Eddie Logan, manager of the hall, came out of his office with some gray-haired fat slob whose tux was ready to pop at the seams. Eddie said, “Hello, Darling,” and the fat guy smirked and said (as I knew he would), “What's this, you two going together?”
I could see it was going to be a big night for me.
2
Eddie laughed too loudly, so I knew the fat character must be the boss of the company throwing the dance. Eddie introduced me and the boss jammed a thick cigar in my hand as he said, “Great dance. Always try to give my employees the best, a fair shake. Say, this cop you have here, haven't I seen him in the ring?”
“Where else could he get that face?” I asked. “Name's Bobo Martinez. Used to weigh in at 175 pounds—nine years ago.”
A flabby smile lit up his face. “Sure! Knew I'd seen him. The Puerto Rican flash who gave the champ a great battle. Licking the champ, too, till he was tagged in the guts in the eighth, or maybe it was the ninth round. Yeah, remember that fight, had to buy a dozen seats for some buyers and cost me...”
I took Eddie's arm. “Excuse us for a second, got some business talk with Mr. Logan.”
“Sure,” the fat guy boomed, like a king granting a favor.
Once in his office Eddie said, “Damn, that windbag's been hitting my eardrums all night. Want a shot?”
“Too late.” I'm always suspicious of a dance-hall owner's whisky—probably a combination of all the bottle heels left after every dance. Eddie poured himself a big hooker, took out his wallet and gave me fifteen bucks, asked, “Thought you was going to have two men here tonight?”
“Bobo can handle anything comes up in these Sunday night affairs,” I said, writing a receipt on the back of one of my cards. “Saving you dough, two guards cost you twenty-four dollars and...”
Eddie mumbled, “Save me hell. Just want to give that spick a bigger cut.”
“Don't ever call Bobo a 'spick,' he'll take you apart,” I said, wanting to sock him myself, but wanting his business more. “I'll have three men here for the Friday night dance, three for Saturday, and one for that Sunday tea shindig. Okay?”
Eddie said okay and we went out into the lobby. The babe in the chair was still feeling no pain but her boy friend was cursing and banging her head against the back of the chair. I went over, told him, “Easy, buddy, that's no punching bag you're handling.”
“No, it's a drunken bag. Goddamit, Louise, wake up!” He grabbed her over-red hair and started banging her noggin again. I held his hand—by the thumb—and he looked down at me, asked, his voice almost a whine, “Who the hell are you? This is my girl, so scram.”
The last button on his silk vest was inviting me to smack it, but I didn't want him to puke all over the place. Eddie was saying, “Now we don't want no trouble, mister, just...” when Bobo came up. Shoving his ugly kisser in front of the guy's face, Bobo asked softly, “What's the matter, chum?”
As usual, the sight of Bobo's tough pan took all the fight out of the guy. “My girl, Louise,” he said, “soaked up too much. I can't get her to...”
“Come with me,” Eddie said. “We'll get some smelling salts, bring her around.”
As they walked away, Bobo yawned and I gave him eight bucks, which was a good cut since I also supplied the uniform. “Drop in the office tomorrow. Got a construction job. How's the wife?”
Bobo shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Worked couple days in a dress factory, was beat. Wished to Christ I could get me a steady job.”
“This construction job is good for at least a week,” I said, wondering why Bobo never fought the champ a return match, which would have meant half a million dollar gate.
Bobo yawned again. “Chisler comes around to see me yesterday. Says if I return to the ring...”
“Forget it, you're thirty-four, way past your prime. Won't do your wife any good if you're in the nut house.”
“But a few fights mean a grand or... Sure, you're right, Hal.” He turned and abruptly walked away.
I was tracing Louise's real eyebrows, glancing now and then at the gray lace bra strap, when her boyfriend returned with a wet napkin which he held under her nose. She moved her head, pushed his hand away, and he suddenly said, “Damn you, Louise!” and punched her in the eye. Her head snapped back, she opened her eyes for a moment, sighed, and blacked out again.
As he started to follow through with another wallop, I grabbed him by the back of the collar and the seat of his pants—yanking the pants tight around his groin, said, “On your way, socker,” and rushed him toward the door. Bobo took him from there, growling, “No funny stuff or I'll beat the slop out of you!” He had that growl down perfect.
Eddie came over, pointed to the gal. “What we going to do with this study in still life?”
To make him happy I said, “Okay, I'll take her home. Opening her white evening bag, I found the usual lipstick and compact, some keys, crumpled pack of butts, a cheap wallet with three bucks in it, and her Washington Heights address.
I picked up Louise and carried her toward the door. Eddie said, “Let me help you. Must be too heavy for a little guy, Hal.”
“You know me, the half-pint Atlas. See if she had a coat or wraps.” At the top of the stairs, as the ticket taker gave me a bug-eyed look, Bobo picked her out of my arms like she was a baby, said, “I'll handle her, Hal.”
There wasn't any point in getting sore at him or Eddie, or being too sensitive about my smallness. I ran down ahead of Bobo and opened the door of my old convertible. I figured a little night air would sober her up. Eddie called out that she didn't have any coat as Bobo dropped her beside me, said, “A heavy built broad. Have fun.”
3
I drove over to the West Side Highway. This Louise had her phony dyed head on my shoulder, those painted
