Ed Lacy - The Big Fix

He dressed and packed all his stuff, including the damp ring togs. It didn't take more than a few moments. Downstairs he paid the two week's rent he was behind, told the astonished and unshaven elderly man behind the desk he was moving. The cold night air took all the wine-sleep out of his head. He stopped at a laundry to leave his dirty clothes, opening the battered suitcase on the counter. The old woman running the shop insisted on a dollar deposit and Tommy flashed his roll, to spite her. He stopped for a fast cup of coffee and a buttered roll. The wall clock said it was twenty after seven, and he raced across town to a pawn shop which closed at eight. Here he purchased a decent suitcase for fifteen dollars and a small leather bag for six, and took out a suit and overcoat he'd put in pawn during the summer—as a means of safe storage. It cost him thirty-two dollars to redeem the clothes. He carefully packed all his things into the new bag, except the gym clothing, which he placed in the smaller bag.

Once outside, Tommy shoved his old suitcase into a comer trash basket, took a bus uptown to a shop near the gym where he bought new boxing shoes, socks, underwear, shirts, and a pair of cheap black dress shoes. He dropped into a coffeepot for supper, picked up a paper and put two dollars on a horse called Green Face running in the nightly trotter races. He had exactly ninety-eight dollars left, including two dollars from the nineteen Becker had paid him.

Tommy mailed May a ten spot and took a two dollar room at a Turkish bath. He sweated the last of the wine out in the steam room, swam in the ice water pool, left a call for eight in the morning, and fell into a happy sleep.

He was up before seven, took another swim, shaved, and dressed in his new clothes. The suit and coat were practically new, although he'd bought them months before. On the spur of a drunken Saint Patrick's-Day moment, Tommy had put a couple dollars on an impossible long shot named Loud Bean. (He'd thought it read Green.) When he sobered up, Tommy found he'd purchased the suit and overcoat. He had to hock them within the month.

After a big breakfast he walked over to the Southside, a modest, first-rate hotel, phoned, and went up to the room Arno was sharing with Jake. Tommy looked so good Arno stared at him with dismay. The men were dressing and after they packed their bags, they all went down to the car. Arno and Jake had breakfast while Tommy sat in the car. He remembered the contract, glanced through it and decided it was okay, signed it. He felt swell; the good clothes, the contract, and sitting in a flashy auto.

Jake took the wheel and after stopping while Arno shopped for the cans of Chinese food and special nuts and candies he was fond of, they left the city, driving north. Tommy sat up front while Arno dozed in the back seat or nibbled tiny bits of ginger. The only time Arno talked during the two-hour ride was to say, “Glad you laid off the rotgut, Tommy. You look sharp.”

“Told you I wasn't a lush. You'll see, I still got it. My legs aren't too bad, I'm not a bleeder, and my left is as fast as ever.” He went through the motions of breathing deeply. “Air smells sweet. You know, I haven't been to a training camp in years—since the time I trained for Robinson.”

Jake asked, surprised, “You was in with Sugar Ray?”

Tommy was just as startled. Everybody in the fight game knew that. “Sure. I was TKO'd in the eighth.” As an afterthought he added a moment later. “I was out-boxing him most of the way, was ahead on points. But he had too much experience for me. One punch took me out.”

“Soon as I saw you the other night,” Arno said, “despite the pasting you were taking, I told myself this fellow has the makings of a great fighter. You still have time to make it.”

“You bet,” Tommy said happily.

They drove to an old-time health resort which had a few customers during the summer. Now it was empty and the owner in Florida, but he had arranged for a local couple to keep the place open, cook and clean. The big house impressed Tommy, as did the barn with its old ring, heavy and light bags. All of it was set on the side of a small mountain, with a full view of the valley and a river covered with ice.

Tommy had a room of his own and while he was unpacking Jake came in. “Arno wants us to do some light sparring, before lunch. Tomorrow we start real training.”

“Sure. You done much fighting?”

“Naw, mostly amateurs—out West,” Jake said, talking in his hard clipped manner, as if cutting off each word with a razor.

“What's the deal with Arno?”

“What do you mean? What deal?” Jake asked slowly.

“What goes with him? I never saw a manager lay out dough like this. Cost a bundle to rent this set-up.”

“No deal. The guy is loaded and wants to be a fight manager. Anything wrong in that?”

“I'm all for it. What's he do for pork chops?”

“I never asked. Think he's retired, had a string of vending machines. What diff does it make?”

“None.”

“Pops, all we got to do is train regularly. Arno plans to build us up slowly. Mostly we'll fight in small out-of-town clubs and... He wants the contract. You sign it?”

“Aha.”

“Let me have it.”

“You managing me, too?” Tommy asked, pulling the contract from his pocket, tossing it on the bed.

“He told me to get it,” Jake said simply, picking it up and walking out of the room.

Tommy hung up the rest of his things, humming a pop tune, thinking, Jake isn't over-bright. Looks about twenty-three, twenty-four, should have been out of the amateurs long ago, if he's any good. He looks like a fighter, though, even if he knows from nothing. Never heard of me being in there with Robinson I All this talk about boxing in small clubs. What clubs are left? Hell, outside the Golden Gloves, not even amateur cards around. But if Arno is some retired business cat wanting to play at being a manager, I'll go along. Give me a chance to get back in shape.

Tommy took his ring things into the barn. Everything was neat and well-kept, but terribly old. Even the framed pictures on the walls were of fighters who'd been active before Tommy was born. The barn was unheated and Tommy undressed quickly. He didn't have any sweat pants and didn't want to wear his long underwear. He bandaged his hands and began working on the light bag to keep warm.

Wearing a heavy white turtleneck sweater under his overcoat and a ridiculous red beret, Arno walked in followed by Jake lugging a duffle bag. He took out his ring equipment and Tommy was impressed. His ring things were the best. Tommy, working on the bag, watched Jake undress and put on a sweat suit. Jake stripped big. Although a one hundred forty-five pounder he had the thick shoulders of a heavyweight, a thin waist, and sturdy legs. Tommy thought, He's built like LaMotta. Too much muscle, though. Probably a wild slugger who went over big in a hick amateur tournament.

After Jake warmed up by skipping rope, he and Tommy laced on heavy gloves and headguards. Sitting at the ringside, smoking an aromatic cigarette, Arno called up, “Want you boys to go about three rounds. Tommy, you tell me later what Jake does wrong.”

The moment Arno reached over and rang the bell Tommy realized there was little Jake did wrong. He was an excellent boxer with very fast hands and sure footwork. His defense was good and his left jab fast as Tommy's. He was tremendously strong and it was only at infighting, the little tricks of being up a man, feinting with his feet, spinning, that Tommy's greater experience showed.

When the round ended, Tommy walked around the ring slowly while Jake lounged against the ropes, breathing too hard. Tommy studied Jake's vaselined face, the lack of scars, nothing except the thickened nose and lean hard cast of his face as evidence he'd been in many rings. Tommy thought, One thing, he never learned all he knows in the amateurs. He's ring-wise, moves as gracefully as Conn used to. Must be something wrong. Probably hasn't a punch. Those big muscles don't mean a thing.