Ed Lacy - The Big Fix

“No,” Tommy lied, thinking Arno had come to discuss the fight.

“I'm not sleepy either. I'd get a bottle except I don't want you drinking the night before a fight. Play gin?”

“No. How about casino?”

They played until eleven with Tommy fighting to keep his eyes open. Finally Arno yawned and said it was time for bed. Tommy dozed off the second he was alone. He awoke at seven to go to the John, still feeling pooped. Walking back to his room he saw Arno standing in the doorway of his own room, his round face tired and bleary-eyed. He mumbled, “Next time I'll take my own food along. Couldn't get a wink last night.”

“I slept like a log. Think I'll get something to eat and take a walk.”

“That's an idea. I'll go along, but we won't walk together.”

Tommy got in another hour's sleep and at noon he was in a doctor's office where several other pugs—all kids—were also waiting for an examination. Tommy smiled at the kids, thought, I'm sure getting to be the grand old man of boxing, don't know a one of these muscle-heads.

Jake came in and merely nodded at Tommy. Arno, of course, wasn't around. The examination took only a few seconds. They all weighed in and when Tommy started for the scales the doctor said, “Wait a minute. Are you limping, Mr. Cork?”

“I've had a stiff toe. Had it for years now. It's okay, doesn't stop me from boxing or running,” Tommy said fast, fear that he'd lose the fight freezing his insides.

“Well, I don't know,” the doctor said. “Better let me see your foot.”

As Tommy slipped off his shoes, the matchmaker came forward and told the doc, “Henry, Tommy has had over a hundred bouts, means a hundred doctors have passed him.”

“That's right. Why I've had this bad toe ever since I was a kid,” Tommy said, glancing at Jake, who seemed pale.

The doc merely felt of the toe and then said, “All right. Get on the scale.”

Tommy and Jake weighed in at the same weight—a hundred and forty-four pounds. Tommy was surprised. Jake must have been working hard. He usually had five or six pounds on Tommy.

They went back to the hotel and Tommy got in an hour's nap before they all went down for a light supper. Arno had also got in some sleep and looked better. Jake seemed very jumpy. Going upstairs, Arno whispered, “Come to my room, Tommy. We need to have a talk.”

Tommy nodded.

When he opened the door, ten minutes later, Arno was stretched out on the bed, an ash tray resting on his stomach, a cigarette in his mouth. Tommy sat on the foot of the bed; Arno said, “Since you know more about boxing than I ever will, I want your advice. But first I'll give you my views on our deal. We're after two things. We want to make Jake look spectacular, have the fans gasping to see him again. At the same time we want a return bout. Right?”

Tommy nodded, thinking, Jake is a hell of a spectacular fighter without any build-up.

Arno blew smoke at the ceiling. “I've talked it over with Jake and we have this plan....”

Tommy laughed. “I was wondering if Jake was in on it, the way you been whispering.”

“I hardly want to broadcast our plans. Of course Jake knows. He has to. We think it should go like this: Jake rushes out and pulls you into a comer. You act surprised at his rough tactics. He hits you and you go down.”

“No room to roll with a punch in a comer, and Jake hits hard.”

“Naturally, Jake will pull his punches. And you do the same—that's understood. Now, you take the eight count and get up, stagger a little. Don't overdo it and let the ref stop it. You left hook Jake and he drops. He's up fast, acts mad as hell, but the ref makes him take the mandatory eight count. While standing in the opposite corner you still act groggy. Jake rushes over and lands a right as you jab. You go down for the full count. This last fall has to look good. Act stiff.”

“I know, I'd be stiff but with my feet kicking a little.”

Arno crushed his cigarette in the ashtray, tossed a mint into his mouth, held the package out toward Tommy—who shook his head. Arno said, “Sounds fine. If this doesn't get the fans into an uproar for a return bout, I don't know what will. Now, as you leave the ring there'll be some fans telling you tough luck and all that. Always a couple—and you say, loudly, you were caught napping, will flatten Jake the next time out. Main thing, make sure Jake can hit you with his right in the comer. And he'll leave an opening for your left... when he's to hit the canvas. Any suggestions?”

“Nope. Be sure to tell Jake not to get excited, be certain he pulls his punch, only don't make it look that way. Perhaps we should have practiced this.”

“Look, you're both pros. It will play smooth. Be sure you pull your left. You have the best in the business.”

Tommy grinned as he stood up, walked toward the door. He opened it a crack, turned to Arno, “How do you plan on getting Jake from here to a big TV spot?” Tommy was surprised to see, through the slightly opened door, Jake sneaking out of Tommy's room.

“I figure in a return match, Jake will flatten you again in a fast, thrilling fight. Then I'm going to work on the promoter to lay out money to bring a good boy up here. If Jake flattens him, we'll be on our way.”

“I don't know, you'll still have to cut the mob in,” Tommy said, hearing his own voice and wondering what the hell Jake was doing in his room.

Arno shook his head. “Don't worry, Tommy. I have other aces up my sleeve I've never told you. I own a big chunk of stock in one of the companies sponsoring the fights. If it comes to that, once Jake has a reputation, I can make them demand Jake fight on TV. Look, this is something I've planned for a long time.”

“Don't forget me when the going is gravy.”

Arno laughed. “I have a number of projects, and you're one of them. If the return match is a thriller, I can get the promoter to bring in pugs for you, start a sort of double build-up, so when Jake is champ you'll be knocking at the door.”

“All I want is a few good paydays,” Tommy said. “Think I'll go get some rest now.”

Reaching his room he carefully locked the door and looked around. Things seemed the same. He looked through the few things in the drawers, sniffed at the water carafe on the dresser, remembering what Walt had said about watching what he drank, and telling himself he was a fool. Arno had a sweet deal going and he was lucky to be in on it.

He looked through his ring bag. He'd cooled his suspicions, telling himself Jake might have dropped in to talk, only he must have known that would look bad and...

Tommy suddenly touched the top of his pint bottle. It was wet. He pulled out the bottle and sniffed at it, fear and suspicion boiling within him again. The whiskey seemed far lower in the bottle than when he'd last seen it. Had Jake been looking for a drink? Of course, he'd be pretty sure Tommy had a bottle with him. But what really made Tommy jittery was—Jake wasn't a bottle man. Why did he need a drink for a tank job? What was he so nervous about yesterday and today?

Sitting on the bed, Tommy looked at the bottle, handled it as it were a time bomb. The fact Jake had not only taken a drink, but a good stiff hooker, alarmed Tommy more than any of Alvin's or Walt's warnings. In fact he felt in sharp need of a belt himself, but instead he poured the rest of the bottle out of the window. The small hotel room seemed to fill with the aroma of whiskey and Tommy suddenly laughed, said aloud, “My God, I must be going nuts, wasting good booze. Jake comes in for a belt and I get all upset. What the hell, there's some pugs who get all nervous before any fight. So he isn't a drinker, but maybe he needs a shot before a bout, any bout? He's known here, he can't walk into a bar and ask for one. He comes to my room, I'm out, but Jake needs the shot badly and helps himself. So what am I getting excited about?”