Ed Lacy - The Big Fix

     “Manage me?” Tommy repeated, shaking hands carefully. “Why not? Want to talk this over on a drink?”

     “I never touch the stuff. You didn't see me fight tonight.”

     “But I did. That's when I decided I was interested in you. I know, you looked downright lousy in there. But you were obviously far out of shape. However I saw flashes of, your old form and... Sure you won't have a few shots?”

     No sir, I always keep in training:

     “No point in discussing things tonight. I'm at the Southside Hotel. Suppose you drop up tomorrow and we talk about it then? You haven't a manager, have you Irish?”

     “No, not at the moment.”

     “Fine. No worry about buying up the contract. Remember the....”

     Tommy blinked. “You'd be willing to buy my contract, if I had one? No kidding?”

     Arno said in the fast, nervous way he had of speaking, “You'll find me a man of direct action. Once I make up my mind. I see you in there and I say to myself, 'This guy has class. And he's the last of the Irish pugs.' I'm part Irish myself, way back on my father's side. You be at my hotel in the morning. Not before noon, like my sleep. I'll not only manage you but see you train right and eat regularly.”

     “You will?”

     “Mr. Brewer isn't in this for money, Pops,” Jake put in. “Like I told you, he's a fan, and this is a side line for him. A... eh...”

     “Hobby,” Arno added. “Will I see you in the morning?”

     “You bet.”

     Jake walked around the car, got behind the wheel. As he drove off Arno called out, “Brewer is my name. Southside Hotel at noon. Don't forget, Tommy.”

     Tommy nodded and shut his eyes. He opened them to see the car turn the corner, so it was all real. He spun around and started walking west. This unbelievable news called for a change in plans. He must tell May his good luck, after he stopped for a drink.

ARNO

     Stopping for a light, Jake asked, “We going to see some broads tonight?”

     “You can,” Arno said. “I'm too old for so much action. And this is your last time until we settle with Cork.”

     “He isn't in the bag yet,” Jake said, a sort of grant. “We should have taken him with us. Might not show tomorrow.”

     “He will. I don't understand it myself but some guys go for fighting as if it was dope.” Arno glanced at Jake. “Like you would be carrying a broken-down suitcase out of some fight club now—if I hadn't wised you up.”

MAY

     The exchange diner was open twenty-four hours a day but at noon and 6:00 p.m. when restaurants are usually busy, they were lucky to sell more than a few cups of Java. However, from ten in the evening to late morning they did a good business. The diner, actually a dining car on a brick foundation, stood at the edge of the wholesale produce market area and was patronized by truck drivers and their helpers, merchants, and slaughter house and produce workers. Four waitresses worked around the clock, for tips and meals only. The tips were hardly anything to shout about and May Cork was the only waitress who'd stayed there over a year.

     Dressed in a simple blue smock and white apron, she was usually called “Old May” by the steady customers, although she was only twenty-nine. May's gray and auburn hair was worn in a tight bun and her face was pale and delicate, as if she had never seen the sun. Her meek eyes were large, the mouth thin. The bosses liked May because she was a steady worker, never horsed around with the male customers—although at the end of her eight-hour shift she often looked as if she was about to pass out. Other waitresses came and went—often with a tracker headed back toward Florida, or for New York City. Since she was plain looking and flat-chested, May had established some sort of record in the diner: during all the months she had worked there nobody had made a pass at her.

     Her boss (actually he was one of three partners) also liked May being religious, the medals she wore around her thin neck, the fact she went to church regularly. May had worked on his shift ever since she started there. He was a middle-aged man named Frederick Morris III, a direct descendant of a Pilgrim, now known only as “Butch” and rightly so since he had been a ship's butcher, bought and cut most of the meat used in the diner.

     At ten forty-five that night, the afternoon waitress, a blonde named Bertha who always seemed about to serve up her fat bosom whenever she bent over to place a plate before a customer, dropped in for a free cup of coffee. She told May, “Well, honey, I'm set. Got a letter from my sister in Fresno. You know, the one who married the guy with the nut ranch out there? She's going to open that roadside stand I told you about, and they want me to help out. Who knows, maybe I'll meet a decent pair of pants in California. Anyway, they say the weather is nice and for the next three months my lucky stars are bright in the sky, so I'll see which way things bounce. Be something working in the sun. I've had it in this damn cold city.”

     “When are you leaving?” May asked anxiously.

     “Soon as they finish building the stand, in about a month. Her husband is one of these loudmouths who knows everything, but I guess I'll be able to take him. And they have a real house. And two kids. Ill like that. Funny, Betty— that's my sister—never had no looks. She was sort of the ugly duckling of us four babes, yet she made out the best. Never thought I'd be asking her for...”

     “Bertha, can I get your apartment?” May cut in.

     “Sure. That's what I come to tell you.”

     May reached across the counter and squeezed the blonde's cigarette-stained hand. “Oh, Bertha, you honestly mean it?”

     “Didn't I always say if I gave up the joint, it was yours? I even spoke to the agent today. No fifteen per cent raise. Only been seven months since I gave the bastard an increase, so he ain't entitled to one now. Don't let him fast talk you into paying a cent more than the forty-eight dollars a month.”

     “Yes, yes, indeed! Oh Bertha, you're so sweet! You've no idea what this means to me. An apartment of my own again!”

     “It ain't no hell, you seen it. Room, kitchenette, and the can. You remember how I got it fixed up?”

     “Yes. Oh, Bertha, you can't know what this means to me.”

     “May, stop bubbling and listen. The studio couch alone cost me two hundred bucks. And there's a couple chairs and the table, curtains, pots, and dishes. I'm taking the TV with me but it don't pay to ship the rest of the stuff. I figure a hundred and fifty bucks is a fair price to ask. Okay?”

     “Fair, very fair,” May said, her face flushed with excitement “Bertha, I'll mention you in my prayers. I haven't got the money now, you understand, but in a month's time I'll get it.”

     “With what these big-hearted slobs leave you? You're the thrifty type, ain'tcha got nothing put by?”

     “Less than twenty dollars. But don't worry, I'll see my husband. This is what I've been waiting for. I'll see Thomas and within a month, we'll be able to pay you.”

     Bertha finished her coffee, lit a cigarette as she stood up. Reaching inside her dress top to adjust her bra straps, Bertha okayed herself in the mirror behind the counter, said, “Don't keep me waiting too long, May. I'm doing you a favor and counting on that dough to take me to Fresno in style; you know?” Bertha glanced at the few customers, started toward the door, then stopped to ask, “Didn't you once tell me your old man was a leatherpusher? Tommy Cork?”

     “Irish Tommy Cork.”

     “I seen him on TV just now. What a beating he took.”

     May's thin face paled. Looking up at the greasy ceiling of the diner for a fast second, she said, “Maybe this is all God's will. Even the beating will work in with my plans.” Then she added, almost fiercely, “Tommy was a good boxer, real famous—once. I have clippings in my room I can show you.”

     “Honey, I believe you. He's your old man, not mine. Look, I got a couple runs to make. So it's a deal now, about the furniture?”

     “Absolutely. God bless you, Bertha.”

     After the blonde left May went about her work in a small daze, thinking how she could get in touch with Tommy. Tomorrow she'd go over to the gym, somebody there would know where to reach him. Or maybe that bar he mentioned, if she could recall the name. She called over to Butch, “Is that job still open at Mac's place?”

     “What job?”

     “I overheard him telling you last night he needs a dishwasher-porter. I... I may know somebody who will want it.”

     “That job will always be open,” Butch said. “Who but a wino will work for twenty bucks a week and grub? Even a lush only holds it for a week or two. Mac's going to get himself in a jam with the labor commission.”

     “Still, it might be a start, for the right man,” May said, turning to wait on a customer.

     At midnight the diner was fairly busy as many of the market men came in for “lunch.” At a quarter to one May was astonished to see Tommy walk in. She was cleaning the counter and motioned for him to take a stool at the far end. Talking thickly, due to his big lip and a few ryes, Tommy said, “May, honey, I have great news! Seems like I'm getting that break, at last. Be like old times soon.”

     “Oh, Tommy, Tommy, this is a miracle,” she said, stroking his puffed face. “I have such fine news, tool The truth is, I was thinking all night of how I could get in touch with you. Does your face hurt much?”

     “Pay my puss no mind, I had an off-night. But all that is changing, so is my luck. I said to myself I'll eat here and tell you the big news. I got a...”

     “Good news, indeed! Eat while I talk to you. Are you hungry?”

     “I'm starved, honey.”

     “I'll fix you a bowl of thick soup and the hamburger is good, and fresh. With plenty of french fries, the way you always loved them. Then I'll... No, I'll burst if I don't tell you the news now! Tommy, we can be together again. I've found us an apartment!”

     Butch, who was busy chewing a toothpick behind the cash register, glanced at May and the little man with the bruised face and battered suitcase, the animated way they were talking. He started over to see if May was having any trouble with this red-headed bum, when she raced down the raised duckboards behind the counter, told him, “That's my husband there. Fred, will you make him a very special thick hamburger, no onions, but lots of french fries? I can't get over it, Tommy showing up just when I was thinking about him!” May's sudden coloring, her excited eyes, startled Butch: she almost looked youthful.

     May beamed at Tommy as he ate his soup—taken from the bottom of the pot so it was thick with meat and vegetables—and went through several rolls. She was especially happy to see he was still wearing his wedding ring. Butch even waited on a customer to give May time to be with Tommy. Butch was puzzled. While he vaguely knew she sometimes spoke of a husband, it was hard to imagine her falling for this hard-faced bum, a lush who looked as if he'd just come from a street brawl, not a gentle, religious woman like May.

     Waiting for his hamburger, Tommy began, “May, it was like a dream. A rich guy...”

     “No, when you're finished we'll talk. Tommy, what news, what sweet news!”

     He winked. “Like you when you're excited, May. Makes you look even prettier than usual.”

     “Now stop that blarney,” she said, pleased. “Does your lip hurt?”

     “Naw. I was in against some strong, lucky kid who... Maybe that's over now, all these quickie bouts.”

     “Yes, thank God it's over, darling,” May said as Butch called out the hamburger was ready.

     Tommy was barely able to put the thick meat patty away and when May said, “The pies are so-so but the bread pudding is made here and good...” He held up a hand, told her, “Hon, I'm stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey now. It was a swell feed but I've had all I can eat.” Tommy pulled out a five dollar bill. “Here—and keep the change. I always tip beautiful waitresses big.”

     “Nonsense. I... Tom, have you money?”

     “This and a ten spot. But that's all going to change. May, I'm going to take you out of this stool joint, no more working for you. See, I got a new manager interested in me. A rich cat. Welters are all bums today, and with him staking me, and he has to have an in, why I'll be on top of...”

     “Thomas Cork, you mean you're going to continue fighting?”

     He blinked. “May, this is my break. Sure I'm going to fight, but for folding dough.”

     “I thought... you said... it was over? I heard you took a bad licking tonight. Tom, you're no longer a kid. I thought you were done with fighting.”

     “What am I telling you except about this new manager I'm to see tomorrow? He don't sound like a false alarm, and with him backing me, why...”

     “Tom, listen to me. One of the girls here is going to California in a month. She has an apartment. It isn't much, one room really, but it's a real apartment. The rent isn't high and she's only asking a hundred and fifty dollars for the furniture. Of course it isn't worth that, but for these days it's a bargain. We have a month to raise the hundred and fifty.”

     “Peanuts. One semi-final and I'll have enough to...”

     “No! I don't want you to fight. And I don't want any more of your big empty talk either. Tom, you're done as a fighter, we both know it. Look at you, a kid beating you up. I don't want you ending up hurt or crazy, going blind.”

     “May, that's no way to talk. I ain't bragging, but you know how good I am when I'm right.”

     May nodded. “You were good in the ring, the best. But that's yesterday, today prelim kids are cutting you up. Maybe I mined all that for you, but...”

     “Don't ever think that way, May. It wasn't you or...”