Fletcher Flora - The First Golden Age of Mystery & Crime MEGAPACK™ - 26 Stories by Fletcher Flora

“Something on your mind, Benny?”

“I’ve brought Jackie Brand around. He thought you might be interested in buying some insurance.”

The little eyes flicked over Jackie as if he were another flush. “You selling insurance, Jackie?”

“Just big policies. Nothing less than ten grand.”

Paley laughed and rocked his chair down. Standing, he strolled across the room and dropped at a vacant table. Benny prodded Jackie into motion, and they followed after.

“Sit down, Jackie,” Paley said. “What kind of policy you got?”

Jackie remained standing. “Ten grand in advance and you name the round.”

Paley’s little eyes were twin points of glittering light. “Ten grand’s a lot of lettuce, Jackie, even to a guy like me. I expect my money’s worth. If I don’t get it, you better invest the ten in a policy of your own.”

“I’ll deliver. You just name the round.”

“The seventh ought to do. Not too soon. We’ll want to give the customers something.”

“Okay. The seventh. Now I’d like to see the ten G’s.”

“You’ll see the ten, all right. You think I carry a bundle like that in my pocket? I’ll send someone around to Lefty Jordan’s Gym tomorrow. How about three o’clock?”

“Three’s as good a time as any. I’ll be in the dressing room.”

Jackie turned and looked at Benny, and he could see the contempt was already in Benny’s eyes.

“I’m sticking around for awhile,” Benny said. “Grab a cab.”

Jackie grabbed the cab and went back home. Peg was waiting for him in the living room. Across the room, Martin Kane was throwing some guy all over the television screen.

“Where you been, honey?” Peg said. “I thought you were just taking a walk.”

“I dropped into Happy Sam’s and got talking with some of the boys. I didn’t aim to be so long.”

“It’s okay, honey. I was just a little worried.”

He sat down and watched Martin work on the other guy. He felt sick and dirty. He wished to hell he was the guy catching it on the screen. He glanced at Peg and away. Even his look might contaminate her, he thought. Something dirty might rub off.

Jackie had never quite believed in the miracle of his marriage. A gal like Peg and a guy like him. Spud Perkins had trouble believing it, too. He couldn’t for the life of him understand what Peg saw in a second rate catcher like Jackie. Spud was crazy about Peg. Not gland-crazy, like a young guy who had to do something about it, but crazy in a quiet way, like an old guy who only wanted a kind word and a little company. He liked to come around and talk with Peg. Or maybe just sit and look at her. Once in a while he’d just barely touch her on the cheek or on the hair or some other innocent place like that, very gently, with a funny wet look in his popped eyes. If he caught Jackie watching him, he’d sneer and snarl and light one of his foul cigars.

It’s for Peg, Jackie kept thinking. I’m doing it for Peg.

After he collected the bundle the next day, there wasn’t much use thinking at all. He continued to work out at Lefty Jordan’s, going through the motions, and mostly he wished he could drop dead before the fight came up.

The day before the fight, Spud came in late and stood leaning against the wall, his hands rammed down into his coat pockets and his eyes watching every move Jackie made. It was like being spit on by a pair of eyes. That’s the way Jackie felt, having Spud watch him like that. Later, Spud tagged along to the dressing room and stood around while Jackie showered and dressed. Jackie was tying his tie in front of the mirror when Spud spoke.

“Why bother, tramp?” he said, and his voice sounded just like his eyes looked.

Jackie pulled the knot of his tie up snug against his neck and turned, giving the smoke of quick anger time to clear out of his eyes.

“Maybe you’d better tell me what you mean.”

Spud didn’t crawl a bit. He was a short, soft, nasty little man, and he’d have been a pushover for any fleaweight in the world. But he had guts, and he wouldn’t crawl. In all the years he knew him, Jackie never saw him crawl.

“Sure, tramp,” he said. “You’re selling out. The other night you were bunghole buddy to Benny Lester, and you’re selling out. Benny wouldn’t waste his time on a tramp except to buy something. What round’s it set for?”

“As far as you’re concerned,” Jackie said, “it’s round one.”

Then he clobbered Spud. Right in his nasty mouth. Spud’s feet were lifted clear off the floor, and his flabby body smeared itself against the wall like a blob of putty. His upper plate jumped out onto the cement floor and skittered away in two pieces. He slid down slowly against the wall to a sitting position and slumped over on his side.

Jackie felt sick. Sick to think he’d smeared a guy who wouldn’t have been a good match for a Brownie. He stood there looking at Spud for a long time, wondering if he’d ever move again. After a while, Spud did, pushing himself slowly back up against the wall. When Jackie left, he was still sitting there on the floor, looking down with a kind of stunned wonder at the curve of his fat belly.

Jackie stood on the curb, his stomach a hard knot. For a minute, he was afraid he was going to be sick in the gutter. He stood there with his legs spread and his head back, breathing deeply, fighting the sickness. It was pretty silly. A guy who’d looked into dozens of pairs of glassy eyes and who’d had his own looked into more times than it was pleasant to remember. A pro who’d seen as much blood as he had, both his own and the other guy’s. A guy like that going squeamish over a simple clobbering. It was just one more poke in the kisser, delivered to a snotty character who had it coming. To hell with it.

He wished he could get a drink. He wanted a quick one at Happy Sam’s. But it wouldn’t do for a fighter to be bellying a bar the day before a fight. Loose-lipped characters liked to make something out of things like that. A guy already on the fat end of a fix had to be careful.

Maybe another place. Maybe a little hole-in-the-wall where no one would recognize him. He could pick up a quick one and get on home to Peg. He’d been staying away from Peg as much as possible lately. It sort of hurt to look at her. He couldn’t get over the feeling that he soiled her somehow when he touched her. She’d noticed it, too. She’d been asking him what the matter was.

He started walking and pretty soon he found the hole-in-the wall. Inside, he crawled onto a stool at the rear end of the bar and ordered a neat rye. Just one, he told himself. Just one, and then home to Peg. No need at all to feel like he did about Peg. No need at all to feel like a lousy tramp. Damn it, he was doing it for Peg. Damn it to hell, it was all for the place out on 66.

A voice beside him said, “Well, well. This the way you train for a fight, champ?”

Jackie slanted a look into the face at his shoulder. The face was thin and dark with a dimple in its chin. The eyes were amused, but they didn’t have any warmth. So was the mouth, and neither did it. Jackie looked away into the mirror behind the bar and saw with relief that the face was reduced to a blur with no discernible parts.

He said, “I’m not champ, and I’ll train my own way.”

The guy laughed, and the laugh was like the smile — shallow stuff with no warmth. “Sure, champ. You do it your way. The training, I mean. The actual fighting’s something else.”

Inside, Jackie felt suddenly withered and old. He dumped the neat rye into the center of the feeling, but it didn’t have much effect.

“What the hell you talking about?”

“Let’s move back to a booth, champ. I’ll explain it.”