by Ed Lacy
One time on the air, talking about a hard gut wallop, Alvin had said, “Oh! Oh! Frank rips a terrible right deep into Brown's stomach. Brown is clinching, his eyes rolling. Our mouth is desperately open, fighting for air. Now our stomach muscles grow numb, our legs go deadly tired. I feel as if I'm sinking into a numbing fog. Hold on! My heart cries out. Hold on for dear life!... Ah, now our nerves and reflexes respond, we shake off the lifeless feeling, energy and strength are flowing back into our trained muscles. The fog lifts from our brain and... There! Brown is fighting back like a wounded tiger....”
The sports writers razzed Al without mercy, but the fans like it, showered the stations with letters.
If Alvin's blind worship of “courage” made him fail to understand the stupidity and commercialized brutality of the fight racket, he could feel and understand the tragedy, the violence. Now, remembering the beating the nineteen dollars represented, he was moved to tears.
Alvin, after two failures at marriage, only saw women out of need and was “married” to his job. This marriage worked for him. People on the fringe of sports often adopt an athlete (often not aware they are doing it), one they may feel close to for any one of a hundred different reasons. Al was very fond of Tommy. “The little fighting cock,” as he loved to call him (although not on the air where it might possibly be misconstrued) had once saved a show for Alvin. From that moment on he was Alvin's favorite pug.
Tommy came out of the shower stall dripping wet, rubbing himself vigorously with the towel—the hotel name too faded to be legible. The cold shower had washed most of the dizziness and pain from his body. He waved and said, “Hello, Al. Sorry I stunk up your show. I couldn't get started.”
“He was a strong youngster.”
“Muscle-bound dummy. In the old days I wouldn't have let him carry my bag.”
“You would have cut him to ribbons with your left in a round,” Alvin said, although he'd never seen Tommy box before a year ago, when Cork had been way past his prime. Indignation shook his voice as he asked, “I thought you were paid sixty dollars for an emergency bout?”
“That's the price,” Tommy said, powdering his crotch and between the toes. It often made him nervous the way Al stared at him. He sometimes wondered if the announcer was a queer.
“Then why these few dollars?”
“Well, fifteen bucks I owed Bobby. Six went for the seconds, and Bobby gets his one-third cut, like a manager, for getting me the bout,” Tommy explained as he put on his torn underwear.
Al banged the rubbing table, a tremendous thump. “The cheap bastard! Where does he come off taking a manager's cut? He knows it's against the law for a matchmaker to be a manager, too. I'll have a word with him!”
Tommy looked up, surprised. “Look, Bobby gives me the breaks.”
“Ice in the wintertime!”
“Don't forget, he used to be my manager,” Tommy said, slipping on socks and badly cracked shoes. “It isn't easy for him to get me on the card. Plenty of mob managers are after Bobby to give their boys the cellar fight. Old Becker's been a pal to me.”
“With a pal like him you don't need enemies, as the joke goes.” Alvin put a hand in his pocket. “Irish, you need a-few bucks?”
“Naw, I'm into you for near a hundred now. This dough will last me until I get another bout.”
“You may not fight for weeks. Got any money beside this nineteen dollars?”
“Yeah!” Tommy fingered the change in his pocket as he buttoned his baggy pants.
“Irish,” Alvin began, hunting for the right words, “maybe you ought to... take a rest? I mean for a few months....”
“Listen, AL you don't have to tell me I was pure lousy tonight. We all have our off-nights. Bobby says the commission wants to take away my license. I'm only thirty-two. Archie Moore and Jersey Joe, and old Fitz—they never hit the big time until they were forty. Things been rough for me, I haven't been training right and...” Tommy almost said he hadn't been eating most of the time, but somehow he couldn't tell Al that. Al was the “press” and one always put up a front for the press. “You know I got the fastest left in the business. I have the experience. Hell, I'm no sixty-buck fighter. I made seven grand fighting Robinson. I ain't got any doubts. You wait, with the luck of the Irish I'll be up on top again, where I belong.”
“Of course, you'll be a champ. I merely thought that if you had a rest, it might be what you need.”
Tommy thought, How dumb these reporters are! He slipped on his ring, pocketed the money, and quickly packed his old suitcase. He put on an old windbreaker under an older heavy coat. “Al, resting isn't what I need. This was my first fight in nine weeks. I need more bouts. Hell, it costs to rest.”
“Suppose I give... lend you twenty-five dollars?”
Tommy shook his head. “Al what you can do is get me a part-time job, something which won't interfere with my training but give me eating dough. I could work out evenings, like most pugs do now. Ought to be lots of things around a TV studio to do.”
“Well, I'll ask.” Alvin couldn't hide the doubt in his voice.
“Something where I'd get a workout at the same time. Like pushing chairs and stuff around, physical work.”
“Irish, all those jobs are highly unionized.”
“I'll even be a porter or a messenger—just a couple hours a day,” Tommy said, putting on his cap, turning off the light. “Watch your head in the doorway, Al. I'd only need the job for a few weeks. If I hadn't run out of steam I'd have flattened this rough kid, been on the way up. AL wasn't it comical, the way he telegraphed his right?”
“He's a clumsy oaf, should quit now, while he's ahead,” Alvin said, his arm around Tommy's shoulder. They walked up the wooden steps and into the dark arena, their Mutt and Jeff shadows dancing ahead of them. In the dim light the empty arena, filled with an unreal fog of stale smoke, always gave Al a nightmarish quality. They passed Becker in the box office with his bookkeeper. Alvin stopped at the main entrance. “I forgot my coat. Irish, if I should hear about a job—and I'll try but can't promise anything—how do I get in touch with you? Haven't seen you around the bar lately.”
“Leave word with Bobby.”
“Or I'll see you at the gym?”
“Well... eh... best you tell Bobby,” Tommy told him. He owed three months' rent at the gym—fifteen dollars all told—hadn't been around there in weeks. “Hey, Al, how did you like that talking ref? Must have been afraid to work, get his hands dirty. Talk, talk... I was busy enough with the kid without listening to a lecture.”
“He should work in England, where the referee is outside the ring and only gives voice commands,” Alvin said. “Okay, old cock, I'll keep in touch. And, if things get too rugged, don't hesitate to look me up for a few bucks.”
“Thanks,” Tommy said politely, thinking, Why the devil doesn't he stop treating me like a bum? I'm Irish Cork, the welterweight contender!
Outside, it was a raw, cold night. Tommy started walking, needing food and a good hooker of whiskey, and not sure of the exact order of need. The cold air stung his battered face, cleared his head. Almost copying a hackneyed scene from a B movie, a flashy sport car, parked on the deserted street, sounded its horn. Tommy knew it wasn't for him and continued to walk. He decided to get the drink first—only one— then head for a cheap cafeteria down around the skid-row area where he could put away a filling meal for about a buck.
Continuing the motion picture scene, the horn pierced the night again and a stocky young man in a well-fitting overcoat, wearing a sharp hat, crossed the sidewalk and stopped in front of Tommy. “You Irish Cork?”
“Sure.” In the dim light Tommy could make out the hard, handsome features, the thick shoulders.
“There's a guy who wants to see you in the car. May have a good deal for you, Pops.” The voice was flat, casual, yet from the way the younger man was blocking him, Tommy had a fast feeling it was more of an order than an invitation.
“He wants to see me?” Tommy put his
bag down so his mitts would be free, never taking his eyes off the other's hands.
“That's it. Kind of a fan of yours.”
Tommy chuckled. “Think he wants my autograph?”
“Why not ask him?” Jake lowered his voice to a supposedly confidential whisper. “Pops, this guy's a fight nut And a rich one. Let's go, huh?”
For a split second Irish hesitated. It wasn't exactly fear. Tommy really believed he could lick any man in the world, including the heavyweight champ. Rather, it was a cautious curiosity. He vaguely wondered what this heavy-shouldered guy would do if he told him to go to hell; and what he could do himself, considering how weak and exhausted he was. Then he told himself, I'm thinking like a clown. What am I, a millionaire they're trying to kidnap? And I'm too poor to be sued. They must mistake me for somebody else. But he called me by name? One thing, I sure don't look like ready money.
Picking up his battered suitcase, Tommy followed the man to the car, deciding he'd see what this was all about but he'd be damned if he'd get in.
There was a plump man sitting on the front seat. He was bundled in an expensive coat. The features of the fleshy face were sloppy and the light from the dashboard showed a veined nose, wide mouth, and quick, clear eyes. Sticking out a gloved hand the man said, “I'm Arno Brewer. I'm thinking of managing you. You've already met Jake—Jake Watson, one of my fighters.”
“Manage me?” Tommy repeated, shaking hands carefully. “Why not? Want to talk this over on a drink?”
“I never touch the stuff. You didn't see me fight tonight.”
“But I did. That's when I decided I was interested in you. I know, you looked downright lousy in there. But you were obviously far out of shape. However I saw flashes of, your old form and... Sure you won't have a few shots?”
No sir, I always keep in training:
“No point in discussing things tonight. I'm at the Southside Hotel. Suppose you drop up tomorrow and we talk about it then? You haven't a manager, have you Irish?”
“No, not at the moment.”
“Fine. No worry about buying up the contract. Remember the....”
Tommy blinked. “You'd be willing to buy my contract, if I had one? No kidding?”
Arno said in the fast, nervous way he had of speaking, “You'll find me a man of direct action. Once I make up my mind. I see you in there and I say to myself, 'This guy has class. And he's the last of the Irish pugs.' I'm part Irish myself, way back on my father's side. You be at my hotel in the morning. Not before noon, like my sleep. I'll not only manage you but see you train right and eat regularly.”
“You will?”
“Mr. Brewer isn't in this for money, Pops,” Jake put in. “Like I told you, he's a fan, and this is a side line for him. A... eh...”
“Hobby,” Arno added. “Will I see you in the morning?”
“You bet.”
Jake walked around the car, got behind the wheel. As he drove off Arno called out, “Brewer is my name. Southside Hotel at noon. Don't forget, Tommy.”
Tommy nodded and shut his eyes. He opened them to see the car turn the corner, so it was all real. He spun around and started walking west. This unbelievable news called for a change in plans. He must tell May his good luck, after he stopped for a drink.
ARNO
Stopping for a light, Jake asked, “We going to see some broads tonight?”
“You can,” Arno said. “I'm too old for so much action. And this is your last time until we settle with Cork.”
“He isn't in the bag yet,” Jake said, a sort of grant. “We should have taken him with us. Might not show tomorrow.”
“He will. I don't understand it myself but some guys go for fighting as if it was dope.” Arno glanced at Jake. “Like you would be carrying a broken-down suitcase out of some fight club now—if I hadn't wised you up.”
MAY
The exchange diner was open twenty-four hours a day but at noon and 6:00 p.m. when restaurants are usually busy, they were lucky to sell more than a few cups of Java. However, from ten in the evening to late morning they did a good business. The diner, actually a dining car on a brick foundation, stood at the edge of the wholesale produce market area and was patronized by truck drivers and their helpers, merchants, and slaughter house and produce workers. Four waitresses worked around the clock, for tips and meals only. The tips were hardly anything to shout about and May Cork was the only waitress who'd stayed there over a year.
Dressed in a simple blue smock and white apron, she was usually called “Old May” by the steady customers, although she was only twenty-nine. May's gray and auburn hair was worn in a tight bun and her face was pale and delicate, as if she had never seen the sun. Her meek eyes were large, the mouth thin. The bosses liked May because she was a steady worker, never horsed around with the male customers—although at the end of her eight-hour shift she often looked as if she was about to pass out. Other waitresses came and went—often with a tracker headed back toward Florida, or for New York City. Since she was plain looking and flat-chested, May had established some sort of record in the diner: during all the months she had worked there nobody had made a pass at her.
Her boss (actually he was one of three partners) also liked May being religious, the medals she wore around her thin neck, the fact she went to church regularly. May had worked on his shift ever since she started there. He was a middle-aged man named Frederick Morris III, a direct descendant of a Pilgrim, now known only as “Butch” and rightly so since he had been a ship's butcher, bought and cut most of the meat used in the diner.
At ten forty-five that night, the afternoon waitress, a blonde named Bertha who always seemed about to serve up her fat bosom whenever she bent over to place a plate before a customer, dropped in for a free cup of coffee. She told May, “Well, honey, I'm set. Got a letter from my sister in Fresno. You know, the one who married the guy with the nut ranch out there? She's going to open that roadside stand I told you about, and they want me to help out. Who knows, maybe I'll meet a decent pair of pants in California. Anyway, they say the weather is nice and for the next three months my lucky stars are bright in the sky, so I'll see which way things bounce. Be something working in the sun. I've had it in this damn cold city.”
“When are you leaving?” May asked anxiously.
“Soon as they finish building the stand, in about a month. Her husband is one of these loudmouths who knows everything, but I guess I'll be able to take him. And they have a real house. And two kids. Ill like that. Funny, Betty— that's my sister—never had no looks. She was sort of the ugly duckling of us four babes, yet she made out the best. Never thought I'd be asking her for...”
“Bertha, can I get your apartment?” May cut in.
“Sure. That's what I come to tell you.”
May reached across the counter and squeezed the blonde's cigarette-stained hand. “Oh, Bertha, you honestly mean it?”
“Didn't I always say if I gave up the joint, it was yours? I even spoke to the agent today. No fifteen per cent raise. Only been seven months since I gave the bastard an increase, so he ain't entitled to one now. Don't let him fast talk you into paying a cent more than the forty-eight dollars a month.”
“Yes, yes, indeed! Oh Bertha, you're so sweet! You've no idea what this means to me. An apartment of my own again!”
“It ain't no hell, you seen it. Room, kitchenette, and the can. You remember how I got it fixed up?”
“Yes. Oh, Bertha, you can't know what this means to me.”
“May, stop bubbling and listen. The studio couch alone cost me two hundred bucks. And there's a couple chairs and the table, curtains, pots, and dishes. I'm taking the TV with me but it don't pay to ship the rest of the stuff. I figure a hundred and fifty bucks is a fair price to ask. Okay?”
“Fair, very fair,” May said, her face flushed with excitement “Bertha, I'll mention you in my prayers. I haven't got the money now, you understand, but in a month's time I'll get it.”
“With what these
big-hearted slobs leave you? You're the thrifty type, ain'tcha got nothing put by?”
