The Big Fix Page 14

  Tommy's hands were loose at his sides, but there was a kind of electric stance to his legs—ready to move. Big Burt, face still discolored and puffed, dirty tape covering the stitches over one eye, held a nasty looking switchblade in his right hand. He held the knife up a bit high, the better to start slicing, and the hard bright blade was the only thing glittering in the dreary bar. Burt was saying, the voice as mean as the knife, ”... and I'm going to cut you up for crab bait!”

  “You know where you can shove that sticker,” Tommy said, his voice sounding casual because all his attention was on Burt's eyes and feet. He was waiting for Burt to come a few steps nearer. A knife man has to work in close, and Tommy would start swinging then.

  Being a good cop, while his eyes took in all this, Walt's hands hadn't been idle; automatically they had loosened his gun in its holster, opened his coat. Stepping forward, Walt said, “Police officer! Drop that knife!”

  He was a few steps behind Big Burt when Burt turned like a cat, slashed out at Walt, then spun around to face Tommy. The second the knife sliced the air, Walt fired. He fired twice, so fast, it was all one sound. Burt had actually turned and was facing Tommy's fist, knife hand still raised. Suddenly the big man staggered, then fell sideways, crashing to the floor. Dead.

  Walt pinned his badge on his coat as Alvin came forward, gushing and booming, “Thank God you arrived! I saw it all. This... this... brute pulled a knife on Tommy without the slightest provocation! He must have been simply mad!”

  Walt stood with his big lips parted, feeling many things. He was numb with the thought that he had killed a human being—could feel the coffee rising in his throat. He was frightened, and then a fierce anger made the coffee settle in his belly.

  The beaten face of the dead man frightened Walt, for he realized this must be the numbers punk. There would be all sorts of repercussions downtown. There would be screaming headlines, scandal, and the brass would need a scapegoat. With a sickening feeling he knew who that would be. They might even accuse him of shooting Big Burt as a favor to Tommy.

  The anger came when he saw the smile of relief on Tommy's tight face, suspected the little pug had set him up to shoot the big goon.

  A radio car came to a stop outside, the siren even silencing Hammer's booming voice. In a matter of seconds the bar seemed full of police and the jabbering of the customers. Then, somehow, Alvin Hammer's deep voice dominated things once more as he said, “I'm a television announcer and a witness to the entire affair. If Detective Steiner hadn't happened by—an act of God—this crazed thug would have knifed Mr. Cork. This is Irish Tommy Cork, the fighter.”

  Words bounced all about Walt's head and he was like a spectator in all the rush as patrolmen, detectives—including a Homicide lieutenant—and then an ambulance doctor, took over the bar. Alvin's voice was still on top of the situation, was every place, including phoning his studio to rush a mobile unit over.

  All Walt could think of, was what he'd tell the brass; he had to have a hell of a foolproof story the first time out. Then his fear began to dull as he also realized having Alvin around was a form of protection. This thing couldn't be hushed up. Anything they did to him would be publicized. Walt found himself next to Tommy who whispered, “I'm sorry, Walt, but I had to get this louse off May....”

  “Sure, you had to slug him too!”

  “No, that was last night. I was trying to square things. You see I fixed it up with the guy who'd played the number. Then I wanted to tell Big Burt things were okay and he called May... names. Anyway, I couldn't let him get away with beating up my wife. Would you, if it had been Ruth?”

  “All this happened last night?”

  Tommy nodded.

  “Then why the rumble now?”

  “I found out by punching Burt I'd only made things worse, for May, so...”

  “So you wanted me here because... Why, you cocky little dope, did you set yourself up as a decoy?”

  Tommy shrugged. “Certain friends told me I had to get him before he made it a syndicate affair.”

  Walt was staring at him with his mouth open—again. Then he gasped, “But supposing I hadn't showed? Or had been a few minutes late? Why, for all you know, I might have been working now!”

  Tommy grinned. “I trusted my Irish luck.”

  ALVIN HAMMER

  Al went to bed at ten after two and was up at five o'clock. He was far too nervous, excited, and over-tired to sleep. But he was happy. Work was a tranquilizer to him, and the faster the pace the more he enjoyed it. He often found work more relaxing than the high-priced call girls he patronized. His station had set up an on-the-spot remote for the nightly eleven o'clock news. Everything had been a happy blur of activity from the moment his heart froze—when Big Burt came at Tommy with a knife—until he was telling the TV audience what had happened, pointing to the crude chalk outline on the floor, showing where Burt had fallen.

  To Alvin's amazement, Walt had been shy, in fact almost sullen, over the whole deal. Walt and a plump police lieutenant had a fast talk and Alvin was told not to mention Burt's connection with the numbers racket. Al didn't quite understand what they were talking about, since he didn't know about May, but Tommy seemed pleased. All Alvin knew was he had walked into the crummy bar a few minutes before eight, and started over toward Tommy, who was standing in the middle of the bar. Cork had stared at him, eyes big under his scarred eyebrows.

  “Get out of here, Al. There's going to be trouble.” Cork's voice had been a hoarse, dramatic hiss.

  “What's up? You find something about Arno?”

  “Please, get out of here! At least stay away from me. Go sit down.”

  Puzzled, and a little hurt, Alvin had hardly reached the end of the bar when he heard a loud, “Ain't you the dumb, stupid-brave little sonofabitch for showing again!”

  There was this large, heavy-set man with the bruised face, wearing a shabby overcoat and a silly little blue beret perched on his pumpkin head, slowly approaching Irish. He jerked his hand from his pocket and the knife blade appeared like a rabbit out of a hat.

  Tommy seemed calm, if pale, but Alvin was so frightened he had to clutch the bar to keep from fainting. Several hysterical thoughts crashed around in his head. He must jump forward and shield Tommy. Al had no idea why he thought this, and if he had been able to move he would have faced Burt. He could scream. Then, he wanted to urge the others to do something. Alvin even considered hurling the beer bottle of the man standing next to him at Burt, but he might hit Tommy.

  Then things moved into high speed. Suddenly there had been Walt walking toward Burt's back. Walt looked as large as Burt, but far more solid. The rest had been too fast to really see. Burt whirling on Walt, then turning again toward Tommy and the two orange flames leaping from Walt's clenched hand, the short barking sounds... and Burt falling.

  But the second Burt crashed to the floor, Alvin not only came alive, but took charge. By the time he went on the air, he was half-crocked. After all, it had happened in a bar. But his voice was steady and booming, the excitement he felt almost an understatement. Although the bar was jammed with reporters, police, and the curious, Al had the stage to himself as he faced the TV camera. Leaning casually on the bar, pipe in hand, he had said, “In this bar—an old-time saloon—now a part of your living-room, a man was shot to death many minutes ago. I am Alvin Hammer, the fight announcer, and by chance I witnessed the whole thing. Irish Tommy Cork, a fighter, and a personal friend of mine, was standing exactly where I am at this moment, when without a word of warning, a giant thug known as Big Burt approached him with a switch-blade. We now know Burt had tried to assault Mrs. Cork several nights ago and last night Tommy had confronted and licked him—although outweighed by at least a one-hundred pounds. Undoubtedly Big Burt had been plotting his revenge all day. Burt has a criminal record; once served five years for armed robbery and was also twice arrested for assault and battery.

  “Unarmed and unflinching, Irish Tommy stood his ground, facing the cold ste
el. There certainly would have been a bloody murder if Detective Walter Steiner hadn't walked into the bar. Identifying himself as a police officer, Steiner ordered Burt to drop his knife. Burt's answer was an attempt to slash the detective. With lightning speed, Detective Steiner, a former Olympic boxer himself, went for his gun and shot the thug dead—two bullets in his heart. I salute Detective Walt Steiner who risked his life while off duty, and I know the police department and every citizen must indeed feel proud of this heroic police officer...”

  Now, sitting in his office, Alvin felt fine. His picture, along with an old one of Tommy and a mug shot of Big Burt, was on the front page of the morning papers. A major TV columnist lauded the network and Al for a “thrilling, on-the-spot-human interest report.” Even the elevator operator had told Al what a “kick” it had been. There was a memo telegram from the studio president, and all during the morning Al received a steady stream of calls and congratulatory handshakes. He phoned Walt at the squad room but was told Walt was downtown. He felt it was safe to call Tommy at his hotel but the desk clerk told him Tommy was doing road-work.

  Later in the morning, while being shaved, Alvin had a new idea and ordered a phone brought to the barber chair. Calling Bobby Becker, Al told him, loud enough, of course, for everybody in the shop to hear, “Becker, you've seen Tommy's name and face all over the front pages, haven't you?”

  “Aha. Between boxing and his outside interests, that Irishman isn't long for this world.”

  “You don't recognize true courage when it hits you right in your fancy eyeglasses, my Bobby. Look, I was thinking, with all this publicity, how about giving the old cock a break and...”

  “What did you say? The old what?” Becker asked, while in the barbershop the ancient blonde manicurist let out a giggle.

  “Old cock, as in a game old bird—a fighting cock. I think it would get your club and fight card reams of free publicity if you announced you're giving Tommy a break, move him up to the main go. Surely increase the sales and...”

  “Now, Hammer, you know the score. I... eh... don't pick the main event pugs... just like that.”

  Alvin lowered his voice. “Show the same courage Tommy revealed! This is your chance to tell... them... to go to hell!” He wondered if it really was true Bobby received a modest flat salary and was running the club as a front for the fight mob? The “mob” was such a nebulous term. Of course Alvin had heard the “game” was in the hands of a small gang of racketeers... yet he'd never seen anybody who “looked” like a gangster, nor had he ever seen any rough stuff. Rather it was all like a strict business set-up in which the top executives are rarely seen by the public—the phone user who doesn't even know the name of the phone company president.

  Bobby said, “Hammer, you know how I feel about Tommy. But I can't buck... nobody. Why don't you do it? You pull the strings. You TV crew-cuts control boxing now. A real pitch by Madison Avenue and the fight game would be clean within a month.”

  “You're the promoter, matchmaker, or whatever your title is, so don't give me the ball, you gutless wonder!” Al said, hanging up, remembering, with disgust, Becker taking his cut of Tommy's last purse, thinking, By God, if they cut the lousy few bucks from an emergency four-rounder, how cheap can you get? If I ever get out of fight announcing, I'll blast the sponsors for not cleaning up the game. Their silence is consent. What a page-one story that will make, and they'd probably send the mob gunning for me. Make another headline which I wouldn't be around to read.

  Alvin taped a commercial on the first take and phoned Walt again, left a message he would be in the Between Rounds Bar later that afternoon. Then he had lunch with an agency man who had an audience participation contest gimmick: they would show films of the various old championship fights in each division. The listener would then send in a one hundred word letter as to why he thought Dempsey or Louis was the greatest heavyweight champ ever, along with the all important box top. A panel of sports writers would pick the winning letter and if the champ named was still alive, he would present the letter writer with the grand prize. As the agency man said, “Why we'll even have old maids buying shaving cream to get into the contest.”

  Alvin wanted to say the man was demeaning the sport, but all he did say was, “I'd be glad to m.c. this, if you get the package off the ground.” And in his mind he again saw the shooting of last night and felt sincerely proud of himself—Al now felt his courage was on a par with Tommy's, or Walt's... or any other fighter. He was sure he now truly belonged.

  JAKE

  Finishing breakfast after his roadwork, Jake had gone right up to his room arid to sleep. Training annoyed him and this morning he'd been doubly irritated because Arno hadn't been around when Jake returned from running in the park. “The slob is probably stuffing his fat face,” Jake told himself, “with some of the weird chow he goes for, while I'm running my legs out. I'm sure getting the hard end of this deal. All the work and I still only get a fifty-fifty split.”

  Actually Jake disliked the training grind because it reminded him of the time when he had gloried in it. Not too many years before, Jake had accidentally turned to boxing and immediately ceased being merely another rough punk: he had at last found his racket. Jake knew he was a sensational fighting machine, that fame and fortune awaited him—trite words which Jake translated into: girls. In those days he would spend much of his time in the movie theatres and upon seeing any girl on the screen who struck his liking, Jake would think, Okay baby, keep looking stuck-up, and keep all that stuff warm. In a few months I'll be knocking on your door, a big money fighter. You'll welcome me—here comes the champ, the free-spender. Damn, won't be a broad I can't have.

  It was a shock which left Jake on the brink of a breakdown to finally realize all that would never be. The first time he thought it was one of those things—it happens to all fighters. But after the next few times he knew the truth. He had flashy skill, a punch in either hand, and sharp reflexes: the trouble was—and it was terribly frustrating trouble—he was like a complex and beautiful machine, but a machine which would never run because a simple bolt was missing.

  It was rough to take. At times Jake still thought Arno was wrong, felt he could make it as a fighter. But Jake was hardly a fellow with much imagination, and except for these rare fights of fancy, he knew Arno was right, that he was done as a pug almost before he had started. If this had been in the old days, with hundreds of fight clubs, Jake might possibly have picked up some bucks, fighting here and there, leaving before anybody got wise to him. But Jake had been a child during the “old days.”

  Even when he turned to being a muscleman with a small gang of cheap stick-up jerks and would-be angle sharpies, Jake realized the days of the strong-arm men were over, too. It was then that Arno had found him.

  Jake rarely dreamed, and when he did he had only two kinds of dreams. One might concern some babe he'd recently seen on the street or in a bar. The other was always about Arno....

  Now, Arno shook him awake, asked, “Didn't you read the morning papers.” Arno was sucking on perfumed hard candies from Vienna.

  “Sure.” Jake blinked. “You know, I start at the back and only look at the sport pages and the jokes. Why?”

  Arno waved the folded paper in his hand. “The why is we got to make a fast trip to hocksville. I'll need your star sapphire ring, the money clip with the diamond and... Cut the dumb look, you got 'em, haven't you?”

  Jake came awake fast. “Sure I have 'em. I thought we still had a grand?”

  “We have. But we need another five hundred,” Arno said, sitting on the bed, spreading the paper so Jake could read about Tommy. “I've had a chat with Cork. He says this is all a numbers rap, needs five yards to get even.”

  Jake skimmed through the news story, muttered, “Tight-mouthed old bastard never said a word when we were out running just now. Don't say a word about no numbers here?”

  Arno explained the real story Tommy had told him, ended with, “So we have to pay up. Otherwise i
n a week or so this Shorty joker may go to the cops or the goons. Either way Tommy will be no good to us.”

  “I think this is great. Let the numbers boys kill him for us.”

  “You think—you dummy! What if they had killed him last night? Most likely they'd merely break a leg, cripple him. Then where are we? Or suppose the cops throw his skinny ass in the can? No, we're set, got our chips on the table, and we have to play the hand out. Maybe we'll have to speed up things—if we can. That's why I don't want to touch our grand, that's working money, gives us time to maneuver.”

  “How come I'm always the one has to go to the hock shop?”

  “Because you're the thrifty ant, putting your dough in rocks. What you worrying about? You'll get it back. You'll be able to buy that set of diamond cufflinks, if the fence still has them.”

  “The stuff I have now is hot,” Jake began.

  Arno shook his head. “It was hot in California a year ago. Here it's okay.”