“We'll stop on the road for chow, Pops,” Jake said.
Tommy tried again to clear his mind of sudden doubt. Was it his imagination or was Jake really nervous? Why be on edge for a fight which was in the bag? And why hadn't Arno closed the deal over the phone? This wasn't any last minute substitution, why all the big hurry? But then, some things couldn't be said over the phone.
Now I'm in a fine spot, Tommy thought. If I don't call them—when they learn I've battled Jake—Walt and Al will be sore as boils. At the same time, I don't want them spoiling this payday for me. Hell, they have been good friends. What harm can phoning them do? I'll be in a big rush and they'll sputter, over the phone, and I'll have kept my end. What the devil was Walt's number? I can phone May. No, she won't be on the job yet. And I don't want to hear her crying. Hell with it.
But as he was closing the door, Tommy told them, “Say, I got to make a call. Only take a second. My bookie owes me a few bucks and I want to tell him I won't be around, to hold it. I'll stop at the cigar store in the lobby and...”
Arno pushed the door back, pointed to the hotel phone on the table. “You might as well make it now. But be quick.”
“Sure,” Tommy said, sorry he'd started the whole thing, suspicion rising strong within him again. And it would certainly sound 'funny' to Arno if he called a precinct house or a TV office now, with them listening. But why where they listening? Aw, here I go again, jittery as a kid having his first bout. The phone is right here, so Arno says make the call here. What's wrong with that?
He told the operator, “Let me have the number of a magazine called the Make-Up Age.” Tommy grinned at Arno over the receiver. “My bookie is sharp, uses this for a front— gets all his calls through his wife.”
“That won't save him if the cops are out to bust him,” Arno said. “All these bright slobs who think...”
“What are we standing around and gassing so much for?” Jake asked, his voice practically a growl.
Tommy held up a hand for silence, asked for Ruth and told her, “This is Tommy Cork. Please tell your husband I'm leaving town for a few days, to hold my back pay for me. He'll know what it's all about.”
“Tommy, what is it?” Ruth asked. “Can you talk? Where are you going? Are you boxing?”
“Just tell him I'll be out of town on business and not to give my dough to anybody until I come back. Good-bye.”
Downstairs, as they got into the flashy car, Arno asked Tommy, “Want to drive?”
“Sure. Where?”
“Get on the parkway and head upstate. I'll take over the wheel later. We have a good six hour drive ahead of us. Want some mint toffee?”
Tommy made a face as he shook his head.
Arno winked, pulled a pint of brandy from his inside pocket. “Take a nip of this—for the cold air.”
The brandy immediately quieted his nerves and Tommy drove for several hours. Being behind the wheel of a powerful car eased his mind, gave him a sense of well being. The big car, a bout coming up, main event soon, maybe, things were breaking. Even from this purse, depending upon how much Arno took out, he'd have enough for the first month's rent on the apartment. Give May the dough to hold. That would make her happy. “Guy is giving me bread,” he told himself, “and me acting coy as a schoolgirl being seduced. Silly to have even tried to call Walt. Naw, maybe it was a smart move. He can't reach me, possibly stop the fight, even if he gets the message. We can be fighting in any one of five or six states, and not being a main go, won't be listed. Neither will the results, so he and Alvin will never know. Okay, I tried to call him. That gets me off the hook. I don't know what's the matter with me this morning. Being hung-over never made me this upset before.”
They stopped for lunch at noon and Tommy ate a big meal and felt fine. When he went to the John Jake went along. Jake seemed moody and even more sullen than usual. When Tommy said, “You're a regular hot chatterbox today,” Jake snapped, “I'm always on edge before a fight?”
“Even this one?” Tommy asked, wondering if he was talking out of turn.
“Pops, leave me alone.”
Arno took the wheel and when Tommy asked where they were going, Arno said, “Benson Harbor. Pretty good fight town.”
They reached Benson Harbor two hours later and checked into a hotel—each of them taking different rooms. It was a second-rate hotel, without phones in the rooms, or baths. When Tommy went out to wash, Arno opened his door and came out, towel in hand. As they cleaned up he told Tommy, “The matchmaker will be over in a few minutes, with contracts to sign. Don't forget, you're your own manager. It's a six-round semi-final and you're getting one hundred and twenty dollars—so is Jake.”
“Good. Listen, it's about time you started taking your cut. Take fifty per cent of this one....”
Arno patted him on the back. “Of these two-bit purses? You keep it all. When you're pulling down five or six thousand a fight, I'll get mine.”
Tommy was too happy to say a word.
The matchmaker was a thin man in tacky clothes. Tommy had never seen or heard of him before. The matchmaker told him, “You get examined by the doc and weigh in at noon tomorrow. You really fight Robinson, all those others?”
“Sure, I'm one of the last true Irish pugs fighting and one of the few hundred-bout guys going today.”
“I hope you fight as good as you talk. On account of the Harbor being out of range of most TV stations, we still draw a pretty good crowd here. My fans like action.”
“All fans do,” Tommy said.
When the promoter left, Tommy stretched out on his bed but before he could get any sleep, Arno came in. Sitting on the bed, he offered Tommy a belt of brandy but Cork turned it down. “My stomach is finally holding its own. Want to keep it that way.”
Arno shrugged and took a drink himself. “They say Spanish brandy is the best. Not so. This stuff, from grapes grown in the Azores, has a body all its own. Listen now, won't be good for us to be seen together too much. Well all eat in the joint downstairs at five-thirty sharp, but we'll sit at different tables. Act natural. I mean we can know each other but not be too friendly. Then at seven we'll be back in our rooms, get a good night's rest. Remember, it's always some little unseen bit that throws a deal, so we'll be careful. Don't talk to anybody, or get lost. Understand?” Tommy nodded.
Arno made for the door. “You have an hour before supper. Get some rest.”
There was a luncheonette next to the hotel and on the other side a small liquor store. Tommy, Arno and Jake drifted into the luncheonette, had a good supper. Tommy finished first and went back through the lobby, passing several phone booths, and out the other side entrance. At the liquor store he bought a Dint, then reached the lobby as Arno was coming in from the luncheonette. Tommy stood by the large window which was the front of the lobby, watching the people passing by on the main street. The Harbor looked like a neat little town and he wanted to walk around. Being big city born, all small cities filled him with a patronizing curiosity. But Tommy saw Arno plant himself in one of the ancient leather lobby chairs and read a paper. Jake bought a magazine and went up to his room. After a few minutes Arno stood up and yawned; Tommy took the hint, went to his room. Undressing slowly, he drank a long nip from the pint and hid it in his bag.
There was a small radio chained to the table and he turned that on, listened to a local station. He was quite pleased when an announcer with a twangy voice said, ”... In sports, tomorrow night the Harbor Arena has what looks like a thrilling semi-final. Jake Watson versus Irish Tommy Cork. We all recall Watson as the dynamic puncher who thrilled fans a few shows ago with a whistling knockout. Cork, although a newcomer to these parts, is an Irish ring veteran with well over a hundred fights behind him. He's met Robinson, Olson, Hart, and most of the top fighters in his class... In baseball news, word comes from Havana that...”
Tommy was so delighted he sat up in bed and waved at himself in the dresser mirror—wished May could have heard the broadcast. He hadn't had a build-up like this in years.
He decided to take a tiny nightcap and was turning out the light at eight-thirty, the bed feeling comfortable as heaven, when Arno knocked softly, then came into the room.
Belching a little, Arno said, “Guy that runs that stool joint should be arrested. The difference between messing food and cooking is only common sense but so many jerks... Are you tired?”
“No,” Tommy lied, thinking Arno had come to discuss the fight.
“I'm not sleepy either. I'd get a bottle except I don't want you drinking the night before a fight. Play gin?”
“No. How about casino?”
They played until eleven with Tommy fighting to keep his eyes open. Finally Arno yawned and said it was time for bed. Tommy dozed off the second he was alone. He awoke at seven to go to the John, still feeling pooped. Walking back to his room he saw Arno standing in the doorway of his own room, his round face tired and bleary-eyed. He mumbled, “Next time I'll take my own food along. Couldn't get a wink last night.”
“I slept like a log. Think I'll get something to eat and take a walk.”
“That's an idea. I'll go along, but we won't walk together.”
Tommy got in another hour's sleep and at noon he was in a doctor's office where several other pugs—all kids—were also waiting for an examination. Tommy smiled at the kids, thought, I'm sure getting to be the grand old man of boxing, don't know a one of these muscle-heads.
Jake came in and merely nodded at Tommy. Arno, of course, wasn't around. The examination took only a few seconds. They all weighed in and when Tommy started for the scales the doctor said, “Wait a minute. Are you limping, Mr. Cork?”
“I've had a stiff toe. Had it for years now. It's okay, doesn't stop me from boxing or running,” Tommy said fast, fear that he'd lose the fight freezing his insides.
“Well, I don't know,” the doctor said. “Better let me see your foot.”
As Tommy slipped off his shoes, the matchmaker came forward and told the doc, “Henry, Tommy has had over a hundred bouts, means a hundred doctors have passed him.”
“That's right. Why I've had this bad toe ever since I was a kid,” Tommy said, glancing at Jake, who seemed pale.
The doc merely felt of the toe and then said, “All right. Get on the scale.”
Tommy and Jake weighed in at the same weight—a hundred and forty-four pounds. Tommy was surprised. Jake must have been working hard. He usually had five or six pounds on Tommy.
They went back to the hotel and Tommy got in an hour's nap before they all went down for a light supper. Arno had also got in some sleep and looked better. Jake seemed very jumpy. Going upstairs, Arno whispered, “Come to my room, Tommy. We need to have a talk.”
Tommy nodded.
When he opened the door, ten minutes later, Arno was stretched out on the bed, an ash tray resting on his stomach, a cigarette in his mouth. Tommy sat on the foot of the bed; Arno said, “Since you know more about boxing than I ever will, I want your advice. But first I'll give you my views on our deal. We're after two things. We want to make Jake look spectacular, have the fans gasping to see him again. At the same time we want a return bout. Right?”
Tommy nodded, thinking, Jake is a hell of a spectacular fighter without any build-up.
Arno blew smoke at the ceiling. “I've talked it over with Jake and we have this plan....”
Tommy laughed. “I was wondering if Jake was in on it, the way you been whispering.”
“I hardly want to broadcast our plans. Of course Jake knows. He has to. We think it should go like this: Jake rushes out and pulls you into a comer. You act surprised at his rough tactics. He hits you and you go down.”
“No room to roll with a punch in a comer, and Jake hits hard.”
“Naturally, Jake will pull his punches. And you do the same—that's understood. Now, you take the eight count and get up, stagger a little. Don't overdo it and let the ref stop it. You left hook Jake and he drops. He's up fast, acts mad as hell, but the ref makes him take the mandatory eight count. While standing in the opposite corner you still act groggy. Jake rushes over and lands a right as you jab. You go down for the full count. This last fall has to look good. Act stiff.”
“I know, I'd be stiff but with my feet kicking a little.”
Arno crushed his cigarette in the ashtray, tossed a mint into his mouth, held the package out toward Tommy—who shook his head. Arno said, “Sounds fine. If this doesn't get the fans into an uproar for a return bout, I don't know what will. Now, as you leave the ring there'll be some fans telling you tough luck and all that. Always a couple—and you say, loudly, you were caught napping, will flatten Jake the next time out. Main thing, make sure Jake can hit you with his right in the comer. And he'll leave an opening for your left... when he's to hit the canvas. Any suggestions?”
“Nope. Be sure to tell Jake not to get excited, be certain he pulls his punch, only don't make it look that way. Perhaps we should have practiced this.”
“Look, you're both pros. It will play smooth. Be sure you pull your left. You have the best in the business.”
Tommy grinned as he stood up, walked toward the door. He opened it a crack, turned to Arno, “How do you plan on getting Jake from here to a big TV spot?” Tommy was surprised to see, through the slightly opened door, Jake sneaking out of Tommy's room.
“I figure in a return match, Jake will flatten you again in a fast, thrilling fight. Then I'm going to work on the promoter to lay out money to bring a good boy up here. If Jake flattens him, we'll be on our way.”
“I don't know, you'll still have to cut the mob in,” Tommy said, hearing his own voice and wondering what the hell Jake was doing in his room.
