“May is all the woman I want,” Tommy said, remembering again the heat of her kiss last night, and then the money he had to raise for Shorty. Watching Arno eating, his dainty enjoyment of the food, the fat face above the expensive clothes, Tommy was tempted to ask for a loan of five hundred and forty dollars. But he thought, Might sour Arno on me. I'd seem like a pig. Be different if I'd had a few fights for him, had paid him back a little of what he's laid out.
After breakfast Tommy bought a paper and went to his room to rest and listen to the radio. Arno slipped in and held up a bottle of Irish whiskey. “Thought you'd appreciate this, Tommy. I lucked up on it last night. Ten years old and a hundred proof. Be wasted on a kid like Jake. Figured you might want to take a taste now and then, to relax.”
Tommy thanked him and when Arno left Tommy told himself, “Guy is so good to me I can't ask him for a big bite like five hundred and forty dollars. Use a sip of this now.” He opened the bottle, took a whiff of the rich aroma and stopped the bottle half way to his lips, remembering what Walt had said about being poisoned. Then he said, “Damn, those clowns are spoiling everything for me—even a shot.” He took a small sip of the smoky-tasting liquid, then a good belt and put the bottle away in his dresser.
The whiskey relaxed him and he stretched out on the bed, thought, The hell with worrying about Arno, more important I get something working on raising Shorty's dough, get May done with the numbers guys.
A horse called Give Me A Break was running in the third race at seven to one. Being strictly a hunch player, Tommy made a note of that. He wished he had asked May what was the number that hung her up. With my Irish luck, it might save us. Little chance of the same number coming out twice in a week, but never tell. Put three bucks on it and we'll have dough to spare. Wonder if there's a phone where she is? But maybe I shouldn't bother her, or those people. Certainly nice the way they agreed to take May in. She'll have it good there, being around kids. And it would upset May if I mentioned the numbers. First time I hit a decent payday, I'll buy a flock of toys for those kids. I...
On the hotel radio an announcer said, “Today is your last chance to enter our big soup contest. Nothing to buy, no jingles to write. Merely send your name and address on the back of a postal card to the Betsy Soup Company, care of this station. All entries must be postmarked by midnight. Remember, first prize is one thousand dollars, with five second prizes of a new home freezer, and hundreds of other prizes. Hurry and send your entry in, you may be the lucky winner.”
Tommy made a note of that, figured even if he won a freezer it could be sold for a few hundred. Then he dozed off. He awoke before noon and headed for the gym. At the desk he bought a card and mailed it to the soup company. Stopping at the Between Rounds, he put five bucks on the horse, to win, and as an afterthought, a dollar on 559. They owed Shorty five hundred and forty dollars and yesterday was the nineteenth day of the month. He felt relieved, now that he had a “few things going” for himself. With the luck of the Irish, he thought, I might be able to pay off this Shorty by the end of the week, or by tonight. I wonder how soon they'll announce the winners in the radio thing?
The gym owner, a loud-mouthed elderly man with a head as bald as an egg, greeted Tommy with, “I never was so surprised in my life as when I got your letter paying up your rent here. I never knew you could write.”
This was greeted with much laughter by the managers, hangers-on, and the few spectators—at seventy-five cents a head. Gym humor usually ran to some clever fellow spitting buckshot around, hot foots, or rubbing somebody down with itching powder. One of the most hysterical moments in gym history had been when a fellow wired the door handle of the phone booth until it was red hot, and then the gym owner had shouted that a certain trainer was wanted on the phone. Even the trainer had laughed while his burnt hand was being bandaged.
But now the laughter sounded lonely in the gym, for there were only a comparative few fans and pugs around. Not like the old days when fifty pugs might be working out before hundreds of fans.
Everybody had heard of Tommy's rich manager, and a blind ex-pug peddling magazines tried to touch Tommy for a buck. Somebody else wanted to sell Tommy a “hot” ring. Tommy said it was all a lot of warmed-over air, he was still his own manager, that he had merely hit an old buddy for a hundred buck loan. But it was fine to be even a mild center of attraction—again. He put his things away in the old wooden locker and undressed. While he was working out on the bags, Alvin Hammer came in and stage-whispered out of the side of his mouth, “You learn anything, old cock?”
“Nothing. Remember, keep mum about my new manager.”
“Of course. I've been trying to contact Walt Steiner all morning, see what he's found out. Be careful, Tommy.”
“Don't worry about me,” Tommy said, humoring the announcer.
Hitting the heavy bag seemed to give him a second wind and he decided to go a few rounds. He went downstairs and sat on the long bench behind the three training rings, kidding with the other pugs. He agreed to spar two rounds with a muscular Puerto Rican lightheavy. Tommy climbed into one of the other rings and shadow-boxed a while, dancing about with five other fighters—each involved in a little ballet of his own, a snorting, macabre dance of shuffling feet on canvas.
The Puerto Rican, who was the current “sensation” of the ring world and managed by one of the “in” boys (whom the fighter had never actually seen—he only knew his manager of record who was fronting for the gangster) was training for a main event in Boston. He was sparring six rounds. Tommy went in for the middle two. The lightheavy was all tan muscles, slow and awkward, although a dangerous puncher. With a head guard and heavy gloves on, Tommy felt he could take chances. “Hell,” he told himself, waiting for the bell, “this boy has only had ten bouts. The way they rush kids these days. I had twenty-seven pro bouts under my belt before I was in a semi-final. And how about the times I used to pay guys five or ten bucks a round to work out with me? Those were the days when...”
At the bell, as he turned to face the other pug, Tommy saw Bobby Becker enter the gym. Tommy was still feeling high, with the energy of his second wind and the memory of licking Big Burt last night. And he was only going two rounds—so he gave them everything. He danced around his bigger opponent, ducking and bobbing, even dropped his hands to his sides for a moment and slipped punch after punch of the lightheavy. Then Tommy's fast left began to jab and hook, and he put different combinations of rights and lefts together with expert ease.
They were mostly light blows, all for show. The Puerto Rican bulled Tommy to the ropes where Irish didn't try to tie up his far stronger opponent, merely covered up with his hands. Then he slipped his right around the other's waist, as if clinching... and deftly spun the heavier boxer around and clipped him on the jaw with a smart left hook at the bell.
Tommy walked around the ring slowly, knowing he was breathing too hard. The Puerto Rican's handler, while rubbing vaseline on the fighter's face, snarled, “Whatcha doing, Cork, playing it cute?”
The fighter said in broken English, “Be quiet. The little one's speed is good for me,” and playfully jabbed Tommy on the behind.
Tommy waved at Bobby and glancing at the Negro and Puerto Rican pugs waiting to spar, he thought, with some satisfaction, I'm the last of the Irish pugs around. That's good, means all the Irish luck will be for me.