As they walked away, Bobo yawned and I gave him eight bucks, which was a good cut since I also supplied the uniform. “Drop in the office tomorrow. Got a construction job. How's the wife?”
Bobo shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Worked couple days in a dress factory, was beat. Wished to Christ I could get me a steady job.”
“This construction job is good for at least a week,” I said, wondering why Bobo never fought the champ a return match, which would have meant half a million dollar gate.
Bobo yawned again. “Chisler comes around to see me yesterday. Says if I return to the ring...”
“Forget it, you're thirty-four, way past your prime. Won't do your wife any good if you're in the nut house.”
“But a few fights mean a grand or... Sure, you're right, Hal.” He turned and abruptly walked away.
I was tracing Louise's real eyebrows, glancing now and then at the gray lace bra strap, when her boyfriend returned with a wet napkin which he held under her nose. She moved her head, pushed his hand away, and he suddenly said, “Damn you, Louise!” and punched her in the eye. Her head snapped back, she opened her eyes for a moment, sighed, and blacked out again.
As he started to follow through with another wallop, I grabbed him by the back of the collar and the seat of his pants—yanking the pants tight around his groin, said, “On your way, socker,” and rushed him toward the door. Bobo took him from there, growling, “No funny stuff or I'll beat the slop out of you!” He had that growl down perfect.
Eddie came over, pointed to the gal. “What we going to do with this study in still life?”
To make him happy I said, “Okay, I'll take her home. Opening her white evening bag, I found the usual lipstick and compact, some keys, crumpled pack of butts, a cheap wallet with three bucks in it, and her Washington Heights address.
I picked up Louise and carried her toward the door. Eddie said, “Let me help you. Must be too heavy for a little guy, Hal.”
“You know me, the half-pint Atlas. See if she had a coat or wraps.” At the top of the stairs, as the ticket taker gave me a bug-eyed look, Bobo picked her out of my arms like she was a baby, said, “I'll handle her, Hal.”
There wasn't any point in getting sore at him or Eddie, or being too sensitive about my smallness. I ran down ahead of Bobo and opened the door of my old convertible. I figured a little night air would sober her up. Eddie called out that she didn't have any coat as Bobo dropped her beside me, said, “A heavy built broad. Have fun.”
3
I drove over to the West Side Highway. This Louise had her phony dyed head on my shoulder, those painted eyebrows shooting up like lightning from her eyes. The right eye was puffed and beginning to turn purple. I hoped to hell she didn't get sick all over me. What a guy had to do to make a few bucks!
It was cool driving along the Hudson, and when we passed the yacht basin on 79th Street I saw my boat bobbing at her mooring and wished I was in the cabin, getting some sack time. The fresh air was working on this Louise and she opened her eyes—or rather her good left eye—tried to sit up, then fell back against my shoulder again. “Oho, what a head. Whole... whole side of my face feels... gone.”
I didn't say anything.
“Never felt this hung-over before.” When the thickness left her voice she sounded throaty, her tone full and sort of warm.
I could have told her about her face having nothing to do with the kicks in her liquor, but I didn't say a word. She curled up closer to me, put her fingers around my right hand. “You're a regular old chatter-box,” she said. “Never give me a chance to get a word in. Don't remember seeing you around the factory or...”
“My name is Hal Darling, I'm a private detective, you passed out at the dance, and as a favor to the owner of the hall—I'm carting you home.”
Her left eye looked over at me as she giggled. “You a dick? What's the gag, buster?”
We turned off the Highway at the George Washington Bridge, and I took my hand out of hers. She took the hand back again, asked, “Where we going? My name is...”
“Know your name and address.”
“My, my, you are the little detective. And how did you find that out?”
“By deduction—and opening your purse.”
She dropped my hand fast, felt for her purse. I told her, “Don't worry, I didn't rob you.”
She giggled, started playing with my hand again. She toyed with the callus at the edge of my palm, asked coyly, “How come your hand is so hard at the edge, Hal? Said that was your name, Hal Darling, didn't you?” At least she didn't crack wise about it being such a “cute” name, which always drives me nuts. “Aw come on, talk to me. What kind of work would make the edge of your hand calloused?”
“Spend a lot of time hitting my hands against a rubber pad.”
“Why?”
“You can kill a person with a blow from the side of your hand.”
She said, “Oh,” as though she knew what I was talking about. Then she asked, “What are you, a tough joe?”
“No, I'm not tough—being tough is a lot of crap. No, I'm just small and don't like to be walked on. That's all,” I said as we stopped for a red light at Broadway.
“Would you mind buying me a cup of coffee? I need one—but bad.”
“You'll be home in a few minutes.”
She dropped my hand. “I'll pay for it You men are so...”
I nodded up at the windshield mirror. “Seen yourself lately?”
She looked up, let out a small scream, then began to cry. “You miserable bastard, what you hit me for?”
The light turned green and I stepped on the gas. “Your boyfriend seemed to think a punch in the eye would be a sobering influence.”
“Charles would never do that!” she sobbed.
“Stop it, Charlie looks like he's slapped you around before.”
Louise lived in one of these small, old apartment houses near Amsterdam Avenue that are on the verge of becoming slums. As I parked, I saw the white of a tux shirt in the dim hallway. “Your Charlie is waiting, ask him about it.”
I opened the door and she staggered out. Charlie came over, said loudly, “So that's it, coming home with another...”
“Did you hit me?” Louise asked soberly.
“... Take you to the dance, pay for the tickets, all the booze you slobbered up like a damn blotter and now...”
“Latch off. Did you punch me in the eye, you cheap sonofabitch?”
“Watch the words or I'll shut the other one,” this Charles said bravely, reaching for her.
“Take a walk, jerk,” I said, moving between them, turning my back to help Louise; she wasn't too steady on her legs. Soon as my back was turned he came at me, as I knew he would, tried to grab my throat. When I felt his stomach against me, I dug back with both elbows.
He let out a hissing grunt, stepped away, doubled up in pain. He stood like that for a split second, then began to vomit. I pushed his hat off his head and it fell into the mess. Grabbing his oily hair I jerked his head up, crossed a right to his eye. He sat down. I turned to Louise. “Now you're even. Want some interest on his loan?”
Her good eye was staring at me with surprise. She didn't say no, so I told him to get up. He still sat on the sidewalk and I bent down and banged him on the other eye. He began to moan. I didn't want a cop to find him there, get me jammed up. “Where does this slob live?”
“On... 115th Street... and Broadway. Please, don't hit him again.”
“Hold on to the car door, or something, for a moment. I'll send Charlie-boy home.”
“Please don't hit him again.”
I snapped Charlie to his feet. He didn't look too bad, eyes weren't puffed yet, and he hadn't puked on himself. Holding him by the vest and his right arm, I walked him to Amsterdam Avenue, hailed a cab, shoved Charlie into the back seat. Giving the cabbie two bucks, I told him, “He's had too much bottle. Let him off at 115th and Broadway.”
The cabbie was a thin old man with a face full of gray stubble. Looking at the two bucks he said, “This guy gets sick in my cab, I'm done for the night.”