“Anything you say, Mr.... Arno.”
Arno walked down the few ring steps as if he was on a tightrope a mile high, took a belt of brandy. Tommy shadow-boxed for a few minutes, then jumped over the ropes to the ring apron, then to the floor. The jar when he landed completely cleared his head, although he still felt weak.
He walked over to Jake, watched him slug the heavy bag for a few seconds, then held out his gloved hands. Jake pulled his punching-bag gloves off, untied Tommy's heavy training gloves. “Sorry, Pops. I clipped you with a lucky one. You walked into my right.”
“It happens. You have a lot of stuff. Jake. A barrel full.”
“Thanks. Guess I'll go another round, then knock it off.”
After a shower, Tommy felt fine—almost. He ran up to the house and found Arno watching a Western on the small screen TV in the old living room. Arno had a bottle of Scotch and glasses, motioned for Tommy to take a glass. When Tommy hesitated, Arno poured him a big hooker, said, “Come on, it will relax you. Sit down.”
Tommy sipped the drink, although he never liked Scotch, told Arno, “You got a hell of a fine boxer in Jake.”
Arno motioned for him to keep his voice low, pointing toward the kitchen where the woman was making lunch. He whispered, “I know what I have in Jake.”
“I've been around, Arno. I've seen all the good welters, boxed with most of them. I've sparred with Cerdan, Graham, Olson, and battled Sugar Ray. Jake is not only a sharp boxer, but he's probably the hardest puncher I ever saw.”
Watching the TV Western out of the comer of his eye, Arno nodded, pleased. “Jake is not only very good but, what's even better, nobody knows about him. I've been bringing him along quietly. I'm capitalizing on the fact TV has killed the smaller clubs. In the old days I couldn't keep a Jake a secret. Now—I'm not going to cut in any of the fight mob, either. Same goes for you. When I manage a fighter, or any other business, it has to be all mine.”
The Scotch filled Tommy with a nice warmth. “Jake can take any welter around—Jordan, Akins. I'd bet on him taking most of the middleweights, too—Basilio, Fullmer, Webb.”
Arno nodded again, filled Tommy's glass. “I know that. When I finally spring Jake, it's going to be so big, so sensational the fight mob will have to let me in, on my own terms. I'm a gambler, and believe me, when Jake pops, I'll also make a betting killing.”
“That's playing it smart,” Tommy said, a little puzzled. “But how are you going to get Jake 'in'?”
“The reason I'm taking you on. Tommy, you're my key. You have the name. You train right, start getting a few bouts here and there. You'll have to piece yourself off to get the fights, but that's okay. That's my edge on the fight mob, money isn't important to me. This is also why I'm not your manager—on paper. Now, soon as you get to be a contender again, you'll agree to fight an unknown, take what seems like a soft touch.”
“Jake?”
Arno beamed. “You know Jake can take you, don't you, Tommy?”
“Well, I'm not in shape and he caught me trying to be cute. I... You want me to take a dive?”
“Would you do business?”
Tommy finished his drink and laughed. “Arno, I been a pro pug for about fifteen years. Pro means fighting for one thing—dough. I've gone into rings sick, hungry, and once with a busted hand. The glory bit has worn thin for me.”
Arno reached for the bottle but Tommy shook his head. Arno showed his strong even teeth in a grin, turned the TV down as the commercial came on. “I knew you were a smart cookie the moment I saw you, Cork. I admire a man like myself, who faces up to the facts of life, not the dreams. You won't regret it. I figure if you go into the tank, especially on TV, why, then they can't freeze us out. The fans all across the country will demand Jake fight the champion. I'll be in the driver's seat. Also, I have a couple of new angles to show the fight mobsters, that I'll tell you—in time. Once Jake is champ, then we call the tune, and you get all the big paydays you want. Jake might even take a fall for you, let you hold the crown for a while. You buying?”
“All the way,” Tommy said, holding out his hand.
Arno shook it. “Let's drink on that.”
“I've had enough,” Tommy said, only because too much Scotch made him sick. “Hey, when they going to have chow ready?”
“One thing we have to get squared away on—nobody is to know of this except us two. Not even Jake. I'll let him in on things later, when he has to know. But you must see that if anybody else knows, it queers our whole set-up.”
“Don't worry about me, I can be speechless when necessary. How soon do I start fighting?”
“When you're in shape. Like I told you, you're the key to the whole works. Take your time, you have to be right. Perhaps in a month or two.” Arno took out his wallet. “In the meantime, as per our agreement, I'll pay your room and board, give you twenty-five a week.” He handed Tommy two tens and a five. “I'm strictly a businessman, I'll keep track of what I loan you, start taking it from your first large purse. Okay?”
“I wouldn't want it no other way.”
The woman in the kitchen called out she was ready to put food on the table. Arno asked Tommy, “Will you go down to the barn and get Jake?”
“Sure.”
Arno winked, put a fat finger on his lips. As Tommy left the room, Arno turned up the TV to catch the end of the cowboy show, took a fast swig from the brandy flask in his pocket. He thought, I could sell the simple bastard the popcorn concession on the moon. Always amazes me, the sillier the line, the harder some mark falls. But a punchy fighter—hardly a workout for me.
DETECTIVE STEINER
Walt Steiner finished his tour of duty at four o'clock and was home watching an old movie on TV by a quarter to five. “Home” was an old-fashioned railroad flat of six rooms, three flights up, in a building which would have been condemned as an ancient tenement—if the area hadn't become a hangout for artists and writers, and young men with immature beards. The landlords found a mild boom on their hands and were quick to welcome the cafe espresso shops, happy the slum was now a second “Greenwich Village.”
Ruth had insisted upon taking the apartment. It didn't make a bit of sense to Walt. Between them they had an income of over ten thousand a year, why live in a roach-infested dump, not to mention the long hours he had put in painting and fixing up the place? Still, it was roomy. Ruth had her “den,” furnished with ugly white iron garden furniture, which pleased her for some unknown reason. (Actually it was most uncomfortable, but the wrought iron furniture was a good conversation “thing.” Friends would ask, “How can you possibly write on that table or sit in the hard chair?” Ruth would reply, the proper note of self-sacrifice in her voice, “Writing is an uncomfortable taskmaster.”) The walls of the apartment had conventional bull fight posters, several abstract oils, and framed photostats of checks from the New Yorker and Seventeen for the two stories Ruth had been paid for—in contrast to her yams in the little literary magazines where the “pay” was a few copies of the magazine.