“Aha.” Tommy counted the overcoat buttons. Between the third and fourth buttons, if it came to that, as he thought, “Main thing is to control myself, get this settled. He said, “I came to tell you that May, the waitress at the diner, squared the play with Shorty. It's all settled.”
Burt grinned. He was certain Tommy wasn't a dick. His face shouted pug, but a small one. “Who settled it?”
“I did. I'm making arrangements to pay Shorty off. May's sorry, and don't want no more trouble with you. Okay?”
“Who are you?”
“What's the diff? The beef is squared.”
“I like to know whom I'm talking to.” Burt had a vague fear the syndicate brass might be behind Tommy.
“I'm May's husband. Now you know. Everything okay?”
“Tell your bitch if she ever shows her ugly puss around here, I'll...”
Tommy's right hand moved. Burt's raced for his coat pocket. But Tommy was merely feinting with his right; a perfect left hook landed in the middle of Big Burt's groin, then a short hard right thudded between the third and fourth buttons into the solar plexus. It was so fast Burt still had his hand at the top of his pocket. As he started to sink to the floor, big face tight with pain, another left slashed Burt's eye, a right closed the other eye, a left broke his nose.
All of this took less than a brace of seconds. Tommy glanced around to see what the others were going to do, watched the bartender out of the corner of his eye. Everybody seemed scared, motionless.
Tommy shook his fingers, felt of his knuckles. Burt's head was resting on the bar railing, then hit the floor with a dull sound. His face was red with blood, right hand still in his pocket, left hand pressing between his legs. Tommy said, “You big bastard, you didn't have to slap her around. She didn't know what she was doing. She would have made the money good.” He walked out of the bar. No one made a move to stop him. In fact, when he had left the bar the first sound was a produce man muttering, “Geez, did you see that little redheaded guy go? Wow!”
Outside, Tommy walked fast, turning comers and listening for any following footsteps until he found himself out of the market area, in a silent street of dark office buildings. Tommy trotted over to a bus and thirty-five minutes later he was in his hotel room, undressing. It was after three. His knuckles were swollen but not broken. The skin wasn't even cut. He got into bed and fell off to sleep at once. Tommy felt very good.
ARNO
Arno was a light sleeper. He had returned to the hotel at one o'clock after reading the morning papers while eating sweet Greek pastry in an upstairs coffee shop he'd found. He had noticed Tommy's key was still at the desk.
Now, he awoke as Tommy closed the door across the hall. For a moment Arno listened to the heavy breathing of Jake in the bed next to his. Then he sat up, lit a match, looked at his fancy wrist watch. (Worth a hundred dollars in any pawn shop.) He smiled at the time, blew out the match, and turned until reaching a comfortable sleeping position. He made a mental note to get Jake on the road early, then dozed off.
Arno was also feeling quite contented.
TOMMY
Jake awoke him at seven. Jake was dressed in a woolen cap, sweat shirt, old pants, a windbreaker, and heavy shoes. He was half asleep himself, Arno having forced him out of bed a few minutes before. It was almost with a feeling of revenge that he shook Tommy, asked, “What you say, Pops, going to hit the road? Or are you too sleepy?”
“Never too sleepy to strengthen my legs,” Tommy said, in a daze, not wanting to show how tired he really felt.
They walked over to the park, then jogged and ran three miles, stopping now and then to shadow-box. It was the first time in a week Tommy had seen Jake on the road and when they stopped to spar for a second, both of them sweating freely, he asked, “Arno have a fight set for you?”
“Who knows? I always keep in shape.”
“Did you tell me you used to fight in New York, that you'd worked out with Basilio and Jordan at the old Still-man's gym?”
“I never told you nothing, Pops,” Jake said coldly. “Let's run.
Tommy said sure and shut up. They were the only pugs out but he could remember when one would see a dozen or more boxers, all guys he knew, running in the park any morning. Or the “old days” when Tommy might take a few close pals up to a training camp, how excited they'd be to hit the road with him, and puffed out after the first quarter of a mile. Tommy even paid their way, had them take off from their jobs. When he once mentioned this to Alvin while gassing over a beer, Hammer had told him, “I'll never understand you pugs; you make a hard dollar but you're always carrying around an entourage of freeloaders, throwing away your money. Why did you do it?”
“You see, it gets lonely in a training camp,” Tommy had tried to explain. “Bobby was much older than me, and my trainer was always telling me what John L. Sullivan had told him. I needed some guys my own age around... talk to, make jokes. No, that wasn't money thrown away.”
Back in the hotel, after they showered, Arno joined them for breakfast, face carefully shaved and powdered, his nose no longer looking like a road-map. He told Tommy, “Guess you came in after I did last night.”
“Running a bed-check on me?”
Arno smiled, his lips almost feminine against the aftershave powder on his face. “I should say not. You know far more about conditioning than I ever will. Any time you feel the need for relaxation, go ahead. If you want a woman, let me know. I'll fix you up.”
Tommy rubbed the wedding ring on his finger. “I have a wife. I saw her last night.”
Jake actually leered as he asked, “Why didn't you tell me? You must have been real pooped this morning.”
“Nothing to tell. I'm feeling fine. Plan to start working out at the big gym today, try to get myself a fight.”
Arno nodded as he spread mint jam on a well buttered piece of toast, then sprinkled dried ginger over it. Watching the ginger sink into the jam, he said, “Tommy, just keep in mind there's no rash. I want you to be ready. By the by, in case anybody around the gym asks, remember, I'm not your manager. Since the fight mob hangs out there, best to also keep my being your... uh... patron quiet. Understand?”
“Sure.”
“Until fake is established we have to keep our deal top secret. Don't even tell your wife. Did you tell her?”
“No. I'm not much of a talker,” Tommy said, ordering more eggs. “May, that's the wife, doesn't ask about boxing. She don't exactly like the game. We been apart for the last couple years. You know how it is.” He turned to Jake. “You married?”
“Me?” Jake grunted with astonishment. “Naw.”
Tommy said, “A leatherpusher shouldn't get hitched until he's done with the ring. Do you have a family, Arno?”
“Not that I recognize. Guess I've knocked up my share of gals. I was married twice. Didn't work out; I was too busy making money. There's too many pretty things floating around for a man to settle down with one of them.”