Ed Lacy - Strip For Violence

“You don't understand,” Bobo said in a low voice. “We signed for a rematch and I started training but every night I'd dream of that wallop to the guts, wake up in a sweat. Two weeks before the bout I couldn't take it no longer —I ran out. Abe Berger, my manager, was a square cookie. He made it seem like he was holding out for more dough, so I wouldn't look like no coward.”

“But why did you stop fighting?” I asked, amazed at Bobo's confession. I'd never questioned his courage before, seen him handle a crowd of drunken dock wallopers at a shindig once, or charge into some hopped-up punks flashing knives and brass knuckles.

“I kept fighting for about a year,” Bobo said, “but it wasn't any good. I could trim most of the other light heavies, but I didn't have the spirit in me. I'd think, what am I trying to win for, another crack at Wilson? That would make me slow down, started losing regular, on my way to becoming just another meathead. Hell of it is, a pug can tell when his opponent goes chicken, and Lefty knows, never forgot I screwed him out of a big payday.”

“Always one guy that has our number. Anyway, it was nine years ago, so forget it. I'm sure Lefty has.”

7

The City Amusement Agency was a large office, many girls banging away at typewriters. I suppose the business end of the dance halls, bowling alleys, bars, Franklin owned really were big business. The receptionist, a tall babe with impersonal eyes and a tight poodle hair-do that looked swell on her, asked, “Is Mr. Franklin expecting you?”

“I think so.”

She glanced through a snappy pigskin-bound datebook. “Sorry, but I don't see any appointment for a Mr. Darling.” She smiled a little when she said the name.

“Still think Franklin wants to see me, so as one darling to another, how about asking him?”

She put through a call, seemed to switch from one office to another before she put the phone down, told me, “Mr. Franklin will see you. I'll have an office boy show you in.”

The “boy” was built like an All-American tackle, and it wasn't only his behind filling the back of his pants—he was packing a rod and a sap. He took us down a long hallway flanked by rooms full of people typing or working adding machines. If the “Cat” had all these people working on his legitimate deals, I wondered how many he had working in out of the way lofts, figuring his bookie business and his rackets.

We stopped before a door and the “boy” pressed a button. There was a moment of waiting, while somebody probably gave us the eye through a concealed peephole, then the door buzzed open and the office boy said, “Gowan in” and left us. When he spoke he showed two rows of dirty teeth that looked like they grew on the mossy side of a swamp tree.

Franklin's office was strictly out of this world; only slightly smaller than Madison Square Garden, it was a study in contrasts. It looked like a business office with “Cat” sitting behind a modern metal desk, a typewriter and a dictaphone near him, the wall behind him full of books. There weren't any windows, but the air conditioning was perfect. The walls were a loud pink with red stripes, the chairs were stuffed banana-shaped couches—the kind that fit the contours of your body. At the other end of the office was a small bar, a tremendous TV set, a fireplace, and several pinball machines. A plush, deep-red carpet covered the entire floor, with a nude woman at least twenty feet long woven into it.

Lefty Wilson, the same gorilla-faced bodyguard I'd seen at the Emerald last night, was sitting at another modern desk. It took us a few seconds to walk across the huge carpet and Franklin stood up, held out his hand. “Glad to meet you, Mr. Darling. Didn't I see you last night, listening at a keyhole?”

“That's right,” I said as we shook hands gingerly.

“Said I wanted to see you? What makes you think I wanted to...?”

“You wouldn't let me in here if you didn't...” I was saying when Lefty recognized Bobo, yelled, “What you chicken-hearted sonofabitch! I been waiting a long time to give you a pasting!”

Lefty came around his desk, adding, “Now you'll get it!” Lefty had a rubber tire around his waist, bags under his eyes. Since Bobo was a physical culture bug and always in top shape, I knew he could take Lefty with little trouble. I had time to glance at Franklin, see if he was going to call off his man. But he was watching it all with an amused look. I glanced at Bobo... he was backing away, hands down, mouth open in panic!

I didn't want to see Bobo beaten up, among other things it would be a wrong start with the “Cat.” As Lefty came at Bobo, I stepped in his way, said, “Cut the clowning, we're here for some talk.” He had a handy neck for grabbing, but I was watching his feet.

He put his weight on his left foot, tried to push me aside with his hand. I ducked, whirling on my left shoe so we were both facing the same direction—then I got my right foot behind his left knee, gave him a kick that added to his own momentum—sent Lefty sprawling on his hands and knees. I called over my shoulder, “Franklin, tell this punk to lay off or I'll have to hurt him.”

“Lefty, take a walk,” Big Ed said.

The ex-champ got to his feet, split a scowl between me and Bobo, walked out of the office. Franklin pointed to one of the odd half-moon shaped chairs, said, “Take a seat, Mr. Darling.” He motioned Bobo to another of the chairs. “You'll find these chairs unusually comfortable, they take much of the strain off your heart. People don't realize how they constantly overstrain their hearts. By the way, your exhibition was very neat. What do you call that?”

I sat—or rather stretched out—on the chair. It was comfortable. I said, “That's Hicki O Toshi, Japanese for tip and fall. I seem to be giving too many 'exhibitions' these days.”

“That the same as judo?” Franklin asked, taking a bottle and several thermos-pitchers from his desk.

I nodded. “You've seen the basic idea of judo—take advantage of the other guy's rush. Judo is mainly redirecting the other chum's energy, turning it against himself. The more powerful your opponent, the less good it does him.”

“Sounds interesting. Like a shot? I have gin—with grapefruit, orange, pineapple, or grape juice.”

I took mine with orange juice and Bobo tried it with grape juice. It was a very smooth drink, warming my guts at once. The “Cat” poured himself a straight juice drink, asked, “Now—what is it you wish to see me about?”

“What you wanted to see me about,” I said, fencing with words.

Franklin smiled. It was hard to think he'd ever been a strong-arm goon—looked more like a fugitive from a man-of-distinction ad. But he had the beefy shoulders of a muscle-man, and when the rest of his face smiled, his eyes were always alert, watching... waiting.

He said, “You're an interesting little man—and I'm not referring to size, but rather that you're a very, very small businessman. I could buy and sell you a hundred thousand times over. However as businessmen...”

I finished my drink. I didn't know whether it was the chair or the drink, but I sure felt relaxed.

“... let's have a talk. I operate on the theory that there's two ways to do things, the hard way and the simple way. Like all other businessmen I have certain... eh... trade secrets. Now I believe in live and let live, but let us assume you—or somebody—stumbled on to some of my trade ideas. In that situation I can do it the hard way, take my secrets back. Or play it the easy way—let you in my business, there's enough for all. You understand?”

I nodded. I could have dozed off then and there. I reached out, put the glass back on the desk. Bobo's eyes looked watery, he was half high. I told Franklin, “Let me have another shot. This is great stuff.”