“Untie Hugh. Let him go.”
The one called Schmidt said, “It’s your own fault the old guy is in this predicament. Me and Darden stopped by your joint and saw all the signs of a man beating it in a hurry. If you’d stayed there, your trainer here would be sound asleep right now, dreaming about championship fights.”
Both guys looked familiar, and while he was talking it occurred to me I’d seen both of them only hours earlier, at the Athletic Club. They were the two heavies hovering around behind Titus and Al Stavros.
I smiled. “I thought you boys were out enjoying a steak dinner tonight. Did I ruin your plans for the evening?”
The one holding Hugh’s collar, Darden, said, “That was hours ago, you dumb palooka. But you did ruin my plans for a good night’s sleep.”
“Enough chit-chat,” Schmidt said. “Turn around, Riley, put your hands behind your back. Or it’ll go bad for the oldster.”
He reached under his coat, pulled out a revolver, and placed it gently against Hugh’s head.
Hugh knelt there glaring at everyone in the room. He’d never been a fighter, but you wouldn’t know it from his attitude. He looked like, given half a chance, he’d try to take them on by himself. Hell, he probably had tried. Hence the bloody mouth.
I said, “If I go with you, you’ll leave him alone, right?”
Schmidt said, “Sure. Mr. Kardinsky has a soft spot for old Hugh here. After all, it was Mr. K’s money that made this stinking gym possible.”
I looked at Hugh, and Hugh stopped glaring and lowered his eyes.
“Hugh,” I said. “You’re in with Kardinsky? What the hell?”
Darden held up a key ring and dangled it on his finger. “How do you think we got in, Riley? Mr. K is a key holder.”
“What the hell?” I said again.
Schmidt said, “Everyone is in with Kardinsky, Riley. Grow up, why don’t you?”
I sighed. There was nothing for it. Feeling a sort of sad resignation, I turned around very slowly and put my clenched fists behind my back.
I heard one of them step up quickly, and felt hands grabbing my forearms, yanking them closer together, and then the feel of rough twine being expertly wrapped around my wrists. In my ear, Darden said, “Good choice, Riley,” and then pulled me back around to face him.
Schmidt was untying Hugh, yanking the old man’s arms up hard to do it. Hugh grimaced in pain but didn’t cry out. When Hugh was free, Schmidt pulled him up by his collar and shoved him toward the bed. Hugh fell into it, took a second to gather his composure, and then shot daggers out of his eyes at Schmidt. He rubbed his wrists.
Darden said to him, “I probably don’t have to tell you this, but you’re gonna keep your trap shut, right? If the cops come around, and they will, you didn’t see us tonight and you didn’t see Riley. You have no idea where he is.”
Hugh said, “You sonofa—“
“Don’t be stupid, old man. Keep your trap shut. One lousy palooka isn’t worth your life. You understand?”
Hugh didn’t respond. He turned his gaze to the wall and rubbed his wrists. He looked sadder than I’d ever seen him. Apparently, that was good enough for the thugs, because they then turned their attention to me.
I said, “What now? You take me to Kardinsky and he beats on me a little? And then you two drive me out to some secluded spot and put a bullet in my head?”
Schmidt said, “Naw, you got us all wrong, you stupid Mick. Mr. K just wants to play a few rounds of pinochle, that’s all.”
That got a laugh out of Darden. “Pinochle,” he said. “It’s just a funny word.”
He shoved me and the three of us went through the office and out into the gym.
So Hugh was safe, as long as he didn’t open his mouth. I hoped that he wouldn’t. My life wasn’t worth that much, really. But as worthless as it was, I still felt pretty miserable that it was all going to end. For maybe the first time I started thinking about all the lost possibilities, all the things I could’ve done with myself if I had even an ounce of ambition or common sense. I thought of Father Tim, what he might have had to say about all this. He’d be ashamed of me, I knew.
The thought was so depressing, it occurred to me that maybe these guys were doing the world a great big favor, snuffing me.
But that miserable realization only flitted through my mind briefly. So okay, my life wasn’t worth much, but still… it was mine.
It was worth fighting for.
And, after all… I was a fighter, right?
We passed the ragged excuse for a ring, swerving around it, and one of them pushed me toward the front doors. I stumbled forward, using the fumble as an excuse to get closer to the punching bag, easing to the right.
“The front doors, Riley,” Darden said. “Step lively.”
“All right, all right.”
We were three steps away from the bag. I took a deep breath, took another step, and then another, thinking, are you really gonna try this, Tommy? Are you really gonna do it, you crazy Mick? and then the bag was directly to my right.
I made like I was stumbling in the dark, and before either of the thugs could do a thing, I launched myself at the bag with all my weight.
ROUND 6
The bag spun hard, arcing in the air. At the same time, I ducked around to the other side of it. I heard Darden say, “Hey—“ before the bag came swinging back. I pushed it along with my shoulder and it slammed into his side.
Darden stumbled back and tripped himself up on a work-out mat. He fell, and I could just make out his shadowed form trying to scramble to his feet. To the left of him, Schmidt reached into his coat and pulled out the gun.
The bag swung back toward me and I kept it between me and Schmidt. He fired his revolver three times, little flashes of yellow light in the darkness, loud enough to nearly burst my ear drums, and the bullets pounded into the bag. I pushed again with my shoulder, wishing to God my hands weren’t tied, and barreled right along with the bag and into Schmidt.
He went down over Darden and my momentum sent me sprawling as well. The three of us scrambled around on the mat like a bunch of confused amateur high school wrestlers, each of us trying to be the first on his feet.
I was almost up when one of them grabbed my ankle and pulled me back down. In the wildly fractured shadows, I could see the gun in Schmidt’s hand swing around toward my face. I kicked out sharply, catching him in the wrist, and the gun went off. The bullet whined off the ceiling, and I kicked again. Schmidt lost his grip on the gun and it bounced off the mat and clattered on the lino floor.
One of them, I couldn’t tell which, let off a string of expletives that would’ve made me blush if I hadn’t been so preoccupied.
Instead of trying to get up, I kept kicking at whatever body part moved, managing to get some satisfaction out of hearing them cursing and trying to get at me. A fist came out of nowhere and connected with my cheek, but I barely felt it.
A head loomed over me, and I jerked forward, slamming my forehead into it. There was a satisfying crack of bone, a wash of hot blood on my face, and whoever it was said, “Guh—“ and fell back.
I rolled away, off the mat, and managed to get to my feet. A better vantage point. Darden had his hands over his face, trying to stanch the flow of blood. Having just been head-butted myself a few hours earlier, I knew he was as good as useless for the moment.
Schmidt, on the other hand, was getting up. I threw myself at his shadow, barreling into him full-tilt. He made a noise like a punctured basketball, the breath knocked right out of him, and slammed hard into the wall. He hung there for a second, before sliding down it and crumpling on the floor.
I wasn’t taking any chances. I kicked him as hard as I could in the face. That did the trick. He went still and silent.
The lights snapped on, momentarily blinding me, and Hugh said, “Tom! Are you okay?”
I focused on him, standing by the office door with his hand still on the light switch.
“Yeah,” I
said. “Peachy.”
***
We got the two of them tied up in the ring, their backs to the posts. Schmidt was out like a light, but Darden was conscious. Not that it did him any good. He just sat there, hands secured around the post, and whimpered about his nose. Hugh was tending to it while I leaned against the far corner and watched. Neither of us spoke for a while.
Through his tears, Darden said, “You just bought yourself a world of trouble, Riley. You think you’re going to get away with this? You’re a dead man. Mr. Kardinsky will—“ Hugh did something to his nose, and Darden said, “Ow! Ow, ow, ow, stop it!”
Hugh grinned at him. “Just trying to straighten it out for ya, mack. It’s broken.”
“You too, old man. Kardinsky’s going to hear about this, you got me? You think he won’t do anything to you because you have a business arrangement? Think again, buddy.”
Hugh said, “Mr. Kardinsky makes money from me, boyo. You think he cares enough about you to do anything?”
I said, “So it’s true. You’re in Kardinsky’s pocket.”
Hugh frowned at me. “It’s not like that, Tom.”
“Then how is it?”
“I needed money to start this place up, didn’t I? Kardinsky gave it to me. It’s as simple as that. He makes fifty percent.”
“Fifty percent! That explains why you live in a seedy back room here.”
Hugh stood up, turning away from the still whimpering Darden. “You’re gonna judge me now, Tom?”
We looked at each other for a moment. I sighed. “No. I’m not gonna judge you.”
“Good. Because maybe doing business with the Jewish mob was a bad idea, but you know, I don’t have the market cornered on stupid moves, do I? These lowlifes are here because you killed Wheels Meyer.”
“It was an accident.”
“Hell of an accident. The point is, you’re in serious trouble.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know.”
Hugh gritted his teeth angrily, stalked across the ring and right up to me, and back-handed me across the mouth.
Darden laughed briefly, but it hurt him to do it and his chuckles choked off.
I touched my stinging mouth and said, “What the hell was that for?”
“For all the stupid crap you put me through tonight, that’s what.”
“I told you, Hugh, it wasn’t my fault. I was minding my own—“
“You were sitting in a bar, telling stories about what an amazing fighter you are. Mouthing off. And Wheels Meyer showed up and called you out on it. And you didn’t take him seriously.”
“I didn’t know who he was.”
“It wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t been regaling the crowds with tales of your own grandness. It was your ego, Tom. Your damn cockiness. As usual.”
And, as usual, he was right.
I don’t know why I did it, why I always acted like such a cocky bastard. Truthfully, I didn’t feel like the King of the World. Even when I was acting it, I didn’t usually feel it. Maybe it was insecurity or something. A deep-seated feeling of inadequacy.
I’d let Hugh down. I’d let Father Tim down. Hell, I’d probably let my parents down at some point, when I was a baby. Maybe that was why they scrammed and left me in the care of St. Vincent’s.
I looked at my shoes. “Sorry,” I said.
Hugh made a weird sound in his throat, and put his hand on my shoulder. “You’re a good kid, Tom. You got more potential than just about anybody else I know. And I don’t just mean as a fighter. I mean as a… human being. You just got…what? Things you gotta work out.”
Darden said, “How touching. I think I’m going to burst into tears.”
I sneered at him. “You’re already crying, you big girl. But I can see about making you cry some more if you don’t shut up.”
Hugh said, “Enough of this. You need to leave, Tom. Go somewhere far away.”
“But maybe the cops—“
“The cops won’t help you. You’re done in Detroit. The best thing you can do is go on the lam. Get out, and do it now.”
Darden said, “Words of wisdom from the old man, Riley. But I’ll tell you, you can’t run far enough. We’ll find you.”
I ignored him, said to Hugh, “But what about you? I can’t just leave you here to—“
“I’ll be fine. I may have a little trouble with Kardinsky, but nothing I can’t handle. You, on the other hand… Well, if you stay here the only thing you can count on is a short life-span. Now go.”
“Hugh—“
“Go, damnit!”
And he turned away from me, back to Darden.
I stood there for maybe a few seconds, wanting to say something else, wanting to put everything right. But I knew I couldn’t.
I left out the side door, the same way I’d come in.
ROUND 7
Memphis, Tennessee
July 1954
Clarence held the bag and I opened up on it like Joe McCarthy on a Commie. I pounded that sucker, relishing the thick sound of my gloved fists against the canvas, the pop-pop-pop of each quick jab, the thump of my solid right across the bag’s side. It had been too long, and oh, it felt good.
Struggling to hold it in place, Clarence was sweating as much as I was. He was a tall, lean Negro, in his late thirties, divorced three times. He’d had a pretty bad back injury fifteen years ago, he’d told me, ending a lackluster career, but he’d never been away from the fight world. We got along great.
He grinned at me, tried to speak between my punches. “Damn, Tom, that’s—“ thump—“some pretty fist work!” Thump—“You sure you never—“ thump thump—“done this before?”
I dropped my gloves and backed off a step, smiling. “I never said I hadn’t done it before, Clarence.”
He let go of the bag, shaking his head. “Well, ’scuse me for jumpin’ to conclusions, like. You got the moves, boy.”
I mock-bowed, said, “You ain’t seen the half of what I got, Clarence.”
“I reckon I can believe that.”
I’d been working at Big Earl’s Gym for almost nine months, ever since rolling into Memphis last fall. My job was basic maintenance, cleaning up the joint, helping the training fighters out when needed, that kind of thing. It was steady work and it felt good to be around fighters, even if I wasn’t one of them anymore.
But almost every day I’d look at them in the ring, sparring, bouncing around, and I missed it. With a word to Big Earl, I could’ve been back in the ring, but I resisted the urge. It wouldn’t do to show I had any chops.
So, I worked out my longings on the bag once in a while.
This was the first time Clarence had ever seen it, though. He said, “You oughta get Big Earl to give you a chance, boy. You got more power in them fists than most’a them palookas he gets in there.”
I shook my head. “I ain’t a fighter,” I said, almost adding not anymore.
“Well, you sure could’a fooled me.”
The gym never got too busy. That morning there were only a couple of fellas sparring in the ring, another one skipping a rope and another doing some weight training. It was a pretty small, ragged place, not too different from Hugh’s gym in Detroit. The plaster on the walls was crumbling, water-stained from leaky pipes, and the usual smell of stale sweat and bleach would knock you senseless if you weren’t used to it.
Me and Clarence lived in a couple of rooms upstairs and had become pretty good friends. In Detroit, I never would’ve thought I’d be sharing living space with a Negro. But in Memphis—at least in the circle I’d fallen into—race relations were a little different. Blacks and whites occupied the same little world, worked together, drank together, lived together. Maybe it was different among the upper-crust types, but in this corner of Memphis there wasn’t any of that ugly race crap. Not that I could see, anyway.
I was lucky I’d been able to set up a kind of life here. With Detroit behind me, I’d drifted down to Lexington, Kentucky for a month or so. I
’d worked a little as a short-order cook there until the boss’s wife started getting free with her advances and the boss fired me.
It was Nashville after that, where I spent two weeks looking for a job, without any luck. Seriously short on money, I’d hitchhiked west, looking for work in every town along the way. Found a couple of odd jobs here and there, nothing permanent. In one town, I got rousted by the cops, beat up a little, and driven to the county limits in the dead of night and told to start walking.
So I walked. Spent a few nights sleeping on the side of the road or in barns or sheds or whatever shelter I could find. It was early autumn by that time, and getting cold, so it was pretty easy to feel sorry for myself, huddled up in my ragged coat, duffel bag under my head.
Every night, I’d lie wherever I was and try to sleep, but thoughts about Detroit plagued me and kept me awake. I wondered about Hugh, hoped he was okay. I wondered if the cops were looking for me, or if Kardinsky’s men were on my trail. During the day I was fine, but nights… man, nights were filled with fear and anxiety.
Just outside the Shelby County line, I managed to hitch a ride that took me to downtown Memphis. I walked up and down Union Avenue for a couple hours, found my way to the Mississippi River. I remember standing there on the bluff for a long time, staggered by the sight of it. I’d never seen anything quite like it, truthfully. I mean, it was huge. It was a bit foggy that day, so you could barely see Arkansas on the other side, and the DeSoto Bridge sort of disappeared into the grayness.
The Bluff City, they called it. For the bluff over-looking the river, right? But I couldn’t help wondering if there was a double meaning. I guess I’d gotten a little cynical.
I slept there that night, hidden in some bushes. The next morning I got cleaned up in a restaurant bathroom, looked in the phone book for the closest gym, and headed over.
Big Earl’s was the first place I went to, and he hired me on the spot.
Why, I’ll never know. I sure didn’t cut a dashing figure, that’s for sure. When Big Earl asked my name, I told him Tom Runyon, just off the top of my head, and he liked that, said something about a writer named Damon Runyon. I’m not a big reader, so I didn’t really know what he was talking about. But it must have been rattling around in the back of my head or something.
Bluff City Brawler (Fight Card) Page 3
