The Big Fix Page 13

  Jim glanced at him and shook his head. Walt said the same thing at every robbery. They had been partners for several years. Neither particularly liked the other. Walt thought Jim was too sloppy in his job while Jim considered Walt far too serious. As Jim would say, and often did, “We can only do so much as police officers. We put in our crazy eight hours, get indigestion from changing tours and eating habits so often, and that's it for us. So we can't reform the whole world; it ain't our job and the hell with it.”

  Walt didn't approve of Jim's drinking and running around, or his loud clothes, while Jim privately considered Walt a humorless “drag.” But they each respected and fairly understood the other, and both were capable when they had to be.

  As they sat in the squad car, Jim lit a cigarette and Walt yawned. Jim asked, “What's come over you today, Walt? Tie one on last night? First time I've ever seen you look like you been up all night. And you were almost jovial, or what passes for humor with you, with that crying mama up there.”

  “I didn't get hardly any sleep last night. I was helping a friend... eh... move,” Walt said, yawning again.

  Actually his brain was far from sleepy; it was working like mad. Walt didn't understand exactly what had happened last night. First he had been surprised when Ruth had readily agreed to help find May. When he and Tommy had been standing in the cold outside the crummy rooming-house for so long, Walt had wondered what Ruth could possibly be doing up there all the time. Tommy kept muttering he wanted to go up and see his wife, and suddenly Walt knew what Ruth was up to and he wanted to laugh. It was crazy how one simple thing could reflect so many different angles to different people. Tommy worried about a wife he'd rarely seen; May Cork beaten and frightened because she turned greedy; Walt himself annoyed at working on his own time, standing in the cold like a fool; and Ruth working an entirely different tack, figuring how all this could add up to a story for her.

  When she'd come down and Tommy had gone for food, Walt had wanted to impress upon her this wasn't a game of charades, that a woman had nearly been beaten to death. But he hadn't and when Ruth took the food up and there was another long wait in the raw cold, Walt had really become angry. A silly waitress gets involved with the numbers syndicate over a lousy buck, and he, Walt Steiner, suddenly found himself way out on a limb. There were certain things a cop had to shut his eyes to. Just as you never gave a ticket to a politician, so a cop didn't fool with the numbers boys. It was plain common sense—all that was taken care of by “downtown.” Whether “downtown” was holding out a fat palm or not wasn't his business.

  So, last night Walt had felt a double chill on the street. Then when Ruth had finally come down and sent Tommy up, there had been the business of waking a friend in the middle of the night, explaining and trying not to explain why he wanted to borrow a car. (Neither Ruth nor Walt ever had a desire to own a car.) Finally, there had been the job of driving May up to her old room, watching the place while she and Ruth quickly packed all her things—the “all” being one thin suitcase full—and the fairly long drive over to Ruth's sister's place—after dropping Tommy off at his hotel. It was well after three o'clock when Walt at last returned the car, took a cab to the apartment with Ruth. He was not only grouchy from lack of sleep, worried over butting in on the numbers syndicate, but he also felt like a damn taxi driver, carting people all over the place. He had gone to bed at once while Ruth fooled around in the bathroom.

  As he was dozing off, he was awakened to find Ruth standing nude beside the bed. Then she had asked some silly questions about, “Walt, do you see any difference between Mrs. Rockefeller and myself? Am I as pretty, now, as Mrs. Hemingway?”

  “What?” he'd asked, coming out of his fog of sleep.

  “Do you think I'm getting fat? Starting to spread?” Ruth ran her hands over her strong hips.

  “I'm sleepy. Get something on before you catch cold.”

  “Do I look 'cold' to you?”

  “What is this? You look... okay,” Walt had granted, now wide awake, his eyes greedily racing over her big body. Then Ruth had pulled back the covers and carefully taken off his pajamas. She'd said, in a whisper, “Your body is still so... hard and powerful. You're a fine built man, Walt. Hundreds of girls dream of a guy like you.”

  There was a faint smile on her face when she finished talking and he lay there, full of suspicion. Then he wondered if, after all the weeks of not touching her, Ruth had seen his need and was being charitable. The thought gave him the same kind of chill he'd felt outside the rooming-house. He tried to turn his back on her but Ruth's hands began to caress his body. He'd asked, “What's brought this sudden change about?”

  “My husband has a delightful body. I want...”

  “My body was the same yesterday, and the night before. What is this?”

  “Do I need a special reason for admiring your body? Oh, I suppose it's May Cork. I relearned something from her, something so terribly basic I'd forgotten it—that everything is comparative.”

  “I don't know what you're talking about. It's too late for any smart talk. Get to bed,” Walt had said, reaching for the blanket, fighting any show of desire with a stubborn, almost childish, independence.

  “Of course,” Ruth had said, turning off the light. Her warm body had slid across his and his hands fondled her as their lips met....

  Thinking about it now, as he had been most of the morning, Walt had long since given up trying to understand what had happened, the “why” of it. All that mattered was it had been the greatest night of his life, more demanding and exciting than their honeymoon. There had been moments of tears and whispered confessions, each admitting they had been wrong. There had been violent expressions of love and passion—in words and deeds. As dawn came, they had finally fallen asleep in each other's arms, happily exhausted. He'd only been able to sleep for an hour when it was time to get up. He considered calling in sick for the day but was afraid he'd spoil the wonder of the last few hours. For the first time in years, Walt had reported late for his tour of duty.

  And while he wanted only to rest and think of what had happened, it turned out to be a busy and tiring day: the forced entry, a stolen car, a follow-up on an old case. After a rushed lunch they had gone to court, to find “their” case had been postponed. Jim was on edge with the frustrations of the day, but back in the squad room as Walt was yawning over some paper work, eager to see Ruth again, Alvin Hammer phoned, asked, “Did the prints show anything?”

  “What prints?” Walt was completely confused, wondered for a hazy second if he was talking to the husband of the woman who'd been robbed, the forced entry deal.

  “You were going to get a copy of the fingerprints of this boxer, Jake Watson, see if they tell us anything.”

  “Give me time. I'm busy.”

  Alvin said gravely, “A man's very life may be in danger.”

  “Oh take it slow, Al. I have a job, remember? Soon as I'm finished here, I'll drop by the commission offices. Assuming you're right...”

  “I feel in my bones I'm right,” Alvin boomed.

  “Then relax your bones. I'm not Tommy's private cop. I was up with him most of last night, straightening out some trouble his wife was in. Look, we have time on this. You can't pull an insurance swindle a few days after you take out the policy. There's always a waiting period.”

  “True, but try to find out anything you can now. My secretary is over at a newspaper morgue this minute, checking on every ring fatality in the past five years.”

  “If I had a secretary, I'd send her over to the commission,” Walt said, grinning at his own little joke.

  “I saw the old cock working out in the gym today. He looked like a true champ, flitting around the ring with the grace of a dancing ghost, a...”

  Walt found himself dozing off as he listened. When Hammer finally hung up, Walt went out for a cup of coffee to keep awake, and a sandwich—he'd been hungry all day. Jim picked him up in the cafeteria to investigate an assault case, which turned out to
be only a drunken family argument. When they returned to the squad room there was a phone message for Walt.

  Important I see you at eight tonight in bar on West Street and 4th Avenue. Only bar around there. Something has come up. Very important

  Tommy Cork.

  Cursing to himself, Walt tried to think how he could get in touch with Tommy. Walt had phoned Ruth at noon and they'd sweet-talked like kids, decided to dine out that evening and perhaps take in a show... although Ruth had said she was anxious to return to bed, and then talked so “dirty” over the phone Walt had blushed—with pleasure.

  Now, finishing up his paper work, trying to keep his eyes open, he finally called Alvin, who had no idea where Tommy could be reached. When he heard about the message, Alvin was worried. He tried the gym and Bobby Becker, then called back to tell Walt he couldn't locate Tommy, felt it would be too dangerous to call the hotel. He asked Walt what he thought the message meant.

  “I don't know. Tommy probably has some bug up his rear. I phoned his wife, she's okay.”

  “Then it must have something to do with the insurance deal. Bobby seems worried about Tommy, but he wouldn't tell me a thing. I'll keep looking for Irish. I have a commercial to do at ten, but I'll do my best to be at the bar at eight.”

  “Good. Phone me at home if you find Tommy. I'm not sure I can make it tonight.”

  “But Tommy's message said it was very important.”

  “Hammer, I'll be off duty in a few minutes. I've had a busy day. I'm bushed. I also have a home and a wife. I told you I spent most of the night with Tommy. My sun doesn't rise and set in the doings of Irish Cork. If I can help him, great. But I said, if.”

  “That's a surprising attitude, Walt. That is... well,” Alvin was trying to control his anger. “The point is, since we're all a part of the boxing sport, in one form or another, why we have a special interest in helping Tommy.”

  “I have been giving him my special attention, hours of it,” Walt said, feeling too tired and too good to argue. Or even laugh at skinny Alvin thinking he was any part of the real fight racket. “If I can make it at eight, I will. If I can't... the case won't be settled this evening.”

  “Perhaps it will,” Alvin said, almost smugly. “Perhaps that's exactly what Tommy means by 'very important.'”

  Walt yawned again. “Take my word for it, if they do plan to kill Tommy, it won't be tonight. I'm going home in a few minutes. Should you see or hear from Tommy, have him call me there.”

  Reaching his apartment, Walt washed up, changed to a sweat shirt and slippers, then fell asleep watching cowboys racing across the TV screen. He was awakened by Ruth kissing him. Pulling her down onto his lap, they necked and fooled around. Walt wisecracked, “We're sure a testimonial to whoever made this chair, the entire three hundred and sixty pounds of us.”

  They were too lazy to eat out and both helped with the supper. Walt liked to cook Chinese dishes. As they were doing the dishes Ruth asked, “What do you want to do tonight? I'm kind of bushed, the very best type of tiredness, and wouldn't argue a bit against going right to bed.”

  “I'm in favor of that deal. Or if you still want to take in a show...?”

  “I made a feeble attempt to get tickets to one or two things. Frankly, the only show I'm interested in is the one we put on early this morning.”

  “That's my girl talking,” Walt said, peeling off his sweat shirt, then his watch. It was four minutes after seven as he checked it with the electric wall clock. He said, “Tommy Cork left a message, almost an order, to meet him at some bar tonight at eight. The Voice, Alvin Hammer, practically accused me of being a phony cop, remiss in my duty, and all the rest of it, when I told him I couldn't make it. He sounded like having a real home life is a crime—for a cop.”

  “Any idea what the old man wants?” Ruth asked. “Lord, why do I keep thinking of Tommy as 'old'? Perhaps Tommy really has something important to tell you.”

  Walt went over and kissed her. “What's more important than taking you to bed?”

  “Nothing. But we'll have many beds and many nights, not to mention we can go to bed after you see Tommy. You said last night somebody may be trying to murder him. Really?”

  “I'm not sure. Al Hammer got the murder idea going. Things look fishy, some new manager insured him for a pile of money. The very fact any manager would be interested in a has-been like Tommy is suspicious.”

  “Then perhaps you should see what he wants?”

  “Hey, now yon sound like Alvin. Honey, if Tommy had anything hot, he'd come here.”

  Ruth hugged him, covered Walt's big face with hot little wet kisses. “You're so big and strong and Tommy is such a battered little guy. I feel sorry for him. And for May. Compared to them you and I have so much, while they want very little from life, yet seem to have this terrible time getting anything.”

  “You're like one of those displays turning in a show window, Ruth. I...”

  “What? A display?” she asked, between kisses.

  “I see a new side to you every minute. Honey, when did you get on the sentimental kick? I've always thought of you as the cool dame, everything arranged just so in her mind.”

  “Call me a dame again, Walt.”

  Pulling her head from his face, Walt kissed her hard on the lips, mumbled, “Don't you see, I'd like to help them, if I can. As a policeman I certainly want to help if he's in danger. But don't buy your own soft sell on them. They 'want very little from life....' Sure, so May bucks the numbers mob. While you're breaking your heart over poor Tommy, if he hadn't been so greedy, or dumb, he would have made his pile in the ring, and probably got rooked out of it by sharp businessmen. But he let himself be rushed and suckered into a Robinson match.”

  “No, he did that deliberately, because he needed fast money for a TB operation for May. She got into this numbers mess only to raise a lousy one hundred and fifty dollars —enough to buy an apartment. My God, the way she talked about that one room apartment and the one hundred and fifty dollars—like they were a million bucks and a swank duplex. Walt, the trouble with us, with people in general, is we only think of heroes as “big” people doing “big” deeds. I'm going to try to get this idea into my book, make it the theme—that there are such people as little heroes, and they're as important to the rest of us as the 'regular' heroes. Tommy and May, in their own way, are courageous people with great dignity. I admire them.”

  “Then I take it you want me to see him tonight?”

  “Yes, if you think you should.”

  “What a slick answer. Shall I go?”

  “Up to you, Walt.”

  Giving her a final kiss, Walt pushed her off his lap and started to dress, putting on a clean shirt, checking his gun in the hip holster. Getting into his overcoat he said, “I'll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Walt, you're not angry at me?”

  “Come on, of course not. Guess I'd feel uneasy if I didn't see him. You think he really took that licking from Robinson for May?”

  “That's what she told me. Said Tommy knew he wasn't ready, but there was the dead baby and her lungs, and they needed some quick thousands.”

  “I thought he was just another dumb musclehead who let himself be fast-talked by a greedy manager. Okay, I'll be back in an hour or so.”

  Outside, Walt shivered with the night rawness. It was twenty after seven and he decided to walk part of the way, let the cold push some of the tiredness out of his mind. He thought about what Ruth had said about the little heroes. “Still,” he said to himself, “a punk sticking up a housewife, snatching a purse, lifting a car—when you get down to it most of them do it for rent and eating money. Are they heroes? But... there's a difference. Tommy didn't hurt anybody but himself. He didn't take somebody else's money, or shoot or pistol-whip anyone. He took the beating himself. Yeah, guess he is a hero, if a dumb one, he could have taken a dive in the first round. Way I remember it, he stood up to Robinson for five or six rounds, until body punches sapped his strength. Wha
t a way to make a payday. No matter what the need, would I have the guts to have gone the distance with Louis, or Patterson?”

  At seven-thirty Walt stopped for a cup of coffee, to warm up, then decided he had walked enough and took a bus cross-town to the market area. He stood outside the West Street bar for a moment, holding his overcoat collar around his ears. He couldn't recall if Tommy's message had said to wait outside or in the bar. It was a minute after eight and West Street full of a cold wind from the river. Walt stepped inside as he opened the door he knew by the tense stillness something was wrong.

  Several men were standing rigidly at the bar, paralyzed with fear. A couple were sitting at a table, horror engraved on the woman's meaty face. Tommy Cork stood in the center of the place, facing Big Burt, while at one end of the bar Alvin Hammer and the bartender presented a perfect tableau of pale horror. Alvin was trying to talk, his mouth working, but for once in his life his voice failed him.