Ed Lacy - The Big Fix Страница 13

     “Even then, he might have made it if he'd taken a long rest. Tom had to keep on fighting, my doctor bills were piling up. As I told you, he's a proud man, wouldn't have taken charity even if we could have got some. He was Irish Cork, the contender. When the hospital finally released me, about a year later, I found out the truth. Tom was finished, fighting for a few dollars on his former reputation. He was broke. I insisted upon helping, working. That was our first separation. He walked out when I took a factory job. But I couldn't get any other work and it almost killed me, but we were hungry. Since then we have a reunion, then part, makeup and part again—living in dreary rooms which made us both mad all the time. Tom can't face up to the fact he's through as a boxer. He's never lost hope, still talks about his luck changing, bringing home a big purse.

     “You know, I was downright glad when the army called him. I thought it would help him—resting, eating right. If I'd said anything, us being married and all, they would have turned him down. But I kept quiet. It didn't work. He was twenty-five then and the two years he lost.... He should never have returned to the ring when he came out. But he had his hopes, faith in his luck, and boxing is all he knows. It's a mean dirty business, but it was his trade and I had no right pushing him to do what I wanted. These last years, I don't know how we existed. That's why I took numbers. I thought if we had a place of our own, if we both worked, we could live a little, at least have a few hours of home life every day. I mean, I'm only twenty-eight. Tommy's thirty two—we still have most of our life ahead of us. Trouble is, when you have it good, you don't know it.”

     “Maybe,” Ruth said, lighting another cigarette, hoping her amazement didn't show on her face. This wreck of a woman only twenty-eight! “But don't blame yourself, none of us can tell what the future will turn up. Even if you hadn't become ill... say Tommy had gone on to be a champ, pugs always seem to end up poor anyway.”

     “Not rock-bottom-poor. Tommy was never a playboy. If he had been a champ, as he should have been, no matter what else happened, he'd have been a success. He'd have been champion and they couldn't take that from him. Even if he lost his money, he'd be fronting for a restaurant or a bar now, not... Most times now he's on the bum, actually hungry. That's why he never came around to see me much, he was ashamed....”

     Ruth crushed her cigarette on the floor. She had this feeling she simply couldn't stand hearing another word of this wretched tale, interrupted May with “Look, this is no time for words. Tommy is waiting downstairs, in the cold. Supposing you wash up and I'll send Tommy up here. Meantime, my husband and I will make arrangements. I think you can live at my sister's for a time. She's across the river, out of town. Has a house full of kids, so she'll be glad to have a built-in baby sitter. You'll be safe there. Okay?”

     “Of course. Anything you say. God bless you... Ruth.” May started for the door, then stopped. “I didn't have time to pick up a washcloth or a towel... and they don't have any paper here. Can you spare a hankie I can wash with?”

     Ruth gave her a package of tissues, a comb, and her lipstick. When May returned she looked a little better. Ruth said she'd send Tommy up and as she left the room, she saw May stoop, pick up the butt Ruth had left on the floor.

     Downstairs, when she told Tommy not to argue with May, he said, “Argue? What are you talking about? All I want is to see her, hold her,” and rushed up the steps.

     Trembling slightly with the cold air, Ruth thought, How odd, the sincere eagerness of this homely little man for his drab, plain, beaten woman. Or is it odd? I'm getting to have the patronizing, true slick story mind—only the beautiful, the perfect, can love.

     Walt, stamping his big feet to warm them, glanced at her, asked, “What are you smiling about? What's the joke?”

     “That's what I was wondering. Not what the joke is but rather who the jokers in the deck are. We only realize the—”

     “Turn philosophical some other time,” Walt said curtly. “We have to phone your sister and I'll see if I can borrow a car.”

     As they walked toward a lighted window,—a bar,—and a phone, Ruth said, “Tommy is such a quaint character. So pathetic.”

     “Somebody might be trying to murder 'quaint' Tommy, because he is so pathetic.”

TOMMY

     It was past one-thirty when Walt and Ruth dropped Tommy off at his hotel. He was thoroughly confused, had been ever since he'd taken May in his arms, began crying as he kissed her braised face. When she told him why she had taken the money, Tommy had merely said, “Honey, I never knew the apartment meant so much to you. Look, if you want, I'll get a job, become a dishwasher, do like you say. I mean, soon... if anything goes wrong between me and this new manager. Like if he drops me. May, I haven't had the chance to tell you. I have a great manager, a real live one. I'm in good shape, staying at a fine hotel and eating three times a day, and this manager foots the bill. Isn't that something?”

     She pulled away, looked him over. “You do look sharp. Tommy, do you think—now—you can get up the money for the apartment?”

     “Well, I don't get much actual green. Arno—my manager —he pays the tabs and all I get is a few bills for spending. Listen, forget the apartment, the first thing we have...”

     “I can't forget the apartment!”

     He pulled her to him, gently ran his fingers over the purplish skin under her eyes. “May, what's the use of having an apartment if we can't live in it? We have to get square with the numbers punks before thinking of anything else. For true, how much did the guy hit for with you?”

     “A dollar.”

     Tommy whistled into her graying hair. “Could be worse— like a five dollar hit. A buck—means we have to raise six hundred fish. Know what. I'll go see the guy tonight, explain that we'll pay off, fast as we can. That way, he won't be sore and the numbers mob won't have anything against you any more. Yeah, at least let him know we're paying off. What's the player's name and where can I find him?”

     “They call him Shorty. Shorty James. He works in the icebox at the big meat house down the block and across from the diner. Oh Tom, how can we raise so much money?”

     “Right this minute I don't know, but I'll ante it up—in time. Ill get these numbers jerks off your back, then we'll see about the apartment. Say, if I can get up six hundred, no reason why I can't pony up another hundred and fifty.”

     “Oh, Tom, do you think you can?” May said, kissing him wildly.

     Now, as Tommy left the hotel, buttoning his coat against the night cold, he made sure Walt and Ruth had driven off the block, then headed for the market. Tommy wasn't thinking of the six hundred dollars, but only of May's kiss. He had never been a passionate man, hunger and the constant training grind had drained his excess energy, and desire needs fuel. The truth was, he rarely thought of sex. But May's kisses had aroused in him memories of their early marriage nights—his delight at the way her delicate little body would come alive, roaring and demanding, sending fire racing through his own blood.

     Walking with his head bent against the wind he thought, Maybe after Arno gets me a couple of fights, at least one or two big ones, I'll throw my ring shoes away. Take about a year but May and me will still have plenty of time ahead of us. I should have about ten grand socked away after two main events, say on a nation-wide TV show. At least, five thousand. I'll buy a business, a gas station. But what do I know about cars? If the fight game wasn't so dead, I'd hire out as a trainer, perhaps manage a few guys or... Hey! I know a natural for May and me. We'll buy a small house, going into the rooming business! Yes, sir, we sure know enough about rooms! Yeah, we won't be pigs, charge a reasonable rent and keep a clean place. Only steady roomers, no drunks. Not much work, some cleaning every day and changing sheets once a week, that's about all. Man, will May go for this idea, she'll love it! When I see her tomorrow night, I'll spill it to her. Be better than an apartment—be our home and a business beside. Keep it small, no more than ten rooms. Guess you can buy one of these old brownstones for five grand down, all right.

     He suddenly side-stepped, did a graceful jig on the sidewalk—felt as pleased as if he already had the house, or the money for one.

     Passing the diner he dropped in to tell Butch, “May's okay. She's with her cousin.”

     “I don't know what you're talking about.”

     Tommy shrugged. “Anyway, she said to tell you thanks for all you done.” Tommy motioned toward four or five men at the counter. “This Shorty James around?”

     “Who's he?”

     “Okay, forget you saw me.”

     “I forgot the first time I ever saw you,” Butch said, still annoyed at having his sitting ritual disturbed earlier in the evening.

     Tommy couldn't help but see the meat plant. He asked a driver unloading a track full of frozen sides of beef where he could find Shorty. Glancing at Tommy's face, his clothes, the driver shouldered a side of beef, said he'd see if he could find him. Minutes later a tall man wearing a bloody once-white butcher coat over layers of sweaters and dirty fur-lined boots, came out holding a baling hook in one hand. A stained ski cap with earflaps was pushed back from his swarthy face. The driver was carrying a heavy wooden mallet. The tall man asked, “You looking for me?”

     “Yeah, if you're Shorty James,” Tommy said, watching the driver edging over behind him.

     “What you want?”

     “I have some private talk for you.” Tommy glanced at the driver who didn't make any move to walk away.

     The tall Shorty said, “I don't know you. What we got to talk about?”

     “I'm May's husband. May, the waitress at the diner. I come to tell you she didn't mean to hold out, that I'll make up the dough coming to you.”

     A smile formed on Shorty's dark face. He told the track driver, “It's okay, Al.” As the driver went back to unloading his truck, Shorty told Tommy, “We thought you were a loan-shark goon. You have my money?”

     “Not with me. Ill have to get it up. But my May isn't a thief and you'll get every cent due you. Six hundred bucks.” Tommy pulled out a ten dollar bill, handed it to him.

     “What's the ten spot for?”

     “On account. Look, I don't know if I can raise the dough in one hunk, but the main thing is you know you'll get it. What the devil, if you got it all at once you'd probably ball it away. My way...”

     “Don't worry about me balling away my dough. Ill worry about that. How soon will I be paid?”

     “I don't know. I got to raise it. But May isn't running out on you. She admits you're owed the six hundred, that's the important thing. I'll get it to you soon as I can. I know what it means to score a hit and not get paid off.”

     Disappointment flooded Shorty's long face. “When I found out I'd hit I... Look, will I get the dough next week, next month? When?”

     “Get the spot I'm in, Mr. James. My wife's in a jam, didn't know what she was getting into. But that ain't none of your worry. I'm trying my best to straighten things out. Ill get you the dough as soon as I can. That's the best I can tell you, except you won't loose a cent of the six hundred.”

     Shorty gently scratched his leg with the bailing hook. “Okay, I knew May would never job me. I was surprised when she started picking up the digits, but I give her my bets because I figured she was absolutely on the level. Try to pay me soon as you can, I'm up the creek for dough, and I'd like it in a lump sum. You know where to find me. Not six hundred, only the five hundred and forty I expected, I would have ripped May the difference.”

     Tommy pocketed the ten dollar bill. “You don't have to worry, I never welshed on anything in my life.”

     Switching the bailing hook to his left hand, Shorty shook hands with Tommy, told him, “It's a deal. I hear May got worked over. I'm sorry about running to Big Burt. Tell May I'm sorry. But you know how it is. Keep playing every day and when you get a hit that might make you at least even. It gets messed up. I swear I never thought Big Burt would whip her.”

     “Sure.”

     “I don't go for women being beaten. I wouldn't have said a word if I'd known that was going to happen. I thought Burt would pay me, that's how I went to him. May badly hurt?”

     “I don't think so,” Tommy said, Big Burt's name making the anger deep within him boil again. “Say, what's this Burt look like?”

     “Heavyset guy, tall as a basketball player. Wears a beret. A pretty boy.”

     “Is he around now?”

     Shorty hesitated. “Well, yeah. He's picking up the play for tomorrow. Generally find him hanging around the all-night bar on West Street. Listen, if you're thinking of tangling with him—don't. Your face says you been in plenty of brawls, but Big Burt ain't as soft as he looks. He's handy with a knife. Said to have cut up lots of guys.”

     “I only want to tell him you and I are straight, so hell leave May alone. I'll see you soon.”

     “I'll be waiting.”

     Tommy found West Street. There was only one open bar, an ancient place with neon beer signs in the dirty window. A few produce men were having “lunch” and beers. Tommy asked the bartender, “Where's Big Burt?”

     “He'll be around.”

     “When?”

     “What's the matter, you guys can't wait to lose your dough? Must of had a hot dream. He's got his rounds to make. He'll be here. Want anything?”

     “Later.” Tommy leaned against the bar, yawning. He was usually in bed before midnight. Jeez, he thought, even the barkeep has plastered down hair. All they need is gas-light.

     Fifteen minutes later the bartender came over. “Ready now?”

     “Gin—straight.”