Ed Lacy - The Big Fix

     An annoyed look crossed Tommy's small face. “Easy, AL you ain't on the air. Keep your pear-shaped tone down. Nobody says I'm in danger but you. Hell, before I was more in danger—of not eating! You think guys are falling over themselves, standing in line waiting to manage me?”

     Al said, “Can't you see?”

     “Tommy's right,” Walt cut in, wondering if he would have ended up like this if he'd turned pro. “We don't have any stand-up proof to go with, as of now. Let me nose around. Tommy, you keep your ears open, try to find out more about them. Like who Jake has battled and where. How Arno made his bankroll. Be careful, don't be obvious about things. I think we have time on this. If we come up with something, we'll act. If we draw blanks we won't have spoiled Tommy's soft touch.”

     “That talk I'll buy,” Tommy said, finishing his ice cream. Alvin stirred his coffee, as if whipping it. “You still spar every day with Jake?”

     “Most days. Beginning tomorrow I'm going to start working out by myself at the Crosstown Gym, start getting some bouts. I'm feeling great and don't have “to worry about taking quickie bouts.”

     “Does Jake bang away at you?” Walt asked. “Has he ever flattened you again?”

     “Naw. Like I told Al, that first time he belted me he was lucky. I was hungover and showing off, coming in southpaw. Sure he hits like a hammer, tries to clout me, but I'm not a slob when it comes to defense. The 'Bobbing Cork' they used to call me. I don't let Jake get lucky no more.”

     “You have my phone number. If anything unusual comes up, or if you learn anything about either of them, call me. At the precinct or home,” Walt said.

     “Sure. Listen, if I thought there was anything phony, I'd be the first to blow the whistle. I don't aim to get myself killed.”

     “Be careful,” Walt said. “Stay out of their car. Don't eat nothing you're doubtful about.”

     “You trying to give me a nervous breakdown?” Tommy asked, with a tight smile. “Arno lets me use his car any time I want, and he's always taking me to dizzy restaurants. Hey, you guys ever eat raw fish? Or rattlesnake meat? Don't make a face, I was surprised too. Never know what you're eating— if nobody told you.”

     There was a moment of silence. The waiter left the check and Alvin didn't have any trouble taking it. Walt was busy thinking if he should chance going to Ruth's office—or would that end in a showdown? Beside, she said she was at the printer's, wherever that was. Tommy didn't expect to pay, of course.

     Outside, they stood around awkwardly for a moment. Alvin had a premiere of a new TV quiz show one of his sponsors was starting. Did they want to tag along?

     Tommy said he'd like to but wanted to see his wife, hadn't had a chance to tell her of his good luck since he'd come back from the country.

     Walt didn't know what he wanted to do, although he didn't feel like sitting around the empty apartment. As Tommy waved, walking down the block, limping slightly but a swagger to his walk, Alvin told Walt, “He's not punchy, the limp comes from an old broken toe. It galls me, a sweet guy like Tommy having to sell blood. What a fighting heart! They don't make them from his mold any more. Think of it, he's answered the bell over a hundred times, a hundred tests of pure courage and...”

     “Well, I have to be on my horse,” Walt cut in, knowing he wasn't in the mood for any hot air either. He had few illusions about the fight racket. He knew it was a lousy and brutal buck. But still, if a fellow got the breaks and could get in and out fast, there was big money. The cut from a decent bout would keep him and Ruth in Paris for years.

     Alvin said, “I'll keep in touch, Walt. Look, any time you want rickets for the fights, or TV shows, let me know.”

     “Okay. Thanks.”

     They parted at the corner. Walt walked around the block, restlessly reading the movie marquees. Finally, he bought a paper and headed for the apartment.

     Passing a bar, he saw Tommy inside, having a few quick shots.

ARNO

     After they ate in a Syrian restaurant Arno had found, he suggested they take in a movie. But Jake shook his head, said he was too tired and wanted to hit the sack. He returned to the hotel.

     Arno was going to the movie alone, but on the spur of nothing decided to get some sleep himself. Buying the evening paper and a jar of pickled black walnuts, he went up to their room. Jake wasn't there, but his overcoat and hat were hanging in the closet. Arno rang for a bellhop. Giving him a buck he asked, “Where's your girls, son?”

     “Sir, the Southside doesn't allow that sort of...”

     “Cut the gas, boy,” Arno said, slipping him another buck.

     The bellhop was a stocky youngster with a sharp face, baby-scrubbed skin, and very wise eyes. Winking, he told Arno, “I know you're an all right guy, mister. Tell ya, there is one gal doing business. Real cute babe. But she's working now and you'll have to wait....”

     “I know who she's working on, too. What's the room number?”

     The bellhop hesitated. Arno went over to the bedside phone, put a fat hand on it. “Rather I ask the manager, son?”

     “Aw now, mister, that's no way to act. Your buddy just went...”

     “I know all about it. What's the room number?”

     “One-fourteen.”

     “Forget I asked, and don't try racing me to the room. What do they call you, kid?”

     “Billy.”

     “Okay, Billy-boy, beat it. You look like a hard-working, ambitious youngster. Maybe you'll work your way up to being a big-time pimp.”

     On the way down to Room one-fourteen Arno tried one of the black walnuts. It was far too sweet and he tossed the rest of the jar into a sand-filled ash tray outside the elevator door.

     Listening for a moment at the door of one-fourteen, Arno grinned as he heard muffled talk. Knocking gently, he heard the small sounds of bare feet crossing a carpet, then a woman's “Yes?”

     “Billy. Open up,” Arno said, talking into the lapel of his coat to muffle the sound.

     The woman whispered, “I'm busy.”

     “Don't I know it? This is important.”

     She cracked the door and Arno pushed it open, knocking a tall naked girl against the wall. She held her white belly where the doorknob had hit her. Jake was stretched out on the bed, also nude. Arno smiled at him, thinking, How dumb can a joker get? With a body like that he keeps paying for it.

     The girl shut the door and, still holding one hand over her stomach, the other making a futile if modest attempt at covering her bouncing breasts, she asked, “What is this?”

     “Don't worry about it, honey, I'm with him,” Arno said, sitting on the bed and watching Jake. The veins in his nose seemed very dark red in contrast to Arno's pasty face. He called over his shoulder, “Put a robe on and take a walk, hon. Or get in the can and stay there for a few minutes. I know you've been paid and the dough is yours.” Arno examined his nails for a second and suddenly a slim but vicious-looking switchblade appeared in his right hand. The blade, in the shape of a dagger, was razor sharp. He delicately cleaned his nails with the knife. When the girl closed the bathroom door, Arno said, “Jake, get dressed.”

     “What's wrong with me having a broad?”

     “You're in training.”

     “Aw, stop it. A gal relaxes...”

     “Stupid bastard, get dressed!” Arno said, keeping his voice low and steady. “You know I let you have all the trim you want, when I'm around to supervise things. But not when you're in training for...”

     “But that might not be for weeks, months! You think I'm a monk or...?”

     “I think it took me a long time to find our man. I don't intend chancing the deal being queered by you getting sick. Get dressed—fast!”

     Jake got out of bed slowly, began dressing. Arno grinned at him. “Although you have the mind of a ten-year-old, don't glare at me like a kid, Jake. I know exactly what you're thinking, and forget it. I haven't muscles and I braise easily.” Arno waved the knife in the air as if it were a baton. “It's a funny world—there's you, one hundred forty-eight pounds of fighting muscle. And this knife can't weigh more than a few ounces, yet... Did I ever tell you about a slob I knew who found his wife two-timing him? Jake, all he did was make one fast motion over the back of her legs, sliced the muscles. She never walked again. One slash and those big muscles in your arms might be severed, never lift your arms again. The docs don't know how to sew nerves together— yet. Or a...”

     “Okay, okay,” Jake said, quickly buttoning his shirt. “I'm out twenty bucks. I'll ask her...”

     “Nope, we don't want a stink. I came as fast as I could,” Arno said, suddenly chuckling. “You see the way she caught the door? Like an old burlesque skit I once saw. Come on, lover, let's get some sleep.”

     “But twenty bucks? I...”

     “So you dropped two bills. That's better than being out fifty grand.”

RUTH STEINER

     Hanging up, Ruth sat in the phone booth and leisurely lit a cigarette. They were in some sort of coffee shop, a restaurant which had a juke box full of progressive jazz records. Trust Burgie to know a place like this. She could see his bald head now as he sat at their table, sipping wine. Of course you could also trust Burgie to over-do things, like ordering wine by the year, as if he really knew the difference.

     Ruth was a trifle puzzled and upset. She knew why, and that upset her more. Walt had sounded almost abrupt over the phone. Usually when she said she wasn't coming home he would argue, plead, whine; at least ask if he should wait supper for her. Tonight? “I suppose I do get some sort of enjoyment when he crawls,” Ruth told herself. “Perhaps because he's so strong, so damn sure of himself. Oh Lord, I'm thinking like a neurotic bitch, wanting him to crawl. Plenty of women would love to touch his muscles, be in my... Did Walt have somebody in the apartment? He would never do that—I think.” For a second she was tempted to call back, but the whole idea was silly, so instead she left the phone booth, glanced at herself in a wall mirror as she walked toward their table.

     Ruth had a number of problems, and a very real one was her weight. She was a big woman, a half inch short of six feet tall (in flat shoes) and a solid one hundred sixty-eight pounds. Actually, it was well-distributed and the mirror showed a tall, shapely woman. But most of the other girls she knew seemed to weigh less than one hundred fifteen pounds and forgetting her height Ruth was in constant tenor of becoming a “two-ton slob” as she called it. Calorie-watching was one of the many things nicking her mind.

     Burges Flynn didn't make any effort to rise when Ruth sat, and she would have been astonished if he had. He was a short, wiry, little man with an almost completely bald head fringed with thin blonde hair, a big-featured face so homely it was attractive, and nervous eyes. He was wearing shaggy tweeds, a plaid wool shirt, and a pointed yellow beard which he believed gave him a “devilish” look. Burges was a free-lance photographer who made a point of being friendly with female editors. Watching Ruth cross toward the table Burges had thought, My, but she's a big one. It should be most interesting; I ought to wear a jockey outfit for the occasion. Tiny me, I trust I won't need a compass. He said, “I've ordered. The wine is quite good. Did you make the proper lies and excuses to your husband?”

     “Aren't we just too cynical tonight, or at least trying too hard?” Ruth said, sipping the chilled, very dry wine. (She loved sweet wine but was ashamed, for some reason, to order any with Burges.)

     “I hardly think I'm trying to be cynical,” Burges said. He had a practiced way of talking as if each word was a great effort he was happy to let go of. “Having once seen that ox you're married to, I sincerely hope your excuses were proper—and believable. Mr. Steiner looked quite capable of beating me to a pulp. Or at the very least, slapping me out of shape with his blackjack. Say, does he let you handle his gun?”

     “Please, let's not talk about him. I liked your pictures for the perfume article.”

     Burges held up his palm and scratched his little beard on it. “I don't know if that's a compliment or an insult. Pose a doll-faced model against a white screen, without having to consider composition, or getting any character into the shot—for the model has the intellect of a backward moron. Really, Ruth, a child with a Brownie could do as well. Still, to be trite...”

     “I know, it's a living,” Ruth cut in as the waiter brought the food. They were both hungry and for a few minutes ate in silence, Ruth forcing herself to stay with only one bread-stick. Over coffee, she lit two cigarettes, handed Burges one. “Are we going to take in the Steichen exhibit at the Modem Arts tonight?”

     “I've seen enough photographs for one day.”

     “Jose Limon is dancing at...”

     “Honey, the ballet bores me. I have something else in mind for us this evening.”

     “What?”

     “Well, I've actually cleaned up my studio for the occasion. I think it's about time we went to bed,” Burges said, enjoying the slight, quick shock on her face.

     Ruth's reaction was a combination thrill and slight feeling of fear. Although she had been expecting this from Burgie, even a bit disappointed he hadn't propositioned her sooner, she wasn't certain what her answer would be. Outside of one bungled attempt at sex in college, prompted mostly by curiosity, Ruth hadn't slept with any man except Walt. But she'd given it much thought, sometime wondering if sleeping around might mature her as a writer. It was like the time someone suggested she smoke a stick of “tea” for kicks. Ruth had wanted to but was afraid.

     Now Burges blew a cloud of smoke at her and grinned. “Well, well, has anybody seen my sophisticated Ruth, the dirty joke queen? You're reacting like Sal-from-Carrot-Cross-roads.”