As he was dozing off, he was awakened to find Ruth standing nude beside the bed. Then she had asked some silly questions about, “Walt, do you see any difference between Mrs. Rockefeller and myself? Am I as pretty, now, as Mrs. Hemingway?”
“What?” he'd asked, coming out of his fog of sleep.
“Do you think I'm getting fat? Starting to spread?” Ruth ran her hands over her strong hips.
“I'm sleepy. Get something on before you catch cold.”
“Do I look 'cold' to you?”
“What is this? You look... okay,” Walt had granted, now wide awake, his eyes greedily racing over her big body. Then Ruth had pulled back the covers and carefully taken off his pajamas. She'd said, in a whisper, “Your body is still so... hard and powerful. You're a fine built man, Walt. Hundreds of girls dream of a guy like you.”
There was a faint smile on her face when she finished talking and he lay there, full of suspicion. Then he wondered if, after all the weeks of not touching her, Ruth had seen his need and was being charitable. The thought gave him the same kind of chill he'd felt outside the rooming-house. He tried to turn his back on her but Ruth's hands began to caress his body. He'd asked, “What's brought this sudden change about?”
“My husband has a delightful body. I want...”
“My body was the same yesterday, and the night before. What is this?”
“Do I need a special reason for admiring your body? Oh, I suppose it's May Cork. I relearned something from her, something so terribly basic I'd forgotten it—that everything is comparative.”
“I don't know what you're talking about. It's too late for any smart talk. Get to bed,” Walt had said, reaching for the blanket, fighting any show of desire with a stubborn, almost childish, independence.
“Of course,” Ruth had said, turning off the light. Her warm body had slid across his and his hands fondled her as their lips met....
Thinking about it now, as he had been most of the morning, Walt had long since given up trying to understand what had happened, the “why” of it. All that mattered was it had been the greatest night of his life, more demanding and exciting than their honeymoon. There had been moments of tears and whispered confessions, each admitting they had been wrong. There had been violent expressions of love and passion—in words and deeds. As dawn came, they had finally fallen asleep in each other's arms, happily exhausted. He'd only been able to sleep for an hour when it was time to get up. He considered calling in sick for the day but was afraid he'd spoil the wonder of the last few hours. For the first time in years, Walt had reported late for his tour of duty.
And while he wanted only to rest and think of what had happened, it turned out to be a busy and tiring day: the forced entry, a stolen car, a follow-up on an old case. After a rushed lunch they had gone to court, to find “their” case had been postponed. Jim was on edge with the frustrations of the day, but back in the squad room as Walt was yawning over some paper work, eager to see Ruth again, Alvin Hammer phoned, asked, “Did the prints show anything?”
“What prints?” Walt was completely confused, wondered for a hazy second if he was talking to the husband of the woman who'd been robbed, the forced entry deal.
“You were going to get a copy of the fingerprints of this boxer, Jake Watson, see if they tell us anything.”
“Give me time. I'm busy.”
Alvin said gravely, “A man's very life may be in danger.”
“Oh take it slow, Al. I have a job, remember? Soon as I'm finished here, I'll drop by the commission offices. Assuming you're right...”
“I feel in my bones I'm right,” Alvin boomed.
“Then relax your bones. I'm not Tommy's private cop. I was up with him most of last night, straightening out some trouble his wife was in. Look, we have time on this. You can't pull an insurance swindle a few days after you take out the policy. There's always a waiting period.”
“True, but try to find out anything you can now. My secretary is over at a newspaper morgue this minute, checking on every ring fatality in the past five years.”
“If I had a secretary, I'd send her over to the commission,” Walt said, grinning at his own little joke.
“I saw the old cock working out in the gym today. He looked like a true champ, flitting around the ring with the grace of a dancing ghost, a...”
Walt found himself dozing off as he listened. When Hammer finally hung up, Walt went out for a cup of coffee to keep awake, and a sandwich—he'd been hungry all day. Jim picked him up in the cafeteria to investigate an assault case, which turned out to be only a drunken family argument. When they returned to the squad room there was a phone message for Walt.
Important I see you at eight tonight in bar on West Street and 4th Avenue. Only bar around there. Something has come up. Very important
Tommy Cork.
Cursing to himself, Walt tried to think how he could get in touch with Tommy. Walt had phoned Ruth at noon and they'd sweet-talked like kids, decided to dine out that evening and perhaps take in a show... although Ruth had said she was anxious to return to bed, and then talked so “dirty” over the phone Walt had blushed—with pleasure.
Now, finishing up his paper work, trying to keep his eyes open, he finally called Alvin, who had no idea where Tommy could be reached. When he heard about the message, Alvin was worried. He tried the gym and Bobby Becker, then called back to tell Walt he couldn't locate Tommy, felt it would be too dangerous to call the hotel. He asked Walt what he thought the message meant.
“I don't know. Tommy probably has some bug up his rear. I phoned his wife, she's okay.”
“Then it must have something to do with the insurance deal. Bobby seems worried about Tommy, but he wouldn't tell me a thing. I'll keep looking for Irish. I have a commercial to do at ten, but I'll do my best to be at the bar at eight.”
“Good. Phone me at home if you find Tommy. I'm not sure I can make it tonight.”
“But Tommy's message said it was very important.”
“Hammer, I'll be off duty in a few minutes. I've had a busy day. I'm bushed. I also have a home and a wife. I told you I spent most of the night with Tommy. My sun doesn't rise and set in the doings of Irish Cork. If I can help him, great. But I said, if.”
“That's a surprising attitude, Walt. That is... well,” Alvin was trying to control his anger. “The point is, since we're all a part of the boxing sport, in one form or another, why we have a special interest in helping Tommy.”
“I have been giving him my special attention, hours of it,” Walt said, feeling too tired and too good to argue. Or even laugh at skinny Alvin thinking he was any part of the real fight racket. “If I can make it at eight, I will. If I can't... the case won't be settled this evening.”
“Perhaps it will,” Alvin said, almost smugly. “Perhaps that's exactly what Tommy means by 'very important.'”