Irwin Shaw - Short Stories - Five Decades

“You’re a party paper,” Macomber said bitterly, “that’s what’s the matter with you. You’re Democrats and you wouldn’t say anything if a Democratic politician walked off with Main Street in a truck. You’re a very corrupt organization.”

“Yes,” the city editor said. “You hit the nail on the head.” He used the pencil again.

“Aaah!” Macomber said, turning away. “For Christ’s sake.”

“The trouble with you,” the city editor said, “is you don’t get enough nourishment. You need nourishment.” He poised the pencil thoughtfully over a sentence as Macomber went out, slamming the door.

Macomber walked dully down the street, regardless of the heat beating solidly against him.

He passed his house on the way back to the office. His wife was still sitting there, looking out at the street that was always empty except on Saturday night. Macomber regarded her with his aching eyes, from the other side of the street. “Is that all you have to do,” he called, “sit there?”

She didn’t say anything, but looked at him for a moment, then calmly glanced up the street.

Macomber entered the sheriff’s office and sat down heavily. The, sheriff was still there, his feet on the desk.

“Well?” the sheriff said.

“The hell with it.” Macomber dried the sweat off his face with a colored handkerchief. “It’s no skin off my back.” He loosened the laces of his shoes and sat back as the sheriff got Los Angeles on the phone. “Swanson?” the sheriff said into the phone. “This is Sheriff Hadley of Gatlin, New Mexico. You can go tell Brisbane he can stop crying. Turn him loose. We’re not coming for him. We can’t be bothered. Thanks.” He hung up, sighed as a man sighs at the end of a day’s work. “I’m going home to dinner,” he said, and went out.

“I’ll stay here while you go home to eat,” the second deputy said to Macomber.

“Never mind,” Macomber said. “I’m not hungry.”

“O.K.” The second deputy stood up and went to the door. “So long, Barrymore.” He departed, whistling.

Macomber hobbled over to the sheriff’s swivel chair in his open shoes. He leaned back in the chair, looked up at the poster, “Wanted for Murder … Four Hundred Dollars,” lit now by the lengthening rays of the sun. He put his feet into the wastebasket. “Goddamn Walter Cooper,” he said.

M r. Gensel carefully wrapped six feet of adhesive tape around Joey Garr’s famous right hand. Joey sat on the edge of the rubbing table, swinging his legs, watching his manager moodily.

“Delicate,” Mr. Gensel said, working thoughtfully. “Remember, delicate is the keyword.”

“Yeah,” Joey said. He belched.

Mr. Gensel frowned and stopped winding the tape. “Joey,” he said, “how many times I got to tell you, please, for my sake, don’t eat in diners.”

“Yeah,” Joey said.

“There is a limit to everything, Joey,” Mr. Gensel said. “Thrift can be carried too far, Joey. You’re not a poor man. You got as much money in the bank as a Hollywood actress, why do you have to eat thirty-five-cent blueplates?”

“Please do not talk so much.” Joey stuck out his left hand.

Mr. Gensel turned his attention to the famous left hand. “Ulcers,” he complained. “I will have a fighter with ulcers. A wonderful prospect. He has to eat garbage. Garbage and ketchup. The coming welterweight champion. Dynamite in either fist. But he belches forty times a day. My God, Joey.”

Joey spat impassively on the floor and squinted at his neatly slicked hair in the mirror. Mr. Gensel sighed and moved his bridge restlessly around in his mouth and finished his job.

“Allow me, some day,” he said, “to buy you a meal. A dollar-fifty meal. To give you the taste.”

“Save yer money, Mr. Gensel,” Joey said, “for your old age.”

The door opened and McAlmon came in, flanked on either side by two tall, broad men with flat faces and scarred lips curled in amiable grins.

“I am glad to see you boys,” McAlmon said, coming up and patting Joey on the back. “How is my little boy Joey tonight?”

“Yeah,” Joey said, lying down on the rubbing table and closing his eyes.

“He belches,” Mr. Gensel said. “I never saw a fighter belched so much as Joey in my whole life. Not in thirty-five years in the game. How is your boy?”

“Rocky is fine,” McAlmon said. “He wanted to come in here with me. He wanted to make sure that Joey understood.”

“I understand,” Joey said irritably. “I understand fine. That Rocky. The one thing he is afraid of maybe some day somebody will hit him. A prizefighter.”

“You can’t blame him,” McAlmon said reasonably. “After all, he knows, if Joey wants he can put him down until the day after Thanksgiving.”

“With one hand,” Joey said grimly. “That is some fighter, that Rocky.”

“He got nothing to worry about,” Mr. Gensel said smoothly. “Everything is absolutely clear in everybody’s mind. Clear like crystal. We carry him the whole ten rounds.”

“Lissen, Joey,” McAlmon leaned on the rubbing table right over Joey’s upturned face, “let him look good. He has a following in Philadelphia.”

“I will make him look wonderful,” Joey said wearily. “I will make him look like the British navy. The one thing that worries me all the time is maybe Rocky will lose his following in Philadelphia.”

McAlmon spoke very coldly. “I don’t like your tone of voice, Joey,” he said.

“Yeah.” Joey turned over on his belly.

“Just in case,” McAlmon said in crisp tones, “just in case any party forgets their agreement, let me introduce you to Mr. Pike and Mr. Petroskas.”

The two tall broad men smiled very widely.

Joey sat up slowly and looked at them.

“They will be sitting in the audience,” McAlmon said. “Watching proceedings with interest.”

The two men smiled from ear to ear, the flat noses flattening even deeper into their faces.

“They got guns, Mr. Gensel,” Joey said. “Under their lousy armpits.”

“It is just a precaution,” McAlmon said. “I know everything will go along smooth. But we got money invested.”

“Lissen, you dumb Philadelphia hick,” Joey began.

“That isn’t the way to talk, Joey,” Mr. Gensel said nervously.

“I got money invested, too,” Joey yelled. “I got one thousand dollars down even money that that lousy Rocky stays ten rounds with me. You don’t need your gorillas. I am only hoping Rocky don’t collapse from fright before the tenth round.”

“Is that the truth?” McAlmon asked Mr. Gensel.

“I put the bet down through my own brother-in-law,” Mr. Gensel said. “I swear to God.”

“What do you think, McAlmon?” Joey shouted, “I throw away thousand-dollar bills? I’m a business man.”

“Take my word for it,” Mr. Gensel said. “Joey is a business man.”

“All right, all right.” McAlmon put out both his hands placatingly. “There is no harm done in straightening matters out complete beforehand, is there? Now nobody is in the dark about anything. That is the way I like to operate.” He turned to Pike and Petroskas. “O.K., boys, just sit in your seats and have a good time.”

“Why do those two bums have to be there?” Joey demanded.

“Do you mind if they enjoy themselves?” McAlmon asked with cold sarcasm. “It’s going to damage you if they have a good time?”

“That’s all right,” Mr. Gensel said soothingly. “We don’t object. Let the boys have a good time.”