The Professional

by W. c. Heinz

  “Just a minute, Edward,” Doc said. “Come back out here.”

  “It’s that new rule,” the doctor said. “Only the fighter goes in. I examine the fighter alone.”

  “Not my fighter. Any place my fighter goes, I go.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “Get the commissioner. Nobody touches my fighter if I’m not present.”

  “Will you please, Doc?”

  “Get him.”

  The doctor walked over to the desk next to the scale. One of the commissioners was sitting there, talking with a couple of the newspapermen. In a moment the doctor came back.

  “All right,” he said, but shaking his head. “You can come in. I was only doing what they told me. I wish they’d make up their minds.”

  “You can come in, too, Frank,” Doc said.

  “No thanks. I’ll wait here.”

  “I’m sorry,” the doctor said to me, closing the door.

  When the three of them finally came out, the champion was just coming in, his retinue of a half dozen behind him. He had on a chocolate brown sports jacket, cut long, and light tan slacks. Under the jacket he had on a bright yellow shirt, buttoned at the neck, and he walked around the square, loose and brown and smiling and shaking hands.

  “There’s my boy,” he said when he saw Eddie, walking up to him and smiling and sticking out his hand.

  “Hello,” Eddie said, taking the hand.

  “You want to come in now?” the doctor said.

  Doc had Eddie sit down on one of the benches, and Ernie Gordon walked over and sat down next to him. One of the other newspapermen was talking to me about that scene between Doc and Tom White in the camp, so I could not hear what Ernie was telling Eddie, but Eddie was listening and now and then saying something and nodding.

  “All right,” the doctor said, coming out of the room. “Tell the commissioner they’re ready to weigh.”

  The champion stood in the doorway, wearing the black trunks with white and his street shoes. One of those with him was putting the brown sports jacket over the champion’s shoulders. As Eddie stripped he handed his clothes to Doc and Doc placed them on the bench and, when Eddie was naked, Freddie Thomas handed him the white trunks with black and he put those on.

  “Gentlemen!” the commissioner said, walking in and nodding around. “Are we ready?”

  He shook hands with the champion, who gave him the big smile, and then he came over and shook hands with Eddie. The photographers were motioning the others back to the sides and away from the front of the scale.

  “Eddie Brown first!” one of the deputies said.

  Eddie walked over, barefooted, and stepped on the scale. The commissioner moved the balances along the scale arms. Doc and the champion and one of his people stood watching.

  “Quiet!” someone in the back said. “We won’t be able to hear.”

  “One-fifty-nine and three-quarters,” the commissioner said, announcing it. “Eddie Brown, one-five-nine and three-quarters!”

  There was a murmur through the room and Eddie stepped down and then the champion kicked his shoes off and stepped up onto the scale. He said something with a smile to the commissioner, who moved the balance back and then, watching it, moved it forward again.

  “One-fifty-eight and a half! One-five-eight and a half!”

  “All right, you people,” one of the photographers said. “How about stepping back now, so we can have a chance?”

  They took pictures of first the champion and then Eddie on the scale, with the other watching and the commissioner behind the scale and beaming. Then they squared them off, the champion looking right at Eddie and Eddie a little lower and looking at the champion but turned southpaw so that his face would show.

  “That’s enough,” Doc said.

  “One more.”

  “Come on,” Doc said to Eddie.

  When they were both dressed again the commissioner called both parties over to the desk and he gave them the routine about the big crowd and the vast nationwide audience and the good, clean fight with the good luck to both of them. Then he shook hands all around and left, and one of the deputies brought in the gloves. Eddie tried his on and Doc asked him about them and then Doc nodded and the commission deputy took the gloves from Eddie and wrote Eddie’s name on the white lining inside of each of them.

  “So let’s get out of here,” Doc said.

  “Good luck to you, boy,” the champion said, nodding to Eddie.

  “The same to you,” Eddie said.

  We were waiting for the elevator in the crowd in the narrow hallway when the doctor came out and found me. He wanted to apologize about not letting me in at the examination.

  “I understand,” I said. “Forget it.”

  “Listen,” he said. “Some people have been telling me about what a story I’ve got. I mean, thirty years in this business. The fighters I knew, what they were like. We could do some of those magazine articles.”

  “I’m sure we could.”

  “The things fighters say, and the way they behave. Nobody else saw them like I did. I mean, before fights and in the dressing room afterward. I sewed up a lot of fighters, you know. You’d be surprised—”

  The elevator was there, and Doc was holding a place for me.

  “Sure, doctor, but right now I’m busy.”

  “So call me. Call me any time.”

  “Sure.”

  “We might make a lot of money out of it.”

  I left him standing there.

  “Now what did he want?” Doc said, as we rode down.

  “Nothing. He just wants me to make him famous and wealthy.”

  We had to push through the sidewalk crowd again, the voices calling to Eddie and wishing him luck. Then we walked up to Dempsey’s and took the only vacant booth on the right. I noticed the heads turning, and the three of us had juice and eggs and coffee while Eddie had stewed prunes and two soft-boiled eggs and hot tea and one piece of toast.

  We walked back to the hotel and killed a couple of hours. Eddie and Doc played gin for a while and we talked and finally left to eat again. We walked just three blocks from the hotel to a small Italian restaurant where Doc and Eddie knew the proprietor. It was one of those places where you go down a couple of steps from the sidewalk, and the proprietor was looking through the glass of the door as we arrived.

  “So!” he said, smiling and shaking hands with Eddie and then Doc. “I was afraid you weren’t coming.”

  He was about thirty-five, slim and with a fine head of black hair and dark eyes. He had on an Oxford-gray single-breasted suit and a white shirt with a rather high, small-tabbed collar and a black knitted tie. His nails had been done professionally but, with it all, his thin face was strong.

  “This is Vito,” Doc said, introducing Freddie Thomas and me. “Vito’s an old friend.”

  “Always. Excuse me, gentlemen,” Vito said, and he stepped around us and turned the lock on the door. Then he took a white card from a shelf in the check room and hung it against the door.

  “So we won’t be disturbed,” he said to me. “We are closed at this time, but I keep the chef and the waiter on for Eddie and Doc.”

  “I’m sorry,” Doc said.

  “For what? They are delighted. They love Eddie.”

  There were about fifteen tables in the room, and he led us to one back near the small bar. He held the chair for Eddie.

  “We always come here before a fight in New York,” Doc said to me. “Vito’s a good man. He takes good care of us. Picks out the best steaks, the best vegetables. He goes every morning to the market himself. You’d be surprised what time he gets up.”

  “Four o’clock,” Vito said, nodding. “You have to, if you want to get the best.”

  “You see?” Doc said. “Every morning, six days a week.”

  “I know Doc for years,” Vito said, smiling on Doc. “Since he managed my brother.”

  “You managed his brother?” I said.

  “Sure. Joey N
app.”

  “I knew him. The featherweight. He was your brother?”

  “Napoletano. Doc changed the name.”

  “He was a pretty good little fighter,” I said.

  “Only pretty good,” Vito said, “but he liked to fight.”

  “He wasn’t bad,” Doc said. “He was a game, honest kid.”

  “He was older than me, so I was young and thought he was great. He would like, though, to have been the fighter that Eddie is.”

  “Thanks, Vito,” Eddie said, smiling.

  “I wish he could be here for tonight.”

  “Where is he?” I said.

  “In Italy. He was in the Army there during the war and found a girl and went back. Her father owned a little restaurant in Naples, so it’s the same thing there as here. Do all you gentlemen want what Eddie gets, or shall I bring the menu?”

  “Frank?”

  “Let’s have the same as Eddie.”

  “That’s all right with me,” Freddie Thomas said.

  “Then Dino and the waiter want to say hello to Eddie. Then we will leave you alone.”

  “That’s all right.”

  Dino came out smiling, in his white apron and white chef’s hat. He couldn’t have been much over five feet tall, and I made him to be about sixty years old. The waiter was about the same age but, of course, taller, and he had on a white mess jacket and tuxedo trousers.

  “So, tonight you champion?” Dino said, shaking Eddie’s hand and nodding and smiling.

  “I hope, Dino.”

  “What, you hope? You know. You eat what Dino prepare, you become champion. Be sure.”

  “Then we’ll all become champions,” Freddie Thomas said.

  “That’s right,” Dino said, nodding and smiling at Freddie. “Eddie to be the champion tonight.”

  “Dino’s hero was Carnera,” Doc said to me.

  “That’s right,” Dino said, nodding. “A good fighter. Never mind what they have say.”

  “Well, he wasn’t quite the bum they’ve made him out since,” Doc said.

  “That’s right,” Dino said. “The champion of the world.”

  “How about Enzo Fiermonte?” Doc said to him.

  “Too bad,” Dino said. “Could be good.”

  “All you have to do to be a good fighter with Dino,” Doc said, “is get off the boat from Italy.”

  “Good fighters,” Dino said, nodding. “All Italian.”

  “So they eat now,” Vito said, clapping his hands once. “Do you want something to drink, Doc, or Mr. Hughes or Mr. Thomas? Something before you eat, or wine with the meal?”

  “Not me,” Doc said. “Frank?”

  “No. We’ll play it clean, like Eddie.”

  We had small bowls of minestrone and then went right into the steak and broccoli and green beans. They were good-sized steaks and Doc and I quit on ours about halfway through but Freddie Thomas finished his and I watched Eddie eating well until there was just one good piece of meat left.

  “Don’t force yourself,” Doc said. “If you feel it’s enough, it’s enough.”

  “It was good,” Eddie said, “but that’s all I can take.”

  They brought Eddie his tea, then, and the rest of us had coffee. While we were having that, Vito came back, with three menus and a ballpoint pen.

  “So, how did it taste?”

  “Fine,” Eddie said. “Just as good as ever, Vito.”

  “So, then. Would you sign these menus, one for me and one for Dino and one for the waiter?”

  “Sure.”

  Eddie inscribed a message and then his name on two of the menus. Vito stood over him, watching him write.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember the waiter’s name.”

  “Joe. Believe me, after the fight tonight I’ll be showing this around the bar. Maybe, if you feel like it, you’ll stop in.”

  “I can’t, Vito. We’re having a blowout in my old neighborhood. My old gang.”

  “I understand. Maybe next week you’ll stop in for dinner, and you will bring your wife.”

  “Fine.”

  Dino, small and smiling, was standing by the door to the kitchen. The waiter was with him, smiling too, and Dino called something and Eddie waved back and then Vito wished Eddie luck and invited us all to come in again and we climbed the two steps to the sidewalk.

  “How does the little guy ever look into what he’s cooking?” I said to Doc.

  “You’d be surprised. You should have gone back there. They’ve got a long step that runs along in front of the stoves and another one in front of the table. He steps up on that. He’s a good chef.”

  We walked back to the front of the hotel and the doorman smiled and nodded to Eddie. Doc said he wanted to get the papers and rest, so Freddie Thomas and I walked with Eddie. We must have walked almost two miles, over to Park Avenue and along there, stopping to look at the foreign sports cars in the two showrooms. The streets were in shadow now, but the tops of the tallest of the far buildings were orange in the late sun and against the blue sky, and when we got back to the room Doc was lying on the bed, his coat off, the papers strewn around him.

  “Your wife called,” he said to Eddie, getting up.

  “She did. What’d she say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “She want me to call her back?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  Eddie went to the phone and gave the operator the number and sat down on the bed. I was trying to think of conversation to make.

  “What are you people going to do now?” I said to Doc and Freddie.

  “I have to meet a couple of guys at the Garden and give them their tickets,” Doc said.

  “I’ve got to meet somebody at the Garden, too,” Freddie Thomas said. “Is that all right with you, Doc?”

  “He’ll take his nap now,” Doc said, nodding at Eddie, who was speaking into the phone. “You don’t have to be with him.”

  “All right,” Eddie was saying into the phone. “Okay.”

  He put the phone back in its cradle and turned toward us, still sitting on the bed.

  “She wants to go tonight. She wants two tickets.”

  “Great,” Doc said. “Why didn’t she wait to call at eight o’clock?”

  “I can’t help it,” Eddie said.

  “This is great,” Doc said.

  “All right, Doc,” I said. “Let’s just get the tickets for her.”

  Doc didn’t say anything.

  “She wants them left at one of the windows at the Garden?” I said to Eddie.

  “I don’t know. I’d be worried about that. With all the confusion something might go wrong and she might get shut out. I’d be wondering if she got in or not.”

  “This beats me,” Doc said.

  “Look,” I said. “I’ll grab a cab and take a couple of tickets up to her.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Doc said.

  “I’m not doing a thing for the next couple of hours,” I said to Doc. “Have you got a couple with you?”

  “I’ve got these two promised.”

  “So you’ll give me those and go over to the Garden and get two more. All right?”

  Doc reached into the inside pocket of his coat, that was still lying on the bed, and took out his wallet. He handed me two tickets and then reached into a pants pocket and came out with a ten-dollar bill.

  “For the cab.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “You try to take your nap,” he said to Eddie.

  “All right, but I want to look at the papers awhile.”

  “You’re sure you don’t want me with him?” Freddie Thomas said to Doc.

  “He’d rather be alone,” Doc said.

  Doc had his coat on now, and he and Freddie were at the door.

  “I’ll see you down in the bar in about an hour and a half?” I said to Doc.

  “All right,” he said, and they went out.

  “Thanks, Frank,” Eddie said.

  “I’m
glad to do it.”

  “I don’t know why she decided to come tonight. She hasn’t been to a fight in years. She’s coming with a girl friend of hers.”

  “Good.”

  “I’ll call her and tell her you’re bringing the tickets up.”

  He gave the operator the number and I went into the bathroom. When I came out he had taken his jacket off and had slipped out of his loafers and he was trying to straighten out the three afternoon newspapers jumbled on the bed and on the floor.

  “She has to go out for an hour,” he said, “so you can wait a half hour.”

  “Fine.”

  He was still trying to sort the papers.

  “That Doc,” he said. “I like to read a neat paper. When I read it, I keep it neat.”

  “That’s your Teutonic heritage.”

  “What?”

  “Neatness.”

  “Doc is so exact about everything you do in fighting, but he throws the papers around.”

  “It might be in contempt.”

  He took one paper and turned to the sports section and lay down on the bed. I took one of the others and sat in the chair to read it.

  “It says here the other guy is seven to five,” Eddie said.

  “That’s what it says here, too.”

  When he finished the first paper and put it down I took it and put the one I was reading on the bed beside him. When he finished with the second one I looked at that.

  “Well,” he said, “your friend Fred Gardner picks me.”

  “Not because he’s my friend.”

  “That Tom White picks the other guy.”

  “You had to expect that.”

  “Ernie Gordon picks the other guy, too.”

  “He works for Tom White.”

  “I know. He told me that at the weigh-in, but I think he’d have picked the other guy anyway.”

  There was a knock at the door. Eddie looked up from the paper.

  “See who it is, will you?” he said.

  I got up and opened the door part way. Al Penna was standing there, a patch of white bandage and tape bulked over his left eye.

  “Hello,” he said. “Can I come in?”

  “It’s Al Penna,” I said.

  “Sure. Come in, Al.”

  He walked into the room and looked around. He put his hands in his pockets.

  “How are you, Al?” Eddie said, sitting up. “That was a good fight.”