“That's it,” Arno said smoothly. “Just because you're big, no sense in acting that way. Calm down,” Arno turned, put the glass on the ring apron, and strolled toward the locker room.
The gym owner said, “You crazy? I don't allow no rough-house in here. I got a baseball bat to...”
“Shut up,” Walt said, the movement of his mouth hurting him. So this is how a kayo feels, he thought. Except for the pain, not much different than waking up from a hard sleep. A...
“Listen, don't tell me to shut up,” the gym owner said. “I ain't afraid of you punks of today. And you don't train here no more.” He reached for the glass. Pete suddenly put an arm around the owner's shrunken shoulders, said, “Leave me handle him, mister. And leave the glass—get my fighter a drink.”
“You guys dress and scram. I'm not kidding about that baseball bat.” The old pug went back to his office.
Walt started for a chair, stumbled. Pete helped him. Walt sat very still for a moment, holding his head which had started to throb. Minutes later he saw Arno and Jake leave, Arno quietly bawling Jake out. Jake sent a quick glance at Walt, a cocky look. Walt said dully, “They must have dressed fast as firemen. Lord, did he clout me with the bottle?”
“They had plenty of time to dress,” Pete told him. “You've been out eleven minutes. By the clock. You sure got the full treatment. Thought you were dead, for a second. Gave me a bad turn. I...”
“Come on, see what you can find on the glass!”
Pete nodded. As he crouched under the ring and started dusting the glass, he glanced up at Walt, asked, “Are you okay?”
“Sure, only a mild headache.”
“I would have stepped in but I couldn't pull my gun without giving us away as cops. That guy sure belted you. The punch didn't travel more than six inches and... Hey, we have clear prints of at least three fingers. Maybe we'll learn something.”
Still holding his head Walt said, half aloud, “I've already learned plenty. Our boy really has a murderous wallop.”
ARNO
Sitting beside take, who was driving the flashy car, Arno was pale with anger. “... and of all the dumb moves! Suppose the big guy had clouted you, maybe cut your eye? Or...”
“He didn't. Just a clumsy fat cat,” Jake cut in. He was feeling very good, the old dreams of himself as a champ flashing through his mind.
“And if he had? Told you we had to speed up our plans and you have to play things stupid! What if he'd been hurt, banged his noggin on the floor, and the cops had been called in? Don't know what's got into you recently, Jake, you're acting...”
“I'm on edge, stale from training too much.”
Arno said, “No, you don't—don't ever try to kid the ladder. We forget this, but step out of line once more and I'll really give you something to keep your mind on! I found a Spanish restaurant that looks good—real thing. You want to see a movie before or after supper?”
“I'd like some plain ham and eggs, for a change.”
Arno sighed, with disgust.
TOMMY
Waiting in the cafeteria for May, Tommy was worried, about May and about himself. He knew he should be feeling good. Arno's plans were starting to take shape. Jake and Arno had left town that morning, said they'd be back in a few days. Although Arno didn't say, and Tommy didn't ask, Tommy thought from the way Jake had been training that he had a fight set. He was supposed to let Alvin or Walt know when Jake had a bout, but Tommy hadn't said a word. For one thing, he didn't know for sure.
It was now almost two months since he had signed with Arno and Tommy was pretty low, at times he was beginning to half believe Walt and Alvin. Even though Arno's fingerprints hadn't turned up a thing. Mostly Tommy doubted Arno could actually do much for him—and if that was the case, then why was Arno interested in him? Things seemed to move so slowly. At other times Tommy wondered what he was worrying about. If Arno didn't complain why should he?
But for the first time in his career Tommy was impatient, had doubts about the whole fight game. For one thing, he suddenly seemed to be growing old very fast, every wasted day was like a month. He found himself bored and dreading the training grind, feeling very tired at the end of the day. Even a few belts of Arno's whiskey no longer relaxed him. He had won the stand-by four-rounder at Bobby's arena two weeks before in convincing style—a TKO in the third round. Oddly enough, winning the bout had upset him more than any of Alvin's ravings about murder. He had been up against a strong kid having his first bout. It made Tommy realize his own ring status. A vet of over one hundred fights in with a kid having his first bout. And he had felt sorry for the boy. In the old days a kid like this might have had a chance to get someplace—at times he moved with natural grace—but the boy didn't have the smallest idea what boxing was all about, slugged wildly. Tommy had outboxed him with ease, grand-standing at times. In the second round he had been tagged by a glancing left to the stomach, but Cork's own left hook had cut the kid's eye. A cut can take all the fight out of even an experienced pug and Tommy knew the kid was finished. In the third Tommy's jabs had stung the eye until blood covered the kid's bewildered face. Tommy dropped him with a neat right and the ref stopped the fight, even though the boy was up at three.
The fans had given Tommy a big hand, Alvin bubbled with praise, and even Bobby said Irish had been his old self. Arno had given him a bottle of expensive whiskey and a pat on the back. But Tommy knew how tired and empty he'd been in the second round. If the left to the belly had been a solid punch he would have gone down. Cork couldn't understand it. With steady training and eating he should have breezed through a lousy four-rounder. The following day, as the gym hangers-on were telling him how sharp he looked, Tommy had pestered Becker for another bout.
Bobby shook his head. “You showed so good the managers ain't keen on throwing their kids in with you. Before, they figured you were a sure win and exercise for their boys.” That same afternoon, over a drink in the Between Rounds, when Tommy complained about lack of bouts to a ranking feather-weight, the other fighter had asked, “What are you hissing and moaning about? You had five or seven bouts the last year. Sure, they were all emergency fights, but take me—rusty as an old gate—haven't had a bout in over ten months.”
Tommy was startled to realize that even with his half a dozen fights he hadn't made five hundred for the year. If the thought of the fight game really being done disturbed him, Walt's constant snooping also annoyed Tommy. He was afraid the detective might come up with the true answer. They still hadn't proof of anything—yet. Alvin found out the pug killed by this Harold Barry had been insured for five grand. The beneficiary was one Samuel Smith, and who he was nobody knew. Alvin was certain he could rum up other ring deaths at the fists of Barry.
All this made Tommy uneasy. Some days Tommy was sure Walt and Alvin were ruining his chances with their snooping, telling him to cancel the policy. On other days, like tonight, Tommy felt as if his Irish luck was dead; if Arno wasn't actually planning on murdering him, he was merely a bungling rich man incapable of ever getting Jake or Tommy a big payday.