He was a slim muscular lad in army shirt, blue suit, gray cap. Black eyebrows made a straight line above his eyes.
I said: 'Hello.'
He nodded without stopping or saying anything.
'Win tonight?' I asked.
'Hope so,' he said shortly, passing me.
I let him take four steps toward his room before I told him:
'So do I. I'd hate to have to ship you back to Philly, Al.'
He took another step, turned around very slowly, rested a shoulder against the wall, let his eyes get sleepy, and grunted:
'Huh?'
'If you were smacked down in the sixth or any other round by a palooka like Kid Cooper, it'd make me peevish,' I said. 'Don't do it, Al. You don't want to go back to Philly.'
The youngster put his chin down in his neck and came back to me. When he was within arm's reach, he stopped, letting his left side turn a bit to the front. His hands were hanging loose. Mine were in my overcoat pockets.
He said, 'Huh?' again.
I said:
'Try to remember that--if Ike Bush doesn't turn in a win tonight, Al Kennedy will be riding east in the morning.'
He lifted his left shoulder an inch. I moved the gun around in my pocket, enough. He grumbled:
'Where do you get that stuff about me not winning?'
'Just something I heard. I didn't think there was anything in it, except maybe a ducat back to Philly.'
'I oughta bust your jaw, you fat crook.'
'Now's the time to do it,' I advised him. 'If you win tonight you're not likely to see me again. If you lose, you'll see me, but your hands won't be loose.'
I found MacSwain in Murry's, a Broadway pool room.
'Did you get to him?' he asked.
'Yeah. It's all fixed--if he doesn't blow town, or say something to his backers, or just pay no attention to me, or--'
MacSwain developed a lot of nervousness.
'You better damn sight be careful,' he warned me. 'They might try to put you out the way. He-- I got to see a fellow down the street,' and he deserted me.
Poisonville's prize fighting was done in a big wooden ex-casino in what had once been an amusement park on the edge of town. When I got there at eight-thirty, most of the population seemed to be on hand, packed tight in close rows of folding chairs on the main floor, packed tighter on benches in two dinky balconies.
Smoke. Stink. Heat. Noise.
My seat was in the third row, ringside. Moving down to it, I discovered Dan Rolff in an aisle seat not far away, with Dinah Brand beside him. She had had her hair trimmed at last, and marcelled, and looked like a lot of money in a big gray fur coat.
'Get down on Cooper?' she asked after we had swapped hellos.
'No. You playing him heavy?'
'Not as heavy as I'd like. We held off, thinking the odds would get better, but they went to hell.'
'Everybody in town seems to know Bush is going to dive,' I said. 'I saw a hundred put on Cooper at four to one a few minutes ago.' I leaned past Rolff and put my mouth close to where the gray fur collar hid the girl's ear, whispering: 'The dive is off. Better copper your bets while there's time.'
Her big bloodshot eyes went wide and dark with anxiety, greed, Curiosity, suspicion.
'You mean it?' she asked huskily.
'Yeah.'
She chewed her reddened lips, frowned, asked:
'Where'd you get it?'
I wouldn't say. She chewed her mouth some more and asked:
'Is Max on?'
'I haven't seen him. Is he here?'
'I suppose so,' she said absent-mindedly, a distant look in her eyes. Her lips moved as if she were counting to herself.
I said: 'Take it or leave it, but it's a gut.'
