“He's what?”
“It's all so wonderful—he was picked this afternoon for a TV program! Out of all the people in New York, they picked my Will. You know, the postman, the forgotten man, and all that And he gets a hundred dollars and...”
“He be home for supper?”
“Oh no, he'll be their guest for supper and...”
“Damn it, this is serious. I must see him. Soon as you hear from him, tell him to call my office at once.”
“You mean you've found something about the stone?”
“Not a damn thing!” I said, dropping the receiver in its cradle.
Bobo said, “How not to win friends and influence clients!”
“Got to stop blowing my top. Come on, let's see the big shot.”
“Maybe I'd better stay here.... I mean, never know what will come up, who'll pay us a visit?”
“Shirley will be okay. Whatever they were looking for, they know it isn't here. And we'll return soon.” But Shirley worried me, we weren't playing with kids in this deal. I told her, “On second thought, best you lock up now, call it a day.”
“I'm not afraid to...” she began.
“Bobo is right. See you tomorrow morning.”
“Suppose this mailman calls?” Bobo asked. “I'd better stay here and...”
“What's wrong with you, Franklin got something on you?”
“Naw, ain't that,” Bobo said, fingering his suit. “I look kind of shabby and...”
“So what?” I asked as Shirley got her hat and I set the lock on the door. We walked her to the subway, then kept on walking toward Fifth Avenue. Bobo puzzled me, seemed frightened. After a few minutes he said, “Hal, Franklin's bodyguard is... is Lefty Wilson.”
“The champ who kayoed you? Thought I'd seen him before.”
“I... eh... just as soon not see him. There was a mess about the rematch, lot of bad feeling.”
“I remember now, your manager held out for 40 per cent of the gate and the whole deal went up in hot air. Shame, would have been a two hundred grand gate at least.”
“Biggest payday in my career. Some managers, you know how greedy they are,” Bobo said. Suddenly he stopped walking and when I turned, he said, “Hal, that's all a lie. I run out on Lefty. I was scared shitless of him!”
“Scared? What you talking about?” I asked, as we started walking slowly again.
“Hard to explain,” Bobo said, his voice shaking a bit. He ran his hand over his worried, tan face, wiped the sweat away. “I wasn't a kid, had over a hundred fights before I met Lefty. My face shows I wasn't punch-shy.”
“Heard you were out front when Wilson tagged you. That must have been a tough one to lose.”
Bobo nodded. “Yeah, southpaws never bothered me much. I was reaching him with my right plenty... it was the best feeling in my life, trying to decide whether to win the title by a kayo, or be careful and win by a decision. Then in the eighth round he slammed one into my guts. Honest to God, Hal, I thought his damn fist was going clean through my stomach, come out my back. Why I was pissing blood for days after. The blow stunned me and then he crossed that left hook of his to my jaw and I went down for the count. That was it.”
“Every pug gets hit by a lucky punch, so why all the fuss?”
“You don't understand,” Bobo said in a low voice. “We signed for a rematch and I started training but every night I'd dream of that wallop to the guts, wake up in a sweat. Two weeks before the bout I couldn't take it no longer —I ran out. Abe Berger, my manager, was a square cookie. He made it seem like he was holding out for more dough, so I wouldn't look like no coward.”
“But why did you stop fighting?” I asked, amazed at Bobo's confession. I'd never questioned his courage before, seen him handle a crowd of drunken dock wallopers at a shindig once, or charge into some hopped-up punks flashing knives and brass knuckles.
“I kept fighting for about a year,” Bobo said, “but it wasn't any good. I could trim most of the other light heavies, but I didn't have the spirit in me. I'd think, what am I trying to win for, another crack at Wilson? That would make me slow down, started losing regular, on my way to becoming just another meathead. Hell of it is, a pug can tell when his opponent goes chicken, and Lefty knows, never forgot I screwed him out of a big payday.”
“Always one guy that has our number. Anyway, it was nine years ago, so forget it. I'm sure Lefty has.”
7
The City Amusement Agency was a large office, many girls banging away at typewriters. I suppose the business end of the dance halls, bowling alleys, bars, Franklin owned really were big business. The receptionist, a tall babe with impersonal eyes and a tight poodle hair-do that looked swell on her, asked, “Is Mr. Franklin expecting you?”
“I think so.”
She glanced through a snappy pigskin-bound datebook. “Sorry, but I don't see any appointment for a Mr. Darling.” She smiled a little when she said the name.
“Still think Franklin wants to see me, so as one darling to another, how about asking him?”
She put through a call, seemed to switch from one office to another before she put the phone down, told me, “Mr. Franklin will see you. I'll have an office boy show you in.”
