The Big Fix
Ed Lacy
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ARNO
TOMMY
ARNO
MAY
TOMMY
DETECTIVE STEINER
ARNO
RUTH STEINER
TOMMY
MAY CORK
TOMMY
ARNO
TOMMY
WALT STEINER
ALVIN HAMMER
JAKE
TOMMY
WALT STEINER
ARNO
TOMMY
JAKE
TOMMY
THE BIG FIX
This book is fiction. No resemblance is intended between any character herein and any person, living or dead; any such resemblance is
For Willie P—the noted sand-shark catcher
ARNO
On the night Irish Tommy Cork's murder was planned, nothing very much out of the ordinary happened. Tommy was in the ring, taking a pasting—as usual. Back to the ropes, almost sitting on the second strand, Tommy crouched, gloved hands up in front of his face like a leather fence. He was fighting a strong youngster who was now whaling away with both hands in a moment of wild enthusiasm. Most of his blows were blocked, or ducked by Tommy's weaving head, but those few that didn't miss landed with loud thud sounds on the kidneys, head, or in the stomach, visibly shaking up the pale “old man.”
There were only two hundred and thirty-one fans in the fight arena, not counting the TV crew, and although the ring seemed to be a crowded oasis amid the sections of empty seats, Arno and Jake sat back in the shadows of the overhanging balcony—quite alone. Arno was popping tiny hunks of spicy fried coconut into his big mouth. Jake sat there looking almost bored, his sullen face blank.
“Well, what do you think of our pigeon?” Arno asked. “I been casing him for the last three weeks. A washed-up rumdum, hungry most of the time. But a real name—years ago. Fits in fine for us. Lost five of the seven bouts he's had this year. He's our new bankroll.”
Jake said, “If the ref don't stop it, the kid is liable to beat us to it—make Cork a stiff before we can get to him. Look at that dumb kid, wide open and swinging like a rusty gate. Wonder why Cork don't belt him? You sure he was good—once?”
“Yeah.”
“The way that kid swings is a crime. If I was in there with him, one punch would end the fight.
“Yeah, it sure would, kid,” Arno said, chewing on the coconut bits which he had purchased in a very fancy grocery, “either way. Jake, tomorrow you start.”
“Nuts, I'm in shape now, for a wreck like him. I could...”
“Shut up,” Arno said calmly but with a hint of whip-like menace under his voice. “We got too good a thing to be queered because you're a lazy bastard. You got to look the part, be on your toes. Tomorrow you start heavy training, Arno added as Tommy took a hard right on his quivering stomach, fell into a frantic clinch; his body deathly pale as he grabbed the muscular kid punching him.
The referee sort of snarled, “Come on, break clean, boys. Come on, Cork, you're holding. Break when I tell you!”
Jake shook his head, mumbled, “What a ref, ought to give him a soapbox for his speeches.”
