stumbled to his feet, his face set as he looked around for Jake. Both the bottle and Jake were in the locker room. Pete said, “Easy, now.”

“That's it,” Arno said smoothly. “Just because you're big, no sense in acting that way. Calm down,” Arno turned, put the glass on the ring apron, and strolled toward the locker room.

The gym owner said, “You crazy? I don't allow no rough-house in here. I got a baseball bat to...”

“Shut up,” Walt said, the movement of his mouth hurting him. So this is how a kayo feels, he thought. Except for the pain, not much different than waking up from a hard sleep. A...

“Listen, don't tell me to shut up,” the gym owner said. “I ain't afraid of you punks of today. And you don't train here no more.” He reached for the glass. Pete suddenly put an arm around the owner's shrunken shoulders, said, “Leave me handle him, mister. And leave the glass—get my fighter a drink.”

“You guys dress and scram. I'm not kidding about that baseball bat.” The old pug went back to his office.

Walt started for a chair, stumbled. Pete helped him. Walt sat very still for a moment, holding his head which had started to throb. Minutes later he saw Arno and Jake leave, Arno quietly bawling Jake out. Jake sent a quick glance at Walt, a cocky look. Walt said dully, “They must have dressed fast as firemen. Lord, did he clout me with the bottle?”

“They had plenty of time to dress,” Pete told him. “You've been out eleven minutes. By the clock. You sure got the full treatment. Thought you were dead, for a second. Gave me a bad turn. I...”

“Come on, see what you can find on the glass!”

Pete nodded. As he crouched under the ring and started dusting the glass, he glanced up at Walt, asked, “Are you okay?”

“Sure, only a mild headache.”

“I would have stepped in but I couldn't pull my gun without giving us away as cops. That guy sure belted you. The punch didn't travel more than six inches and... Hey, we have clear prints of at least three fingers. Maybe we'll learn something.”

Still holding his head Walt said, half aloud, “I've already learned plenty. Our boy really has a murderous wallop.”

ARNO

Sitting beside take, who was driving the flashy car, Arno was pale with anger. “... and of all the dumb moves! Suppose the big guy had clouted you, maybe cut your eye? Or...”

“He didn't. Just a clumsy fat cat,” Jake cut in. He was feeling very good, the old dreams of himself as a champ flashing through his mind.

“And if he had? Told you we had to speed up our plans and you have to play things stupid! What if he'd been hurt, banged his noggin on the floor, and the cops had been called in? Don't know what's got into you recently, Jake, you're acting...”

“I'm on edge, stale from training too much.”

Arno said, “No, you don't—don't ever try to kid the ladder. We forget this, but step out of line once more and I'll really give you something to keep your mind on! I found a Spanish restaurant that looks good—real thing. You want to see a movie before or after supper?”

“I'd like some plain ham and eggs, for a change.”

Arno sighed, with disgust.

TOMMY

Waiting in the cafeteria for May, Tommy was worried, about May and about himself. He knew he should be feeling good. Arno's plans were starting to take shape. Jake and Arno had left town that morning, said they'd be back in a few days. Although Arno didn't say, and Tommy didn't ask, Tommy thought from the way Jake had been training that he had a fight set. He was supposed to let Alvin or Walt know when Jake had a bout, but Tommy hadn't said a word. For one thing, he didn't know for sure.

It was now almost two months since he had signed with Arno and Tommy was pretty low, at times he was beginning to half believe Walt and Alvin. Even though Arno's fingerprints hadn't turned up a thing. Mostly Tommy doubted Arno could actually do much for him—and if that was the case, then why was Arno interested in him? Things seemed to move so slowly. At other times Tommy wondered what he was worrying about. If Arno didn't complain why should he?

But for the first time in his career Tommy was impatient, had doubts about the whole fight game. For one thing, he suddenly seemed to be growing old very fast, every wasted day was like a month. He found himself bored and dreading the training grind, feeling very tired at the end of the day. Even a few belts of Arno's whiskey no longer relaxed him. He had won the stand-by four-rounder at Bobby's arena two weeks before in convincing style—a TKO in the third round. Oddly enough, winning the bout had upset him more than any of Alvin's ravings about murder. He had been up against a strong kid having his first bout. It made Tommy realize his own ring status. A vet of over one hundred fights in with a kid having his first bout. And he had felt sorry for the boy. In the old days a kid like this might have had a chance to get someplace—at times he moved with natural grace—but the boy didn't have the smallest idea what boxing was all about, slugged wildly. Tommy had outboxed him with ease, grand-standing at times. In the second round he had been tagged by a glancing left to the stomach, but Cork's own left hook had cut the kid's eye. A cut can take all the fight out of even an experienced pug and Tommy knew the kid was finished. In the third Tommy's jabs had stung the eye until blood covered the kid's bewildered face. Tommy dropped him with a neat right and the ref stopped the fight, even though the boy was up at three.

The fans had given Tommy a big hand, Alvin bubbled with praise, and even Bobby said Irish had been his old self. Arno had given him a bottle of expensive whiskey and a pat on the back. But Tommy knew how tired and empty he'd been in the second round. If the left to the belly had been a solid punch he would have gone down. Cork couldn't understand it. With steady training and eating he should have breezed through a lousy four-rounder. The following day, as the gym hangers-on were telling him how sharp he looked, Tommy had pestered Becker for another bout.

Bobby shook his head. “You showed so good the managers ain't keen on throwing their kids in with you. Before, they figured you were a sure win and exercise for their boys.” That same afternoon, over a drink in the Between Rounds, when Tommy complained about lack of bouts to a ranking feather-weight, the other fighter had asked, “What are you hissing and moaning about? You had five or seven bouts the last year. Sure, they were all emergency fights, but take me—rusty as an old gate—haven't had a bout in over ten months.”

Tommy was startled to realize that even with his half a dozen fights he hadn't made five hundred for the year. If the thought of the fight game really being done disturbed him, Walt's constant snooping also annoyed Tommy. He was afraid the detective might come up with the true answer. They still hadn't proof of anything—yet. Alvin found out the pug killed by this Harold Barry had been insured for five grand. The beneficiary was one Samuel Smith, and who he was nobody knew. Alvin was certain he could rum up other ring deaths at the fists of Barry.

All this made Tommy uneasy. Some days Tommy was sure Walt and Alvin were ruining his chances with their snooping, telling him to cancel the policy. On other days, like tonight, Tommy felt as if his Irish luck was dead; if Arno wasn't actually planning on murdering him, he was merely a bungling rich man incapable of ever getting Jake or Tommy a big payday.