Ed Lacy - The Big Fix

Walt smiled. “Stronger than the guys in the ring?”

“Come now, that's unfair,” Alvin said, killing his cigarette in an ash tray, packing and lighting his pipe—all of it one continuous motion. “I'm hardly one of these 'he can't hurt us' characters. I'm sincere about my ring feelings. The point is, as you must remember, Tommy suffered a severe cut over his right eye when he was butted near the end of the third round. Well, there was one more round to go and they're holding a regular damn conference in Tommy's corner between rounds; the referee, the doctor... and, I motioned to the announcer that we had seven minutes air time left. Perhaps that was my mistake, for the others were also aware of the time on our hands, and for that very reason seemed afraid to stop the bout. You understand, it was up to the doctor or the ref to stop the bout, not me. It became downright ridiculous; Tommy sitting in his comer, bleeding badly while they argued. They weren't doing a dam thing to help Tommy, or even toward stopping the fight. They were simply talking. I motioned for the timekeeper to ring the bell, yelled for Tommy to come out. He did, and flattened Simpson with a left hook—certainly one of the most stirring moments in TV sport history.”

“No doubt. But another punch on the eye might have blinded him for life.”

“Oh for Godsake, they weren't doing a thing for his eye in his corner! The eye needed stitching. That's why I motioned for the bell, hoped it would force the referee to call a halt to the bout. When he kept yakking away with that doctor, I yelled for Tommy to get in there, thinking it would make them act. But Irish solved matters himself, with that sweet left hook. Matter of fact, that's one of the reasons I'm interested in Tommy. I admire courage, unashamedly admire it.”

“Irish Tommy Cork, a washed-up old man. Robinson once gave him a terrific beating,” Walt said, as if reciting a prepared lesson.

“Exactly why I'm here. He is washed-up. Unfortunately Tommy's had a bum deal most of his career. I try to do what I can for him, now. I lend him money. I've urged him to quit, but he won't. There's something... majestic... about his self-confidence which one simply must respect. Lately, I've tried to find him a job, but it's been difficult. All he knows is fighting. Perhaps you may also recall that after he won the cut-eye fight, I insisted my station foot his hospital bills. I also demanded he get a semifinal bout a month later. Tommy lost. It's such a lousy, vicious circle; he hasn't the money to train properly, thus he is not able to make the most of any opportunity coming his way.”

“What's on your mind? Do you want me to referee a benefit for him?”

“That would be an idea. Perhaps I can talk Bob Becker into working on it. But the reason I'm here, I suspect somebody is setting the old lad up for murder.”

“What?”

“I know it sounds fantastic, which is why I haven't been to the police—officially,” Alvin said. “In fact, I'm more or less working on a hunch.” He lit his pipe again, tossed a match into the glass ash try. “Say, this is a neat bit of glass work. From Venice?”

“Who knows. Now what's with this murder idea?”

“Did you see my show two weeks ago? Tommy was in the emergency four-rounder again and he was pitiful, completely out of shape.”

“Two weeks ago I was working a four to midnight shift, so I didn't see it.”

“Becker, the matchmaker, used to be Tommy's manager. He's the one who rushed him into the Robinson bout. And he gives the old boy these four-rounders, whether he's in shape or not, and takes a cut of the lousy sixty bucks. Greedy bastard. The point is, Tommy made a miserable showing. That's when I suggested he forget fighting, said I'd try to find him a job as a messenger. Well, that was two weeks ago. Have you ever been to the Between Rounds Bar?”

“I know where it is. Fight mob hangout.”

“I drop in there regularly, absorb background for my broadcasts. I saw Tommy there this afternoon, looking fine. He's dressed like ready money, even has a few bucks on him. He tells me this impossible yam about a man named Arno Brewer who not only took Tommy up to a country training camp for a week, advanced him money for clothes and pays his room and board at the Southside Hotel, but says he'll make Tommy a champ.”

“So what? A nutty rich fight buff.”

Alvin lit his pipe again. After a few puffs he said, “That's what I thought. I figured Tommy could live off the guy for a while, take it easy. Of course it did strike me as odd any man would take the old boy on after the utterly miserable showing he made that night—which was when this Brewer picked him up. Another odd bit, Brewer is not his manager of record. In fact, the whole thing is supposed to be quiet. I wouldn't have known about it except for something else which came up. I tell you it did my heart good to see Tommy looking well-fed, hear he was training daily at some small uptown gym. Now, do you recall an old-timer named Maxie Coney, a featherweight?”

Walt shook his head.

“Before my day, too. He's in the insurance business now. While I was talking to Tommy, Maxie walks over to our booth and asks Cork why he hadn't given him the business. Seems this rich character took out a policy on Tommy, told Tommy it was protection for both of them in case Tommy was hurt. It seems he has lent Tommy about three hundred and fifty dollars to date. Naturally Brewer is the beneficiary. But it's odd, if this fellow is so wealthy, to cover for a few hundred...”

“You mean it's only an accident policy?” Walt asked, glancing at his watch. It was five-forty-eight. If Ruth hadn't phoned by now, perhaps she was coming home after all.

“As Coney explained, it's an expensive policy covering accidents, most kinds of disability, and of course, death. I imagine the company was hesitant about insuring an old pug, even though Tommy passed the physical. They called in Coney to look at the policy, which is how he happened to know about it. Well... Please don't look at your watch again, Mr. Steiner. I won't take up much more of your time, and it drives me nervous.”

“Sorry. I'm... eh... expecting a call from my wife. Did Coney okay the policy?”

“Yes, with some changes in the disability payments. But that's not important. When Maxie asked Tommy, again, why he hadn't come to him with the business, Tommy said this Brewer had arranged things, and besides, it was only a small policy—twenty-five hundred dollars. This is where my suspicions went into orbit. Coney told him, 'No, you're wrong, it's for twenty-five thousand dollars.' Tommy said Maxie must be mistaken, but Irish admitted he hadn't ever actually read the policy, merely signed where Brewer told him. Since this is Coney's job, and he was positive, the policy must be for twenty-five grand. That didn't upset Tommy. He said it only proved how rich Brewer was. Irish was more upset over our knowing about the deal, swore us to secrecy. I talked to Coney later and he told me there's also a double indemnity clause in the policy!”

“I thought they didn't have double indemnity any more?”

“Not in the average policy, but Coney said you can have it, if you pay. Do I have to draw a blueprint? After putting on the worst fight of his career, Tommy is signed by Brewer. And now it turns out the old boy is worth fifty grand to Brewer—dead!”

Walt rubbed his shoulder muscles, for the first time taking some interest in Alvin's chatter. “You think there's going to be some sort of car accident to Cork?”

Alvin stood up, and for a moment it was a jack-in-the-box movement, and it seemed his head might hit the ceiling. He paced the room nervously, sucking on his dead pipe. “Perhaps. Brewer has a sport car he lets Tommy use. Also he's a food nut and always having Irish try strange dishes. But I think there's even a better gimmick here. When I voiced some of my... doubts, to Tommy, he let me in on the rest of the supposed secret. Brewer has another fighter, a welter named Jake Watson. Now Tommy's had over a hundred bouts, has fought and/or sparred with thousands of fighters. Irish claims Jake is absolutely sensational, the best he's ever seen. Not only as good as Robinson, Olson, and LaMotta, but a combination of all three. Tommy actually raved about Jake, said he was strong as a bull, a fast, flashy boxer, and packs the wallop of a heavyweight. Why Tommy told me in their first sparring session, Jake knocked him cold. He was out for ten minutes, despite using heavy gloves and a headguard.” Alvin turned abruptly, facing Walt, his intense thin face waiting for a reply.