Robert Bloch - Michael Shayne Mystery Magazine. Vol. 1, No. 1. September 1956

“Okay, I’m ready,” I say.

“Good,” Buster says. “Let’s go.”

We move down from the roof and head for the corner. A candy store is there, and some girls are hanging around outside.

As soon as they see us, they stop talking and watch. We come on. Buster’s walking ahead with Switch. They both stop in front of the candy store and wait for me to come up.

“Want to get a last drink before the test?” Buster asks me. “You’re going to do a lot of sweating.”

That’s a play to scare me. I know that, but I take him up anyhow. We move into the candy store. The girls are staring. Nobody gives them a tumble.

They’re strange to me, I’m strange to them, so all eyes are on me. A couple are real dogs, some are pretty. Two are Spanish. One is a real looker.

We find stools inside and order up. Nobody inside’s talking, but outside I can hear the girls yakking.

Next thing, this Spanish one comes in, and Buster turns on her. “What do you want, nosey?” he asks her.

She shrugs her shoulders. Her eyes go to me and back to Buster.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing for you to know, so take yourself a walk out to the front.”

She just smiles, looks at me again and goes out, shaking her can behind her.

“That’s Carmen,” Randy says to me. “It looks like she’s got eyes for you already.”

“Yeah,” Buster comes in with, “you’re the handsome type. But maybe you won’t be around for her to look at after the test.”

I don’t answer that. It’s best not to. Buster’s burned already, and the way Carmen looked me over ain’t helping the matter.

We finish our drinks and blow out of the candy store. The girls are waiting. Carmen’s leaning back against the paper-stand with a cigarette in her mouth. She takes it out, blows smoke in my face as I pass and one of the ugly ones says, “Hey, he’s a pretty boy.”

We’re twenty paces away, and another chick calls out, “If you’re taking him for the test, bring him back in one piece.”

There’s laughing behind us then. I fall back, keep in step with Randy and say, “Where’re we heading?”

“We’re going to the bridge.”

“What’s the Arena?” I ask him.

“That’s under the bridge — a beam. You got to cross it.”

“What’s so tough about that?”

“You’ll see when you get there, Irish. Not that it’s so hard to cross, but if you ain’t used to it, it can scare hell out of you.”

That cools me, ’cause if Randy thinks the Arena is tough, then it’s got to be.

“But why do they call it the Arena?” I ask him.

“It’s like this. Sometimes, two of the guys have it out. I mean, when they really want to put the buzz on each other. They go up on the beam and fight it out with leather belts. It don’t happen much, I can tell you that, ’cause it’s easy to get yourself killed if you fall.”

“That sounds crazy.”

“It is, man. It’s real crazy.”

“Anybody ever get killed?”

“Not yet. But a year ago, a guy who ain’t around here no more almost had it. He slipped on the beam. That took all the fight out of him. He quit the crowd after that and didn’t come around no more.”

That’s enough to hear. I don’t ask any more questions. We’re halfway to the bridge, and nobody’s talking now.

No one says anything till we reach the bridge. Then Buster holds up his hand.

“Everybody keep shut from here on in,” he says. “We don’t want the copper on the bridge to bust this up.”

We swing around to the side of the bridge now and come to a wall. That’s easy to scale. We’re over it in a second and standing on ground that slopes to the river.

Next to us is the bridge. Traffic’s moving on it. I look up, then out. That bridge is big, and that’s a real jump it makes across the river.

We move along a concrete wall and come to this rope that’s dangling from above. Buster reaches it first, grabs hold and starts pulling himself up. The others follow. I’m last.

I reach the top and find myself under the belly of the bridge. There’s no sun now. Everything’s shadow and kind of cool. Traffic’s moving overhead. I hear it, and all kind of echoes go bouncing around. Everything else is gone. Up here is like a separate world from the outside.

We’re fifteen feet above the bank, standing on this concrete that’s like a walk. Buster waves us on, and we move out along the walk, come to the end and stop.

Ahead, are thick girders laying crosswise. They go out as far as the river and meet two big columns.

I’m looking out. Then I drop my eyes and catch my breath. It’s about seven stories down, maybe a little more.

I look away fast and catch Buster’s face. He’s watching me and grinning. “Okay, Irish, this is it. You ready to begin?”

I still don’t know exactly what’s expected of me. But I don’t have long to find out. Buster raises his hand and points out at a crossbeam. “You go out to it and walk across it. That’s all.”

I’m shaking now, sorry I came along, but I’ve got no choice. There’s no going back, so I brace myself. It don’t do much good, ’cause my heart’s beating like anything.

“Don’t let it throw you, Irish,” Randy says behind me. “But if you can’t do it, don’t try. Don’t take the chance.”

I don’t answer. The fact is, I can’t, but I ain’t punking out either. The trouble is, I can’t move now, ’cause I know where I am, and what can happen if I fall.

It feels kind of cold around me. The shadows are greyer. A cool wind touches me. It makes a weird sound. Then I hear these echoes. They’re from above. Traffic’s still moving up there. The noise bothers me.

I look down again. It’s marshy below. A couple of dead pigeons are laying there.

“Hey, don’t be looking down,” Randy tells me. “You’re going to be scaring yourself.”

I don’t answer. A truck backfires overhead, and I jump. The others start laughing, and more echoes start bouncing around me.

Buster’s kept his mouth shut, but now he says, “What’s wrong, Irish? You ain’t got the guts?”

I know he’s giving me the needle to throw me, but it don’t happen that way. I’m burned instead.

“Don’t let him bug you,” Randy says.

I look behind at him and nod my head. He’s for me all the way, and that’s a good feeling. But words ain’t going to take me where I have to go.

Buster comes in with another crack, and I start moving out toward the beam.

“Don’t look down, Irish.”

That’s Randy again, and that’s all. Nobody else talks and it gets real quiet. They’re watching to see what happens.

It’s not too much getting out to the beam. A couple of seconds, and I’m there.

I glance back at the others. That’s the wrong thing to do, ’cause they seem so safe and far away. All of them have the same kind of face, and none of them say anything. That’s how I know I’m in danger.

And that makes me look down again. This time it’s different. Standing on the beam does that. It makes the drop seem worse. I get a sick feeling in my belly, and I’m icy all over.

The others are waiting to see if I’ll chicken out. I feel chicken, real scared, but I can’t go back.

I got my eyes glued on the beam now, and it looks narrower than before. If I keep looking maybe it’ll get skinnier yet, so I take a step.

It’s no good. I’m shaking like a leaf. I can’t trust myself. Jelly’s inside me. I’m numb all over and ready to quit.

“Yeah, he’s scared, ready to punk out.”

That’s Buster talking, and he’s right. I am scared, but what he says holds me there. I got to show him I can cross the beam, but I know I can’t walk it.