“Unarmed and unflinching, Irish Tommy stood his ground, facing the cold steel. There certainly would have been a bloody murder if Detective Walter Steiner hadn't walked into the bar. Identifying himself as a police officer, Steiner ordered Burt to drop his knife. Burt's answer was an attempt to slash the detective. With lightning speed, Detective Steiner, a former Olympic boxer himself, went for his gun and shot the thug dead—two bullets in his heart. I salute Detective Walt Steiner who risked his life while off duty, and I know the police department and every citizen must indeed feel proud of this heroic police officer...”
Now, sitting in his office, Alvin felt fine. His picture, along with an old one of Tommy and a mug shot of Big Burt, was on the front page of the morning papers. A major TV columnist lauded the network and Al for a “thrilling, on-the-spot-human interest report.” Even the elevator operator had told Al what a “kick” it had been. There was a memo telegram from the studio president, and all during the morning Al received a steady stream of calls and congratulatory handshakes. He phoned Walt at the squad room but was told Walt was downtown. He felt it was safe to call Tommy at his hotel but the desk clerk told him Tommy was doing road-work.
Later in the morning, while being shaved, Alvin had a new idea and ordered a phone brought to the barber chair. Calling Bobby Becker, Al told him, loud enough, of course, for everybody in the shop to hear, “Becker, you've seen Tommy's name and face all over the front pages, haven't you?”
“Aha. Between boxing and his outside interests, that Irishman isn't long for this world.”
“You don't recognize true courage when it hits you right in your fancy eyeglasses, my Bobby. Look, I was thinking, with all this publicity, how about giving the old cock a break and...”
“What did you say? The old what?” Becker asked, while in the barbershop the ancient blonde manicurist let out a giggle.
“Old cock, as in a game old bird—a fighting cock. I think it would get your club and fight card reams of free publicity if you announced you're giving Tommy a break, move him up to the main go. Surely increase the sales and...”
“Now, Hammer, you know the score. I... eh... don't pick the main event pugs... just like that.”
Alvin lowered his voice. “Show the same courage Tommy revealed! This is your chance to tell... them... to go to hell!” He wondered if it really was true Bobby received a modest flat salary and was running the club as a front for the fight mob? The “mob” was such a nebulous term. Of course Alvin had heard the “game” was in the hands of a small gang of racketeers... yet he'd never seen anybody who “looked” like a gangster, nor had he ever seen any rough stuff. Rather it was all like a strict business set-up in which the top executives are rarely seen by the public—the phone user who doesn't even know the name of the phone company president.
Bobby said, “Hammer, you know how I feel about Tommy. But I can't buck... nobody. Why don't you do it? You pull the strings. You TV crew-cuts control boxing now. A real pitch by Madison Avenue and the fight game would be clean within a month.”
“You're the promoter, matchmaker, or whatever your title is, so don't give me the ball, you gutless wonder!” Al said, hanging up, remembering, with disgust, Becker taking his cut of Tommy's last purse, thinking, By God, if they cut the lousy few bucks from an emergency four-rounder, how cheap can you get? If I ever get out of fight announcing, I'll blast the sponsors for not cleaning up the game. Their silence is consent. What a page-one story that will make, and they'd probably send the mob gunning for me. Make another headline which I wouldn't be around to read.
Alvin taped a commercial on the first take and phoned Walt again, left a message he would be in the Between Rounds Bar later that afternoon. Then he had lunch with an agency man who had an audience participation contest gimmick: they would show films of the various old championship fights in each division. The listener would then send in a one hundred word letter as to why he thought Dempsey or Louis was the greatest heavyweight champ ever, along with the all important box top. A panel of sports writers would pick the winning letter and if the champ named was still alive, he would present the letter writer with the grand prize. As the agency man said, “Why we'll even have old maids buying shaving cream to get into the contest.”
Alvin wanted to say the man was demeaning the sport, but all he did say was, “I'd be glad to m.c. this, if you get the package off the ground.” And in his mind he again saw the shooting of last night and felt sincerely proud of himself—Al now felt his courage was on a par with Tommy's, or Walt's... or any other fighter. He was sure he now truly belonged.
JAKE
Finishing breakfast after his roadwork, Jake had gone right up to his room arid to sleep. Training annoyed him and this morning he'd been doubly irritated because Arno hadn't been around when Jake returned from running in the park. “The slob is probably stuffing his fat face,” Jake told himself, “with some of the weird chow he goes for, while I'm running my legs out. I'm sure getting the hard end of this deal. All the work and I still only get a fifty-fifty split.”
Actually Jake disliked the training grind because it reminded him of the time when he had gloried in it. Not too many years before, Jake had accidentally turned to boxing and immediately ceased being merely another rough punk: he had at last found his racket. Jake knew he was a sensational fighting machine, that fame and fortune awaited him—trite words which Jake translated into: girls. In those days he would spend much of his time in the movie theatres and upon seeing any girl on the screen who struck his liking, Jake would think, Okay baby, keep looking stuck-up, and keep all that stuff warm. In a few months I'll be knocking on your door, a big money fighter. You'll welcome me—here comes the champ, the free-spender. Damn, won't be a broad I can't have.
It was a shock which left Jake on the brink of a breakdown to finally realize all that would never be. The first time he thought it was one of those things—it happens to all fighters. But after the next few times he knew the truth. He had flashy skill, a punch in either hand, and sharp reflexes: the trouble was—and it was terribly frustrating trouble—he was like a complex and beautiful machine, but a machine which would never run because a simple bolt was missing.
It was rough to take. At times Jake still thought Arno was wrong, felt he could make it as a fighter. But Jake was hardly a fellow with much imagination, and except for these rare fights of fancy, he knew Arno was right, that he was done as a pug almost before he had started. If this had been in the old days, with hundreds of fight clubs, Jake might possibly have picked up some bucks, fighting here and there, leaving before anybody got wise to him. But Jake had been a child during the “old days.”
Even when he turned to being a muscleman with a small gang of cheap stick-up jerks and would-be angle sharpies, Jake realized the days of the strong-arm men were over, too. It was then that Arno had found him.