mind still clogged with drunken slush. “Why the whispering act?” he asked himself. “Jake has to be in on this. Or was Arno whispering? Maybe my ears are foggy. “I'll be seeing pink leprechauns next. And maybe this is it, like Walt warned me? Now why think like that? Doesn't it also show Arno really had a plan all the time, like he said? Sure, after feeling so low, resting my luck, now it's working for me again. Damn, cold water feels good, stopped the shakes.”
He dressed and as he was packing his bag he said, “I'll have to go by the gym and get my ring stuff.”
“You have your shoes and protector from sparring with Jake yesterday. I've bought you a set of new trunks. No time to waste, have to be up there to close the deal.”
Tommy nodded, suspicion flooding his hazy mind. Still, trunks were only a few bucks and if they really were in a hurry.... The rough knot of tension inside him began to slowly uncoil. Closing his bag, he asked, “Have we time to grab a bite?”
“We'll stop on the road for chow, Pops,” Jake said.
Tommy tried again to clear his mind of sudden doubt. Was it his imagination or was Jake really nervous? Why be on edge for a fight which was in the bag? And why hadn't Arno closed the deal over the phone? This wasn't any last minute substitution, why all the big hurry? But then, some things couldn't be said over the phone.
Now I'm in a fine spot, Tommy thought. If I don't call them—when they learn I've battled Jake—Walt and Al will be sore as boils. At the same time, I don't want them spoiling this payday for me. Hell, they have been good friends. What harm can phoning them do? I'll be in a big rush and they'll sputter, over the phone, and I'll have kept my end. What the devil was Walt's number? I can phone May. No, she won't be on the job yet. And I don't want to hear her crying. Hell with it.
But as he was closing the door, Tommy told them, “Say, I got to make a call. Only take a second. My bookie owes me a few bucks and I want to tell him I won't be around, to hold it. I'll stop at the cigar store in the lobby and...”
Arno pushed the door back, pointed to the hotel phone on the table. “You might as well make it now. But be quick.”
“Sure,” Tommy said, sorry he'd started the whole thing, suspicion rising strong within him again. And it would certainly sound 'funny' to Arno if he called a precinct house or a TV office now, with them listening. But why where they listening? Aw, here I go again, jittery as a kid having his first bout. The phone is right here, so Arno says make the call here. What's wrong with that?
He told the operator, “Let me have the number of a magazine called the Make-Up Age.” Tommy grinned at Arno over the receiver. “My bookie is sharp, uses this for a front— gets all his calls through his wife.”
“That won't save him if the cops are out to bust him,” Arno said. “All these bright slobs who think...”
“What are we standing around and gassing so much for?” Jake asked, his voice practically a growl.
Tommy held up a hand for silence, asked for Ruth and told her, “This is Tommy Cork. Please tell your husband I'm leaving town for a few days, to hold my back pay for me. He'll know what it's all about.”
“Tommy, what is it?” Ruth asked. “Can you talk? Where are you going? Are you boxing?”
“Just tell him I'll be out of town on business and not to give my dough to anybody until I come back. Good-bye.”
Downstairs, as they got into the flashy car, Arno asked Tommy, “Want to drive?”
“Sure. Where?”
“Get on the parkway and head upstate. I'll take over the wheel later. We have a good six hour drive ahead of us. Want some mint toffee?”
Tommy made a face as he shook his head.
Arno winked, pulled a pint of brandy from his inside pocket. “Take a nip of this— for the cold air.”
The brandy immediately quieted his nerves and Tommy drove for several hours. Being behind the wheel of a powerful car eased his mind, gave him a sense of well being. The big car, a bout coming up, main event soon, maybe, things were breaking. Even from this purse, depending upon how much Arno took out, he'd have enough for the first month's rent on the apartment. Give May the dough to hold. That would make her happy. “Guy is giving me bread,” he told himself, “and me acting coy as a schoolgirl being seduced. Silly to have even tried to call Walt. Naw, maybe it was a smart move. He can't reach me, possibly stop the fight, even if he gets the message. We can be fighting in any one of five or six states, and not being a main go, won't be listed. Neither will the results, so he and Alvin will never know. Okay, I tried to call him. That gets me off the hook. I don't know what's the matter with me this morning. Being hung-over never made me this upset before.”
They stopped for lunch at noon and Tommy ate a big meal and felt fine. When he went to the John Jake went along. Jake seemed moody and even more sullen than usual. When Tommy said, “You're a regular hot chatterbox today,” Jake snapped, “I'm always on edge before a fight?”
“Even this one?” Tommy asked, wondering if he was talking out of turn.
“Pops, leave me alone.”
Arno took the wheel and when Tommy asked where they were going, Arno said, “Benson Harbor. Pretty good fight town.”
They reached Benson Harbor two hours later and checked into a hotel—each of them taking different rooms. It was a second-rate hotel, without phones in the rooms, or baths. When Tommy went out to wash, Arno opened his door and came out, towel in hand. As they cleaned up he told Tommy, “The matchmaker will be over in a few minutes, with contracts to sign. Don't forget, you're your own manager. It's a six-round semi-final and you're getting one hundred and twenty dollars—so is Jake.”
“Good. Listen, it's about time you started taking your cut. Take fifty per cent of this one....”
Arno patted him on the back. “Of these two-bit purses? You keep it all. When you're pulling down five or six thousand a fight, I'll get mine.”
Tommy was too happy to say a word.
The matchmaker was a thin man in tacky clothes. Tommy had never seen or heard of him before. The matchmaker told him, “You get examined by the doc and weigh in at noon tomorrow. You really fight Robinson, all those others?”
“Sure, I'm one of the last true Irish pugs fighting and one of the few hundred-bout guys going today.”
“I hope you fight as good as you talk. On account of the Harbor being out of range of most TV stations, we still draw a pretty good crowd here. My fans like action.”
“All fans do,” Tommy said.
When the promoter left, Tommy stretched out on his bed but before he could get any sleep, Arno came in. Sitting on the bed, he offered Tommy a belt of brandy but Cork turned it down. “My stomach is finally holding its own. Want to keep it that way.”
Arno shrugged and took a drink himself. “They say Spanish brandy is the best. Not so. This stuff, from grapes grown in the Azores, has a body all its own. Listen now, won't be good for us to be seen together too much. Well all eat in the joint downstairs at five-thirty sharp, but we'll sit at different tables. Act natural. I mean we can know each other but not be too friendly. Then at seven we'll be back in our rooms, get a good night's rest. Remember, it's always some little unseen bit that throws a deal, so we'll be careful. Don't talk to anybody, or get lost. Understand?” Tommy nodded.
Arno made for the door. “You have an hour before supper. Get some rest.”
There was a luncheonette next to the hotel and on the other side a small liquor store. Tommy, Arno and Jake drifted into the luncheonette, had a good supper. Tommy finished first and went back through the lobby, passing several phone booths, and out the other side entrance. At the liquor store he bought a Dint, then reached the lobby as Arno was coming in from the luncheonette. Tommy stood by the large window which was the front of the lobby, watching the people passing by on the main street. The Harbor looked like a neat little town and he wanted to walk around. Being big city born, all small cities filled him with a patronizing curiosity. But Tommy saw Arno plant himself in one of the ancient leather lobby chairs and read a paper. Jake bought a magazine and went up to his room. After a few minutes Arno stood up and yawned; Tommy took the hint, went to his room. Undressing slowly, he drank a long nip from the pint and hid it in his bag.
There was a small radio chained to the table and he turned that on, listened to a local station. He was quite pleased when an announcer with a twangy voice said, ”... In sports, tomorrow night the Harbor Arena has what looks like a thrilling semi-final. Jake Watson versus Irish Tommy Cork. We all recall Watson as the dynamic puncher who thrilled fans a few shows ago with a whistling knockout. Cork, although a newcomer to these parts, is an Irish ring veteran with well over a hundred fights behind him. He's met Robinson, Olson, Hart, and most of the top fighters in his class... In baseball news, word comes from Havana that...”
Tommy was so delighted he sat up in bed and waved at himself in the dresser mirror—wished May could have heard the broadcast. He hadn't had a build-up like this in years.
He decided to take a tiny nightcap and was turning out the light at eight-thirty, the bed feeling comfortable as heaven, when Arno knocked softly, then came into the room.
Belching a little, Arno said, “Guy that runs that stool joint should be arrested. The difference between messing food and cooking is only common sense but so many jerks... Are you tired?”
“No,” Tommy lied, thinking Arno had come to discuss the fight.
“I'm not sleepy either. I'd get a bottle except I don't want you drinking the night before a fight. Play gin?”
“No. How about casino?”
They played until eleven with Tommy fighting to keep his eyes open. Finally Arno yawned and said it was time for bed. Tommy dozed off the
