WALT STEINER
Three days later, when he was off on his fifty-six hours swing, Walt went to see a patrolman named Pete who was a fingerprint technician. He told him about wanting to get a set of Arno Brewer's prints, without telling Pete why. Scratching his thick blonde hair, which had almost landed him on the vice squad, Pete said, “Okay, you know I'm always willing to do you a favor. But when you start picking up prints unofficially, it can be a rough tab if there's any complaint. Best place will be his hotel room. You know the house dick?”
“No. And the hotel would be too risky, even if we had the house man working with us. Arno might get curious and at this point I can't do much explaining, as you notice. I thought of stopping him while he's driving, but that's also risky and might take too much time. I have a better thing going. Arno and his pug train every day at a small uptown gym which is more or less private due to the lack of fighters. I haven't had a workout in a long time. Suppose we go up there this afternoon, you're my manager, and see what Arno touches?”
“Okay, but you know prints aren't all they're cracked up to be. Damn hard to get a decent set of prints unless the guy puts his paws on something flat, or grasps a glass, say, heavy enough so he'll use all his fingers to hold it.”
“I know. I was thinking of the water bottle—Arno will probably be acting as a sort of second, I hope. The main thing is, not to let on we're police officers, no matter what happens.”
Pete, who was a fairly slight man with a long lantern jaw, shrugged. “I'm with you only because I've nothing else on for this afternoon. I'll be your manager and I hope I'm not sorry.”
“Sorry about what?”
“Walt, I haven't got a nickel in this dime. It's always the volunteers who end up with a hosing.”
“Pete, don't get in an uproar. Worse comes to worse, I think I have enough to make it official.”
“Except you're doing it on your own, which makes it unofficial. What's with you? I was surprised when I read about you killing that punk. I always thought you were smarter than the eager-beaver type. You bucking for something?”
“Stop it. I'm merely doing a friend a favor, I think.” They reached the unheated gym, which had once been a small motion picture house, at noon. It had one ring, a mossy shower, and several bags. The owner was a glum ex-pug who complained when he took Walt's two dollars, “TV killed movies so I got this dump cheap. But just when I get it paid off, it's all mine, TV rains boxing. So I own a big fat hunk of nothing. Of course I sleep here, save room rent. But outside of a couple amateurs at night and a few busy weeks when the Golden Gloves is on, I ain't got bread.”
“Ever think of selling or renting it to some youth organization?” Pete asked, brightly.
The old pug laughed, showing teeth so crooked they looked as if they'd been thrown into his thick gums. “You know one that wants to buy this gym? I'll cut you in. No kidding.”
Walt undressed, giving his gun to Pete, then wearing old bunks and a sweatshirt, he came out and shadow-boxed to warm up. The gym owner said, “You move nice for a guy your size. But ain't you a little old to be starting?”
“I boxed amateur, years ago. I figure with the shortage of heavys, I might make a comeback. I want to find out what kind of shape I'm in.”
“And if you're in condition, where you going to get a bout?” the gym owner asked. He turned to Pete, who was standing around, hands in his windbreaker. “Ain't no shortage of fighters, but of fights. The... Aw, why should I talk myself out of some business. I'll be in my office over there if you want anything. I got some cheap tape and bandages, can get you a discount on ring togs, if anybody is silly enough to still manufacture 'em.”
Working out on the light and heavy bags, Walt was puffing after a round and realized how far out of fighting condition he really was. Old age and my recent workouts with Ruth, he thought, grinning at nothing as he remembered the old joke from grade school days—what a way to die. By one-thirty Arno and Jake still hadn't showed and Pete whispered, “If they don't come along soon, you'll drop dead. Easy does it old man.”
“I'll old man you,” Walt said, jabbing Pete lightly in the gut and then slamming a tremendous right into the heavy bag, as if to reassure himself.
Minutes later Arno walked in with Jake and Walt knew they were his men. He was impressed by their clothes. Jake dressed like a big-time fighter. As they disappeared into the locker room Walt shadow-boxed over to the owner's office and casually asked, “That pug who just came in, is he a pro? Seems to me I've seen him around someplace. Where's he from?”
“I don't know. They're two guys named Brown and Jones. I never laid eyes on either of 'em before they came here. The fighter looks like a hell of a good boy.”
As Walt forced his tired body through more rope skipping and stomach exercises, he watched Jake work out on the bags, impressed with the sure way Jake moved, the good body. This was indeed a pug who'd been around; it seemed impossible he could be so unknown. Even at its height the fight game was a small world and news went about fast.
Arno sat on a stool, nibbling on tiny hunks of dried fish, looking bored as he watched Jake work. Walt decided Arno could be an old-time bunko artist, or actually a retired businessman, but somehow the eyes shouted con man. Jake did three rounds of bag punching—and he beat the light bag like an expert drummer—skipped rope for another two rounds and wanted to quit. Arno told him, sharply, to go a few more rounds on the heavy bag.
The only thing Arno had touched so far was the back of the chair next to his stool. Pete glanced at Walt and shook his head. Jake had a soda bottle criss-crossed with tape, on the ring apron, which he was using as a water bottle. Walt nodded toward Pete, slipped on heavy gloves, and started into the ring to shadow-box. He 'kicked' the water bottle over. Walt went through the routine of trying to pick the bottle up with his gloved hands while Pete was busy setting his wrist watch. The gym owner yelled from the office to be careful of the canvas and started toward the ring, as Arno finally picked up the bottle—using all the fingers of his right hand.
Jake climbed into the ring to shadow-box, growled at Walt, “Why don't you look what you're doing?”
Arno walked over to the sink, washed the bottle, filled it, and carried it back to the ring apron—using both hands to hold the bottle while he took a drink himself. Then he sat down and returned to eating bits of fish. Pete smiled up at Walt.
“It was an accident,” Walt said, puffing a little as he boxed around Jake. “Nothing broke.” He sure has the face of a fighter, Walt thought. Not marked, but the slightly thickened nose, the hard eyebrows—the entire tough cast of his puss. In looks, anyway, he's sure a champ.
When the bell gave them a minute's rest, Walt told Jake, “I'm an amateur. You a pro?”
“Yeah.”
“What's your name? Maybe I seen you box.”
“Floyd Patterson,” Jake said abruptly, turning away, loosening the muscles in his bull neck.
After another round Jake jumped out of the ring. He walked around for a few minutes, waving his arms, cooling off. He headed for the shower and the locker room, followed by Arno. Walt was standing outside the ring as Pete untied his gloves, Walt's big body hiding the water bottle. He whispered to Pete, “Get the bottle under the other side of the ring apron and start working. How much time do you need?”
“Few minutes—if the bottle's dry,” Pete said, pulling dusting powder and a roll of Scotch tape from his pocket. “Ah-ah, he's coming back.”
Walt looked up to see Jake crossing the gym, his right glove still on. As Pete shoved his stuff back into his pocket, Walt leaned against the ring, covering the bottle. Jake glanced around the ring, the floor, the few seats. Then he asked, “You see my bottle?”
“Why, you training on whiskey?” Walt cornballed.
“Okay, wiseguy, it has to be...” He suddenly pushed Walt aside, picked up the bottle with his ungloved hand. In a hard voice he asked, “What's the matter, you like to play games?”
Walt stared down at the smaller man. “Why? You know some interesting ones?”
“I know you give me a pain in the can,” Jake said, walloping Walt on the chin with his gloved hand. It was a short, hard blow. Walt went stiff as he fell back against the ring apron, then slid to the floor with a bang. With an evil grin Jake turned to Pete. “Want to sweep up your heavy, blondie?”
When Walt came to, finally got the gym in focus, he saw three faces bending over him: Pete's long troubled face, the wrinkled and ugly puss of the gym owner, and Arno Brewer's fat face smiling down at him—a glass of water in his hand. As Walt sat up, shaking his head to clear it, working his numb mouth and jaw, he realized his face was wet: Arno must have thrown a glass of water on him.
Walt stumbled to his feet, his face set as he looked around for Jake. Both the bottle and Jake were in the locker room. Pete said, “Easy, now.”
“That's it,” Arno said smoothly. “Just because you're big, no sense in acting that way. Calm down,” Arno turned, put the glass on the ring apron, and strolled toward the locker room.
The gym owner said, “You crazy? I don't allow no rough-house in here. I got a baseball bat to...”
“Shut up,” Walt said, the movement of his mouth hurting him. So this is how a kayo feels, he thought. Except for the pain, not much different than waking up from a hard sleep. A...
“Listen, don't tell me to shut up,” the gym owner said. “I ain't afraid of you punks of today. And you don't train here no more.” He reached for the glass. Pete suddenly put an arm around the owner's shrunken shoulders, said, “Leave me handle him, mister. And leave the
