Ed Lacy - The Big Fix

     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.

     In the next round Tommy showed his class by crossing his right over Jake's left hook, slamming him in the gut. Jake clinched for a second to get his wind back. Jake tried another left and although Tommy was pulling back from the punch and it landed on the side of his headguard, it shook him. There was no doubting the wallop Jake packed in his left. In the middle of the round, Tommy decided to show off for Arno, suddenly switched to a southpaw stance. A short, whistling right landed flush on the side of Tommy's chin. He fell to the patched canvas—out cold.

     Jake leaned against the ropes, grinned down at Arno; his white mouthpiece making the smile almost grotesque. Arno had jumped to his feet, anger on his fat face. Jake spit the mouthpiece into a gloved hand, said, “That does it. He's our boy.”

     “Shut your damn face, you fool!” Arno said, climbing into the ring with difficulty, kneeling beside Tommy to remove his mouthpiece. “Think he heard you?”

     “Come on, look at him. All he's hearing is the birdies. I was just testing.”

     “He looks dead now, you idiot!”

     “Leave him alone, he'll come around in a few minutes. Help me get his gloves off.”

     When Tommy opened his eyes, he found himself propped on a ring stool, head resting on the faded padding of the ring corner ropes. Jake was banging away at the heavy bag, granting with pleasure each time his gloved fists slammed into the long bag. Arno was pressing a sponge full of snow and cold water to Tommy's face, held another at the back of his neck, watching the fighter's pale face with anxious eyes.

     Tommy blinked, shook his head, tried to sit up. Arno held him back. “Easy now. Sit still.”

     The buzzing deep in Tommy's head dropped to a dull little roar, then died. His eyes were out of focus. After a moment, Tommy tried to push the cold sponge from his forehead, muttered, “Did... he... cool me?”

     Arno nodded.

     Now clarity and steady strength rushed into Tommy. He pushed Arno aside and stood. “Let me walk around. I'll be okay.”

     “Sit down and rest,” Arno said, pulling a flask from his hip pocket. “I have some good brandy here.”

     Tommy shook his arms, as if trying to shake the gloves off, then sat down and shook his head. He gave Arno a sad smile. “I guess this sours you on me. Honest, this is the second time I've been clean-kayoed in my life. I've had fights stopped because I was out of shape but... Jeez, your boy can hit. With training gloves on, too!”

     “I'm not soured on you. I...”

     “You mean our deal is still on?”

     “Of course. I know Jake can hit. Listen, you take a shower and get dressed. I'll be waiting for you up at the house. We need to have a talk. It's time I told you my plans.”

     “Anything you say, Mr.... Arno.”

     Arno walked down the few ring steps as if he was on a tightrope a mile high, took a belt of brandy. Tommy shadow-boxed for a few minutes, then jumped over the ropes to the ring apron, then to the floor. The jar when he landed completely cleared his head, although he still felt weak.

     He walked over to Jake, watched him slug the heavy bag for a few seconds, then held out his gloved hands. Jake pulled his punching-bag gloves off, untied Tommy's heavy training gloves. “Sorry, Pops. I clipped you with a lucky one. You walked into my right.”

     “It happens. You have a lot of stuff. Jake. A barrel full.”

     “Thanks. Guess I'll go another round, then knock it off.”

     After a shower, Tommy felt fine—almost. He ran up to the house and found Arno watching a Western on the small screen TV in the old living room. Arno had a bottle of Scotch and glasses, motioned for Tommy to take a glass. When Tommy hesitated, Arno poured him a big hooker, said, “Come on, it will relax you. Sit down.”

     Tommy sipped the drink, although he never liked Scotch, told Arno, “You got a hell of a fine boxer in Jake.”

     Arno motioned for him to keep his voice low, pointing toward the kitchen where the woman was making lunch. He whispered, “I know what I have in Jake.”

     “I've been around, Arno. I've seen all the good welters, boxed with most of them. I've sparred with Cerdan, Graham, Olson, and battled Sugar Ray. Jake is not only a sharp boxer, but he's probably the hardest puncher I ever saw.”

     Watching the TV Western out of the comer of his eye, Arno nodded, pleased. “Jake is not only very good but, what's even better, nobody knows about him. I've been bringing him along quietly. I'm capitalizing on the fact TV has killed the smaller clubs. In the old days I couldn't keep a Jake a secret. Now—I'm not going to cut in any of the fight mob, either. Same goes for you. When I manage a fighter, or any other business, it has to be all mine.”

     The Scotch filled Tommy with a nice warmth. “Jake can take any welter around—Jordan, Akins. I'd bet on him taking most of the middleweights, too—Basilio, Fullmer, Webb.”

     Arno nodded again, filled Tommy's glass. “I know that. When I finally spring Jake, it's going to be so big, so sensational the fight mob will have to let me in, on my own terms. I'm a gambler, and believe me, when Jake pops, I'll also make a betting killing.”

     “That's playing it smart,” Tommy said, a little puzzled. “But how are you going to get Jake 'in'?”

     “The reason I'm taking you on. Tommy, you're my key. You have the name. You train right, start getting a few bouts here and there. You'll have to piece yourself off to get the fights, but that's okay. That's my edge on the fight mob, money isn't important to me. This is also why I'm not your manager—on paper. Now, soon as you get to be a contender again, you'll agree to fight an unknown, take what seems like a soft touch.”

     “Jake?”

     Arno beamed. “You know Jake can take you, don't you, Tommy?”

     “Well, I'm not in shape and he caught me trying to be cute. I... You want me to take a dive?”

     “Would you do business?”

     Tommy finished his drink and laughed. “Arno, I been a pro pug for about fifteen years. Pro means fighting for one thing—dough. I've gone into rings sick, hungry, and once with a busted hand. The glory bit has worn thin for me.”

     Arno reached for the bottle but Tommy shook his head. Arno showed his strong even teeth in a grin, turned the TV down as the commercial came on. “I knew you were a smart cookie the moment I saw you, Cork. I admire a man like myself, who faces up to the facts of life, not the dreams. You won't regret it. I figure if you go into the tank, especially on TV, why, then they can't freeze us out. The fans all across the country will demand Jake fight the champion. I'll be in the driver's seat. Also, I have a couple of new angles to show the fight mobsters, that I'll tell you—in time. Once Jake is champ, then we call the tune, and you get all the big paydays you want. Jake might even take a fall for you, let you hold the crown for a while. You buying?”

     “All the way,” Tommy said, holding out his hand.