In the second round Tommy began picking off punches in mid-air, countering time and again with his right. He was starting to tire and a stomach poke shook him up slightly. For a few seconds he took it easy and at the bell he caught his younger and heavier opponent with a solid right to the jaw, neatly crossing it over the other's clumsy left jab. They touched gloves and Tommy wished him luck in his fight, jumped out of the ring. He held out his hands and Bobby Becker untied the heavy gloves. Tommy put a towel around his shoulders and walked about, swinging his arms, throwing punches in the air, as he cooled off. Becker told him, “You looked like your old self in there. You tired?”
“Naw, I could have gone another six rounds with him. He's slow.”
“What's this I hear about you got a manager, suddenly?”
“You heard tutti-frutti air. I got a rich sucker giving me eating money. You going to be around, Bobby? I want to make some talk with you after I shower.”
Bobby adjusted the glasses on his big nose. “I'll be around. And the answer is no. I ain't got any fights for you.”
“I'm rested up, you saw me in there. Listen, if I'm anything like my old self you know I can take any guys my weight boxing today. How about another cellar four-rounder? Give me a chance to make it up to the fans for the way I stunk up the joint the last time.”
“G'wan, take your shower, you stink of sweat now,” Bobby said, but it wasn't a growl and Tommy felt he might get something.
A half hour later when he walked out of the locker room, Becker was having a thick salami sandwich and coffee at the lunch counter, listening to the counterman saying it wasn't worth his while to stay open any longer. Becker said, “The whole racket is just one prolonged funeral today. Dying slowly...” He stopped on seeing Tommy, removed his fancy glasses to get a better look. “You look sharp, Irish. You certainly fell into something. Who is this mark?”
“Forget him. I'll let you buy me some orange juice,” Tommy said, combing his thin red hair. Shaking the water off the comb, he asked, “How about a fight, Bobby?”
“Well... Okay, I should have my head examined. You got the stand-by fight next week.” Becker pulled a contract from his pocket. “Sign. Usual—twenty-five if you don't go on, sixty bucks if you do. And look, don't sell no blood or get stinko on me.”
Tommy took a pen from Becker's breast pocket, signed the contract. “You'll see, I'm on my way back to the top.”
“All I can see is I'm nuts.”
“Bobby, I'm rested. I been eating fine, put on two pounds. Why last night I flattened a heavyweight.”
“Wasn't any bouts on last night.”
Tommy told him about May and Big Burt and Bobby's fat face went pale. Tommy finished, ”... so I put the fear of God smack into him. He'll leave May alone. You should of seen how I pasted...”
“You fool, you put your foot in it!” Becker said in a hoarse whisper. “Now this Big... guy... has to settle with you or May!”
“It'll be a lot of hours before he'll have to do anything. You don't understand, I scared him off us.”
“Oh, you dope! You beat him up in a public place, before plenty of people. If you'd done it in an alley, he could forget about it. Now it's all over the market!”
“That's what I wanted—everybody to know I'd squared the bet. After I tell him things are okay, then I couldn't let him call May names and...”
“Tommy, you got a head thick as the Blarney Stone!” Bobby said, throwing his sandwich into a trash can. “Already, you've rained my appetite. You'd better get May out of town, way out. And you go too!”
“But all I did was get this cruel clown off her back?”
“Tommy, Tommy, you know why cops go all out when another cop is beaten up, or killed? It isn't that they give a damn so much about the particular cop—they can't risk the prestige of the whole force. They can't let anyone get the idea it's okay to take a poke at a cop. With the numbers syndicate it's the same. The reason this Big...”
“Burt.”
“... Big Burt had to whip May was to stop anybody else from thinking they could hold out on the syndicate—to reassure the players the mob don't stand for no crap. It's the same reason they're always careful to pay off promptly: it's the life blood of their business. They got to keep the customers in awe of the syndicate. Okay, so now you've slopped up one of their runners, or bankers, or whatever this Big Burt is. If nothing is done about it, other people will get the idea the syndicate isn't strong, ain't much. A guy that doubts ain't going to play with them. Listen, I know these racket punks. I was... I know!”
“You saying the big-shot goons are out to get me?”
“They have to get somebody. They may not know where to find you, but they'll kill or cripple May. Tommy, listen to me carefully: if I know anything about punks, this Big Burt will be too proud to make it a syndicate matter—yet. He'll try to make a showing for his bosses by settling things himself, first. So what you've done by shellacking him is to put him square on May's back!”
“I only meant to... What can I do now?”
“Get May out of the market district fast. Then you have to even yourself with this joker. Maybe stand still for a beating.”
“They say he's a knife joker, Bobby. I can't stand still for a slicing job.”
“You and May should get out of town fast! Once it becomes a gang matter, they'll know where to find you. I'll lend you trainfare to... where?”
“I can't do that either now.”
Becker took out the contract. “Ill tear this up and...”
“Leave it lay,” Tommy said, slapping Becker's fat shoulder. Walking toward the stairs and the street, Tommy called back, “If I'm dead or cut up by next week, you can always get another boy around here.”
It was the middle of the afternoon as he headed for the markets. Tommy thought, Damn, just when I finally get a break in the ring, something like this has to come up. Bobby was right, I lost my head last night. Like letting a fighter drive you crazy by making cracks about your mother... and you leave yourself open as you come slugging in. I could have let Burt run his fat mouth, in one ear and out... Okay, I didn't. That's over, now I got to make my play and make it fast. God, let my luck still go for me.
Nearing the market district, Tommy walked carefully—he didn't want to meet Big Burt now. He wondered if it would be safe to go to the bar on West Street, or would... “Hey, Cork.”
Tommy jumped as he spun around to see Butch Morris coming out of a wholesale butcher shop, lugging a large cane basket covered with brown paper. Butch crossed the street and held out a thick hand. “Had you pegged wrong, Mr. Cork. I heard what you did last night. I hope it don't start no killings around here, but at least you acted like a ruddy man!”
Tommy shook his head. “I hope not like a dead man. Tell me, have you heard anything about what Big Burt plans to do?”
“I hear after the ambulance doc fixed him up, he yelled he was going to kill you—or May. Of course that could be so much belch-talk. I don't know how the big numbers boys take to all this. I imagine they don't want too much publicity and trouble. Killing is both.”