Ed Lacy - The Big Fix

“May, listen to me. If I can have one good year in the ring, one or two big paydays, I'll retire with ten or twenty grand in my kick. You're right, it is something I have to do now. I can't afford to wait even a week. Next time you see me I'll have a pocketful of dough, really set us up.”

Shaking her head, May covered her face with her hands and wept softly.

“It will come true this time, May, it has to—the luck of the Irish and this is the last throw of the dice. It's now or never for me, my last break.” Tommy wheeled around, saw Butch watching them, snarled, “What you want?”

“No trouble in here is what I want,” Butch said gently, his hands fondling a large soda bottle wrapped in a towel. He'd bounced plenty of men in his time—big men, even battled a few stick-up jaspers—but the look in Tommy's eyes made him uneasy. “I don't want you hitting her, in here.”

“I never struck May in my life. There's a fin on the counter, take out what I owe and give her the rest. And don't come around the counter or you'll get hurt.”

Tommy grabbed his suitcase, walked out fast.

TOMMY

He was dreaming. In the stuffy darkness of his narrow room it was impossible to see the smile on Tommy's rough face. He was seeing May when she was sixteen—the pretty, wistful face under the soft auburn hair, her body blossoming with delicate curves. He was reliving a scene on the stoop of the tenement. May's eyes were big with delight as she fondled the wrist watch he'd given her. Tommy, fighting amateur and bootleg pro bouts then, had won the match for flattening some wild kid in an uptown club in the first round. It was a night for firsts—the first watch May ever owned, the first any neighborhood girl had, and the first time she let him put his arm around her, right out on the stoop. May's hand wags on his back, gently stroking him... gently....

Arno was shaking Tommy, standing over the cot, careful not to touch the empty pint wine bottles on the floor. On a string hung across the room Tommy's ring togs were drying. Drunk or sober he always washed and took good care of his ring clothes. Jake was near the closed door, face screwed up with the smell of the room.

Tommy opened his eyes, tried to bring the darkness into focus. He sat up, holding his head with one hand, reached over with his left to snap on the one light. (In the old days when this had been the maid's room in the ancient apartment house, it wasn't thought necessary to give a servant more than one light. A window was out of the question.) Tommy's bloodshot eyes hit Arno's good overcoat,, traveled up to the plump face.

“How did you find me?”

From the door, Jake asked, “What makes you think you're hard to find, Pops?”

Tommy ran his tongue around his mouth, flexed his arms —he was sleeping in his heavy underwear—and belched loudly. “What time is it, Mr. Brewer?” Except for the big head he felt okay.

“A little after six p.m.” Arno daintily touched one of the dead soldiers on the floor with his shoe, said softly, “I see why you didn't call at my hotel.”

“Don't get the wrong idea,” Tommy said, his brains rusty as he tried to think straight. “I'm not a rumdum. I really meant to be at your hotel. But I had a... a... run-in with my wife, tried to lose myself in a bottle. I guess you're sour on me?”

Jake said, “Let's get out of here before I puke. I'd open the door but it smells worse in the hallway.”

Without turning his head, Arno said, “Shut up.” Brushing off a corner of the cot, he sat on the gray sheet. “I don't give up on things easily, Tommy. You ought to move out of this fleabag.”

Tommy split the soggy quiet of the room with another long belch. “Yeah? With what? I'm not living here out of choice, Mr. Brewer.”

Arno took out a tooled leather cigarette case, offered the pug one. When Tommy told him he didn't smoke, Arno lit a cigarette, blew out a thick cloud of smoke as if fumigating the room, said, “That's good. You certainly know more about training than I do. I don't mind you hitting the bottle, but not too often. If I take you on I expect you to be in shape—when I need you. Otherwise drinking is your own business.”

“I never touch the stuff,” Tommy mumbled. “It was the argument with my wife. She wants me to quit fighting.”

“That what you want, Irish?”

“Hell, no.”

“All right. As I told you last night, I have money, so managing fighters is merely a hobby with me. Sign with me and I'll pay your room and board, buy you some clothes, give you modest spending coin. But don't think I'm a sucker; it will be a loan. I'll get it back from your purses.”

“Know what I took down last night? Nineteen bucks!”

Arno shrugged. “Since it's my money and my hobby, let me worry about it. When you fight for me, you'll be well paid.” He pulled a folded contract from his pocket, then counted out two hundred dollars—an imposing pile of five-dollar bills. “I want you to sign this, after you read it. Legally I won't be your manager of record, for reasons I'll explain some other time. But this states that I'm staking you, buying a sort of interest in your career. You agree to give me twenty per cent of your purses until the money I loan you is paid. It's legal. Show it to a lawyer, if you wish. Take this money and pay your rent here, buy a suit, and be at my hotel, the Southside, at nine in the morning. We're leaving to train in the country for a few weeks. Buying that?”

“Yes sir! Listen, Mr. Brewer, you'll see I still got the stuff, the fastest left in the racket.”

Jake, standing by the door, laughed silently.

Arno got to his feet, knocked over one of the empty bottles. “Lay off the booze, for now. Don't let me down.”

“Don't you worry, Mr....”

“Cut the mister line. Call me Arno.”

“Don't you worry, Arno, I'll be on the ball,” Tommy said, getting out of bed, a comical little man in crumpled and stained underwear.

“We don't worry, Pops.” Jake's voice managed to sound sharp and cold in the stale air of the tiny room.

“Let's make that ten a.m. tomorrow,” Arno said, walking toward the door, ducking under the string on which Tommy's trunks were drying. “Give you time to buy some clothes. When we return to town you'll be staying at the hotel. I want you to look like a coming champ. Meantime, keep this quiet. I'll explain that later, too. Sign the contract, get yourself straight. I don't want a cent of my money spent on booze. We understand each other?”

“You bet. You can trust me, Arno. I'll be at the Southside tomorrow, ten o'clock.”

“Sharp,” Jake said, opening the door for Arno.

Outside in the hallway Jake whispered, “You shouldn't have given him so much dough. He'll drink himself stiff.”

“Don't talk loud,” Arno said. “Sure he'll drink. Is that bad? Main thing, he took the dough, he's into us.”

“But he hasn't signed the contract yet?”

“Leave the thinking to me. He'll sign.”

“But we're running low on dough? Two hundred...”

“Let me handle this end, you just start training. Run your legs off instead of your dumb mouth. There's an East Indian restaurant I want to try—once I get the stink of this dump out of my chest.”

Tommy got out his shower shoes, stuffed the money inside his underwear, and clopped down the hallway to the John. Returning to his room he locked the door, put the one chair against it, and counted the money. Then he put the bills in his underwear again and stretched out, slept for awhile.

He awoke an hour later and counted the money once more. It was still two hundred bucks. It wasn't a dream. For a split second he considered giving May a hundred and fifty for the apartment she wanted so badly, but dismissed the idea just as quickly. No point in risking Arno getting sore at him. He'd already goofed. Beside, within a couple of months he'd buy May a regular house if she wanted it.