The bell rang and Werra charged across the ring, slid off Targo’s shoulder, got a left hook in. Targo got more of the hook than was in it. He piled back into the ropes, bounced out, clinched.
Carmady smiled quietly in the darkness.
The referee broke them easily. Targo broke clean, Werra tried for an uppercut and missed. They sparred for a minute. There was waltz music from the gallery. Then Werra started a swing from his shoetops. Targo seemed to wait for it, to wait for it to hit him. There was a queer strained smile on his face. The girl in the white wrap stood up suddenly.
Werra’s swing grazed Targo’s jaw. It barely staggered him. Targo lashed a long right that caught Werra over the eye. A left hook smashed Werra’s jaw, then a right cross almost to the same spot.
The dark boy went down on his hands and knees, slipped slowly all the way to the floor, lay with both his gloves under him. There were catcalls as he was counted out.
The fat man struggled to his feet, grinning hugely. He said: «How you like it, pal? Still think it was a set piece?»
«It came unstuck,» Carmady said in a voice as toneless as a police radio.
The fat man said: «So long, pal. Come around lots.» He kicked Carmady’s ankle climbing over him.
Carmady sat motionless, watched the auditorium empty. The fighters and their handlers had gone down the stairs under the ring. The girl in the white wrap had disappeared in the crowd. The lights went out and the barn-like structure looked cheap, sordid.
Tony Acosta fidgeted, watching a man in striped overalls picking up papers between the seats.
Carmady stood up suddenly, said: «I’m going to talk to that bum, Tony. Wait outside in the car for me.»
He went swiftly up the slope to the lobby, through the remnants of the gallery crowd to a gray door marked «No Admittance.» He went through that and down a ramp to another door marked the same way. A special cop in faded and unbuttoned khaki stood in front of it, with a bottle of beer in one hand and a hamburger in the other.
Carmady flashed a police card and the cop lurched out of the way without looking at the card. He hiccoughed peacefully as Carmady went through the door, then along a narrow passage with numbered doors lining it. There was noise behind the doors. The fourth door on the left had a scribbled card with the name «Duke Targo» fastened to the panel by a thumbtack.
Carmady opened it into the heavy sound of a shower going, out of sight.
In a narrow and utterly bare room a man in a white sweater was sitting on the end of a rubbing table that had clothes scattered on it. Carmady recognized him as Targo’s chief second.
He said: «Where’s the Duke?»
The sweatered man jerked a thumb towards the shower noise. Then a man came around the door and lurched very close to Carmady. He was tall and had curly brown hair with hard gray color in it. He had a big drink in his hand. His face had the flat glitter of extreme drunkenness. His hair was damp, his eyes bloodshot. His lips curled and uncurled in rapid smiles without meaning. He said thickly: «Scramola, umpchay.»
Carmady shut the door calmly and leaned against it and started to get his cigarette case from his vest pocket, inside his open blue raincoat. He didn’t look at the curly-haired man at all.
The curly-haired man lunged his free right hand up suddenly, snapped it under his coat, out again. A blue steel gun shone dully against his light suit. The glass in his left hand slopped liquor.
«None of that!» he snarled.
Carmady brought the cigarette case out very slowly, showed it in his hand, opened it and put a cigarette between his lips. The blue gun was very close to him, not very steady. The hand holding the glass shook in a sort of jerky rhythm.
Carmady said loosely: «You ought to be looking for trouble.»
The sweatered man got off the rubbing table. Then he stood very still and looked at the gun. The curly-haired man said: «We like trouble. Frisk him, Mike.»
The sweatered man said: «I don’t want any part of it, Shenvair. For Pete’s sake, take it easy. You’re lit like a ferry boat.»
Carmady said: «It’s okey to frisk me. I’m not rodded.»
«Nix,» the sweatered man said. «This guy is the Duke’s bodyguard. Deal me out.»
The curly-haired man said: «Sure, I’m drunk,» and giggled.
«You’re a friend of the Duke?» the sweatered man asked.
«I’ve got some information for him,» Carmady said.
«About what?»
Carmady didn’t say anything. «Okey,» the sweatered man said. He shrugged bitterly.
«Know what, Mike?» the curly-haired man said suddenly and violently. «I think this Sonofabitch wants my job. Hell, yes.» He punched Carmady with the muzzle of the gun. «You ain’t a shamus, are you, mister?»
«Maybe,» Carmady said. «And keep your iron next to your own belly.»
The curly-haired man turned his head a little and grinned back over his shoulder.
«What d’you know about that, Mike? He’s a shamus. Sure he wants my job. Sure he does.»
«Put the heater up, you fool,» the sweatered man said disgustedly.
The curly-haired man turned a little more. «I’m his protection, ain’t I?» he complained.
Carmady knocked the gun aside almost casually, with the hand that held his cigarette case. The curly-haired man snapped his head around again. Carmady slid close to him, sank a stiff punch in his stomach, holding the gun away with his forearm. The curly-haired man gagged, sprayed liquor down the front of Carmady’s raincoat. His glass shattered on the floor. The blue gun left his hand and went over in a corner. The sweatered man went after it.
The noise of the shower had stopped unnoticed and the blond fighter came out toweling himself vigorously. He stared open-mouthed at the tableau.
Carmady said: «I don’t need this any more.»
He heaved the curly-haired man away from him and laced his jaw with a hard right as he went back. The curly-haired man staggered across the room, hit the wall, slid down it and sat on the floor.
The sweatered man snatched the gun up and stood rigid, watching Carmady.
Carmady got out a handkerchief and wiped the front of his coat, while Targo shut his large well-shaped mouth slowly and began to move the towel back and forth across his chest. After a moment he said: «Just who the hell may you be?»
Carmady said: «I used to be a private dick. Carmady’s the name. I think you need help.»
Targo’s face got a little redder than the shower had left it. «Why?»
«I heard you were supposed to throw it, and I think you tried to. But Werra was too lousy. You couldn’t help yourself. That means you’re in a jam.»
Targo said very slowly: «People get their teeth kicked in for saying things like that.»
The room was very still for a moment. The drunk sat up on the floor and blinked, tried to get his feet under him, and gave it up.
Carmady added quietly: «Benny Cyrano is a friend of mine. He’s your backer, isn’t he?»
The sweatered man laughed harshly. Then he broke the gun and slid the shells out of it, dropped the gun on the floor. He went to the door, went out, slammed the door shut.
Targo looked at the shut door, looked back at Carmady. He said very slowly: «What did you hear?»
«Your friend Jean Adrian lives in my hotel, on my floor. She got sapped by a hood this afternoon. I happened by and saw the hood running away, picked her up. She told me a little of what it was all about.»
Targo had put on his underwear and socks and shoes. He reached into a locker for a black satin shirt, put that on. He said: «She didn’t tell me.»
«She wouldn’t — before the fight.»
Targo nodded slightly. Then he said: «If you know Benny, you may be all right. I’ve been getting threats. Maybe it’s a lot of birdseed and maybe it’s some Spring Street punter’s idea of how to make himself a little easy dough. I fought my fight the way I wanted to. Now you can take the air, mister.»