armchairs.
Johnny eyed the huge room; despite the presence of five men in it, including himself, it by no means gave the impression of being crowded.
From behind the big desk Lonnie Turner lifted a casual hand and pointed to a chair. He was a well-set-up individual, not quite so wide in the shoulders as the carefully tailored suit suggested. His face was healthily tanned, its apparent youthfulness belied only by the near-white hair combed straight back from his high forehead. His mouth was a thin, straight line, and a cigar stub smoldered between the clenched fingers of his beringed right hand.
“With you in a minute, Killain,” the promoter said easily. His attention was given the man standing before his desk, a middle-aged, dapper-looking specimen with pink cheeks and rimless eyeglasses. Two men sat to the right of the big desk; both were fat-one corpulent and pasty-faced, a belly set on legs, and the other larded up over what Johnny decided had once been an athletic frame. The ex-athlete had a pepper-and-salt crew cut and protruding teeth, which gave his smile the appearance of a slightly cynical rabbit.
In the little silence Lonnie Turner's eyes wandered back to Johnny as though conscious that he was remiss in his duties as host. “You know everyone?” He nodded across the desk. “Doc McDevitt, of the commission staff.” He flapped a hand at the cynical rabbit. “Ed Keith, of the Chronicle.” The cigar stub leveled at Pasty Face. “Al Munson, my publicist.”
Johnny exchanged nods with the group, his gaze lingering on Al Munson as the promoter leaned forward over his desk and planted his elbows upon it firmly. “Now, Doc. You were saying-”
“I've said it, Lonnie,” Dr. McDevitt said drily. “I'll be running along now.”
“Just a second, Doc.” Lonnie Turner lounged back deeply in his padded chair, his hands locked idly behind his head. He looked the picture of indolent ease, but the firecracker voice spoke only in exclamation points. “You realize good matches don't grow on trees? I need Brubaker! I need him like bread!”
The pink-cheeked man shook his head decisively. “I can't let him fight, Lonnie.”
“Do I have to say it again, Doc? He's half of the biggest attraction I can hope to put on this winter!”
The dapper-looking doctor removed his glasses and twirled them in his hand; he looked from the promoter to Al Munson, who looked uncomfortable. “You were listening when I told you that Brubaker had a semidetached retina?”
“Semi, shmemi. Probably aren't three fighters in the country without semidetached retinas. Who complains? Not the fighters!”
“Not the promoters, certainly,” Dr. McDevitt said sharply. “Perhaps I made a mistake trying to be nice and letting you know personally so that you could change your plans. I could have called Keith here and let you read it in the Chronicle, you know.”
Al Munson was on his feet instantly. “Lonnie didn't mean it the way it sounded, Phil,” he said smoothly. “He's upset, naturally, at the idea of losing the match. He doesn't expect you to do anything you can't do. Do you, Lonnie?”
At the pointed question the man behind the desk grunted something that might have been anything. He scowled, rubbed a hand over his chin and leveled a finger at Al Munson. “Can we get that eye certified?” he demanded.
“It had better be by a good man,” the pink-cheeked doctor said grimly.
“All this is off the record, Ed,” Al Munson said patiently.
“It had damn well better be off the record!” Lonnie Turner barked nastily. “Damn it, Jake could have gotten the certification-”
“Now that you've got everyone mad, Lonnie, how about a little sense?” Al Munson asked agreeably. He smiled placatingly at the others. “A diplomat he's not, but he doesn't mean-”
He broke off sharply as Monk charged into the room, closely followed by a gangly, tweed-suited man with a puzzled look on his face and a hand out of sight beneath a tweedy lapel.
At sight of Johnny in his chair the thick-set Monk changed direction in mid-stride and pulled up in front of him. “You-” he said deeply, and motioned with his head. “Outside! Move!” Dark, angry blood suffused his battered features, and the half-clenched hands at his sides trembled with rage.
“What the hell is this?” Lonnie Turner's voice cut like the rasp of a file. “What's the matter with you, Monk?” His hard stare shifted to the tweed-suited man. “You, Zip! Get the hell back on the door!” Zip departed hurriedly without ever having said a word, and the promoter turned back to the furious Monk. “Well? Can you talk?”
“He had a little accident outside just now,” Johnny interjected easily. He removed Monk's revolver from his pocket, tossed it lightly in the air, caught it by the short barrel and returned it to the pocket.
The squat man crouched. “I'll show you, you wise-”
“Monk!” The promoter's voice was a roar. “What the bell happened?”
Unconsciously Monk's hand went to his neck. “This-this character conned me outta my gun.”
His employer looked at him. “He conned you, Monk?”
“So he dropped me!” Monk flared irascibly. “He couldn't do it again in a thousand years!” He whirled on Johnny. “Gimme that gun, Killain!”
“Where I'll give it to you they'll do the extraction with forceps,” Johnny told him positively, and came up on the arms of his chair as Monk started for him.
“Hold it!” Lonnie Turner's voice rang with authority. He looked across his desk at the dapper little doctor, who was staring at Johnny as though at some strange animal. “Doc,” the promoter said glibly, “you delivered the message to Garcia, and I thank you.” He waited.
“Ah… yes,” Dr. McDevitt said reluctantly. He replaced the rimless glasses and examined Johnny again. “I'll be- ah-running along.” He smiled carefully. “I trust I'll not be missing anything.” At the door he turned for a final look around before departing, and when it closed after him Johnny was on his feet, watching Monk.
“None of that in here!” the promoter ordered flatly. “You hear me, Monk?”
“I hear you,” Monk mumbled sulkily.
“All right, then.” Lonnie Turner's tone turned silky. “Now what's your business here, Killain, besides troublemaking?”
Johnny's voice had a honed-down razor edge. “I want the check for the kid's end of the Williams fight.”
“I see.” The staccato tone softened still further as the promoter leaned back in his chair and looked up at Johnny from beneath semiclosed eyelids. “That purse money could be held up.”
“Don't give me that crap, Turner.” Johnny edged forward. “Purse money is held up when the commission acts immediately. Any investigation now will be at the criminal level.”
Lonnie Turner nodded slowly. “Nice of you to instruct me in my business,” he said pleasantly. He slid open a desk drawer and removed a green check, which he placed face down on the side of his desk. “Gidlow had a claim against this check, of course; his estate will have it now. I believe he'd advanced Roketenetz money, also.”
“He's got paper for it, of course,” Johnny said ironically.
“Some transactions in this business are a little informal,” the promoter said smoothly. “Between manager and fighter.”
“I'll personally guarantee Gidlow's estate no payoff on anything that isn't in writing,” Johnny informed him harshly.
Lonnie Turner slid still more deeply into his chair and locked his hands behind his head. “Do I detect a note of hostility in your tone, Killain?”
“You sure as hell do.”
“May I ask why?”
“Ask Monk here. Ask Munson.”
The promoter's face was bland. “I believe there was a little misunderstanding originally. It's been straightened out.”
“Sure. I'll take that check now.”
“You have status that would permit my turning it over to you?”
“Oh, of course,” Johnny said cheerfully. He removed a power of attorney from his pocket and flipped it at the desk. “I had excellent instructors.”
Lonnie Turner picked up the document and ran through it briefly. When he set it down on the desk he placed the check on top of it casually. “This is small potatoes, Killain. When Gidlow's papers are examined there could be ramifications.”
