Ed Lacy: The Big Fix

Tommy turned on the radio, fell on the bed, and for a time was almost calm enough to sleep. But every once in a while little barbs would start digging into his mind. Like he came awake with the troubled thought, If Arno owns stock in one of the companies sponsoring the fights, with a guy as good as Jake, what does he need me for?

Tommy answered that with, But Arno is a rich fight buff, he wants to push two fighters. Guess it will be a feather in his cap to make a big-timer out of me—I'm Irish, I'm the last of the one hundred-bout boys.

The afternoon passed with Tommy either sleeping or silently arguing with himself. In his confusion only one thought was clear: One way or the other I have to know.

At eight o'clock as &e was packing his ring things, he suddenly knew of a simple way to learn the truth. He'd ask Jake, indirectly.

Arno rapped on his door and the three of them left for the fight club—Jake walking on the other side of the street, Arno a hundred feet or so behind Tommy. Irish was in a relaxed, almost jolly mood. He would learn for certain, very soon, that things were on the up and up. He was about to make some dough and start a plan which would bring him real folding green. Tommy could picture May's face tomorrow as he handed over the money for the first month's rent, casually told her, “Hold on to this until we get the apartment.”

Arno took a ringside seat in the club, he had neither a license or a reason to be in either comer, while Jake and Tommy went to separate dressing rooms. Tommy undressed and dressed carefully, admiring the clean dressing room as he looked for a place to hide his ring. He finally hid it inside a balled-up sock. He went to the bathroom like a robot, keeping his old green robe on and careful to stay out of a draft when the door opened. He was sharing the room with kids waiting to go on who had friends and seconds with them. Cork was pleased with their whispered, “He's a real pro... hundreds of fights. Look at his face.”

A kid helped him bandage his hands and when he was sure everything was in order, Tommy stretched out on the one rubbing table and hummed a pop tune, certain he was setting a fine example for these nervous kids.

He was due to go on at about nine forty-five and a few minutes after the second prelim bout pug returned, bloody but grinning, Tommy let the kid have the rubbing table while he shadow-boxed and warmed up. A slim Mexican with an ear thicker than Tommy's and wearing a worn red turtleneck sweater came in and said he was Tommy's second. Cork wasn't sure if the fellow was eighteen or forty-eight years old.

When his time came, Tommy had the thin fighting gloves on and marched out of the room, throwing punches in the air, dancing on his toes... followed by the Mexican carrying the pail, a water bottle, and his mouthpiece. Almost grinning to himself, Tommy thought, Now I'll ask Jake, get this uncertainty over. Crazy, we couldn't be seen talking together on the street, but I can ask him right in the ring, talk to him before all the fans. Not a bad house—must be close to eighteen hundred, two thousand folks. Nice little club.

Climbing into the ring he glanced across at Jake's sullen face, at the strong legs as Jake jogged up and down, shook out the muscles of his thick shoulders. Tommy told himself, “I bet he dried out for the weigh-in, he must have taken on fifteen pounds since noon. Sure looks heavy. Man, if Jake and I can only play it like Benny Leonard and... think it was Johnny Dundee. Read where they fought each other about a dozen times.”

The Mexican vaselined Tommy's face as Cork sat on his stool and waited for the introductions. He saw Arno eating something out of a bag, admired the blank expression on the fat face. Tommy got a mild, polite hand when he was announced while Jake received a lot of applause. The Mexican, gently rubbing the back of Tommy's neck nodded across the ring at Jake, said, “I see that boy over there some place. Maybe in California. Couple years ago.”

“Was it in Utah?” Tommy asked quickly.

“No, I never there. He had different colored hair then, and maybe he was a lightweight. Going like ball of fire in amateurs.”

“Real good boxer?” Tommy asked, slipping off his robe as the ref called them together in the center of the ring for their instructions.

“Yes, but if this the same boy, was something, something wrong with him,” the Mexican second said. “Let me think.”

The referee was a squat man in a blue work shirt and from the way he gave his instructions, an experienced ref. Jake stared at the canvas, flexing his heavy muscles as his second kept patting him on the back. When the ref asked, “Any questions? Okay, now touch gloves and come out fighting....” Tommy suddenly said to Jake, “My second claims he saw you fight out in Utah, under the name of Harold Barry.”

This was the simple plan Tommy had hit upon during the afternoon. He expected no reaction from Jake, but the moment the words were out Tommy knew Alvin had been right—dead right! For Jake's face went white and he turned, glanced frantically at Arno. The referee snapped, “We ain't serving coffee and cake here. Cut the talk and get to your comers. Give me a clean fast fight.”

In his comer, as the Mexican pushed the rubber mouthpiece between his lips, Tommy stood like a lump; sweat pouring out all over him. The Mexican said, “This fellow is strong like a bull, but I tell you to go out and rush him. If he is the same boy I think, he's got....”

The bell for the first round sounded—a sharp and dreary call to Judgment Day. Licking the mouthpiece firmly in his mouth with his tongue, from force of habit, Tommy danced out of his comer.

Jabbing Jake twice and weaving away from a vicious left hook, Tommy wondered what he was going to do. It was a very fast and brief thought because he was too busy watching Jake's gloves and feet to do much thinking.

He blocked a right, picking the punch off in mid-air, then snapped Jake's head back with a left hook on the temple. He missed another left, ducked under Jake's right, and grabbed Jake as he came up, pulling him into a clinch. Tommy stared into Jake's set face, the hard eyes—still hoping, somehow, to see something which would prove his suspicions were all wrong—but Jake's eyes were like looking into the business ends of twin guns.

Tommy didn't try any infighting, merely held Jake's arms. As Jake twisted and wrestled, using his greater strength, Tommy stared into Jake's set face, the hard eyes—still Hail Mary, Sweet Virgin... If I'd only listened to Walt and May. How could I ever have imagined Arno would really be interested in an old washed-up pug like me? I must have been crazy....

Muttering, “Cork, you're holding,” the referee parted them. Tommy's left jab darted out, keeping Jake from getting set. Tommy bounced a hard left off Jake's iron stomach, missed a right to the chin. Tommy felt as sick as if he'd stopped a gut punch. His hook to the stomach had absolutely no effect on Jake. Jake started circling to Tommy's left, feinted with his right, then his left, and sent a looping overhand right over. Tommy blocked this with his left forearm and sudden fire and pain raced up the arm and into his heart, nearly driving him crazy as he realized the punch had broken his left arm.

He danced away, back-pedaled across the ring. Jake came after him, the killing right cocked. Tommy knew he was finished, he surely had no chance against Jake with only one hand. Perhaps he also knew he could drop to the canvas and be counted out; he could duck through the ring ropes; he could scream at the referee to stop it—tell him his arm was broken; he could even yell at the ringside cop that he was being murdered. Yet he really couldn't do any of these because he was a stupid-proud pug named “Irish” Tommy Cork.