Jake nodded and said, “All this driving has left me bushed. I'm going to hit the sack.” He shut the door to their room and Arno followed Tommy into his, asked, “Got a drink handy?”
Tommy took the bottle from the drawer and Arno said nothing about it being almost empty. He poured two drinks, killing the bottle, and smiled at Tommy as he whispered, “We're on our way! I got Jake a fight last night. Took him a few rounds to warm up, but he won by a clean knockout. Made quite an impression.”
“Where'd he fight?”
“Way out of town. Little club but they only see one TV channel there, and no fights. I can get Jake another match any time I want. The build up is on.” Arno actually rubbed his hands together. “Also had the most delicious cherry cider up there. Real spicy and...”
“How about me?”
“I have plans for you. Just remember, all this has to be kept quiet. I mentioned you to the promoter, he was interested in your record. We're moving up, Tommy lad. But not a word to anybody.”
“Who would I talk to?”
Arno stood up. “Have breakfast? I'm going down for potato pancakes.”
“Naw, I'm full of Java. Think I'll take a shower and get some sack time.”
In the gym that afternoon Tommy glanced through the morning papers, didn't see Jake's name or any out of town fight results except for a fight down in Australia. But he knew the papers usually listed only the bigger bouts. Jake wouldn't be mentioned anyway, unless he'd been in a main go.
Cork trained hard, refusing to let himself be tired. This sure proves, he thought, Arno is on the level. What a smart cookie, picking a town off TV limits—the only place a fight club can make it. Wonder how he'll build Jake up? Even if he puts me in with Jake, a main event in a hick town only means a five hundred buck purse to split. But dough don't mean a thing to Arno. He must have his angles working—perhaps this hick promoter will lure in a good welter for Jake to flatten, or I will, then we get an offer to fight here, a TV deal. But Arno will have to piece Jake off before they'll let him show here, and he said he doesn't want that. I'll have to explain to Arno about keeping Jake under wraps, not looking too great, or he'll never land us a main....
Alvin Hammer came across the floor, moving carefully between the heavy bags, by far the tallest man in the gym. He whispered like a conspirator, “Irish, anything shaking?”
Tommy had been so deep in thought as he stepped around the big bag, he hadn't seen Al. He jumped, said, “You scared the daylights out of me. Don't ever creep up on me.”
“Arno say anything new? Jake had any fights?”
“Naw,” Tommy lied.
“They'll be moving soon, old cock. You must let me or Walt know the second Jake fights, or anything new pops.”
“Sure,” Tommy said and suddenly he was full of a depressing weariness, decided to call it quits for the day.
The next few days passed in the usual routine: road-work, gym, hanging around the Between Rounds Bar and chewing the fat, having supper with May as often as she could make it—yet Tommy was full of a restless tension. He'd only felt this once before, the time when May lost the baby and was in the hospital. Now he had the same feeling of waiting for something to happen, something bad. Even in his gym workouts he was listless, always tired, and the half-filled gym gave him the feeling of training in a graveyard. Although he kept pestering Bobby, and any other promoter he saw around the gym, for a bout, and tried to keep himself in shape, in case of the last-minute need for a substitute on any card. He didn't have his heart in it, felt it was hopeless.
One afternoon Walt Steiner was waiting outside the gym and the second Walt asked if anything new had come up with Jake or Arno, Tommy snapped, “Goddamit, leave me alone! You and Al keep after me and after me, even got May doing it. You think I'm a child, an idiot? If I learn anything, I'll let you know.”
Walt said, “Don't be so jumpy. I'm only trying to...”
“I know, but lay off me for a while.” Tommy suddenly landed a mock left on Walt's shoulder. “Don't pay me no mind. I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm on edge all the time.”
“Perhaps you're stale?”
Tommy's thin face brightened. “Yeah, that could be the ticket. I haven't been training this hard for a long time.”
In the hotel room, Tommy took a good hooker and stretched out on the bed. But sleep didn't come. He lay there, his mind racing; thinking of everything and nothing. When Arno came in to ask if he wanted to eat Spanish food with him for supper, Tommy said, “I haven't missed a day's training in a month now, and hitting the road every morning, I think I'm going stale. Okay if I take it easy for a few days?”
“Sure. You know all about keeping in shape. You certainly have been training faithfully and I appreciate it. Tell you what, Tommy, suppose you and I go out on the town tonight?”
“That'll be fine.”
“I'll get a couple of girls and well make the rounds of the gin mills.”
“I'm a married man. That is, skip the girls for me.” Arno gave him a fat smile. “You haven't been married long enough or you wouldn't talk like that. Okay, no gals. When we get to the top and you're fighting at the Garden, I'll show you a time on Broadway. Sure like to be in old New York City right now. Look, I'll call for you in a few hours.”
Tommy walked over to May's rooming house and left a note explaining why he couldn't have supper with her at nine. When he came back to the hotel, Arno was waiting. Tommy asked where Jake was and Arno said, “In bed. And he'd better stay there. I wish he had your determination, trained the way you do.”
Actually Tommy hadn't been in a night club more than twice in his life, he was strictly a bar man. Arno was out for a big evening and they visited several spots, watched the floor shows, drank heavily, even had pictures taken toasting each other. Arno was full of corny jokes and stories about the various cities he'd lived in—Havana, Mexico City, Los Angeles, Chicago, New York. Tommy talked about the only thing he knew, boxing... his fight with Robinson. He thought Arno was a hell of a good guy and several times was on the verge of telling him about Alvin and his crazy suspicions.
Arno was drinking Scotch and milk and Tommy was taking his whiskey straight. By two in the morning Arno was still fairly sober while Tommy was nearly stiff. The elevator operator had to help Arno walk Tommy to his room. They dropped Cork on his bed and as Arno loosened his belt and collar, the elevator man said, “He sure is carrying a load.”
“Fighters have to unwind, I suppose,” Arno said. “We'll let him sleep it off.”
“Want me to open the window a crack?”
Arno shook his head. “No, he might catch a cold. All he needs is sleep.”
JAKE
Jake awoke when Arno shook him. It was always hard for Jake to leave sleep. Now, he sat up and thought how old Arno looked, the bloodshot eyes and nose, wrinkles in the doughy face. Then he glanced at his wrist watch, snapped, “What's the matter with you, it's only seven o'clock?”
“Get Tommy on the road. Run the hell out of him. I had him good and crocked last night. He'll want to sleep but talk him into running. He's in bad shape.” Arno yawned. “I'm beat myself. Come on, get going.”