ridiculous red beret, Arno walked in followed by Jake lugging a duffle bag. He took out his ring equipment and Tommy was impressed. His ring things were the best. Tommy, working on the bag, watched Jake undress and put on a sweat suit. Jake stripped big. Although a one hundred forty-five pounder he had the thick shoulders of a heavyweight, a thin waist, and sturdy legs. Tommy thought, He's built like LaMotta. Too much muscle, though. Probably a wild slugger who went over big in a hick amateur tournament.
After Jake warmed up by skipping rope, he and Tommy laced on heavy gloves and headguards. Sitting at the ringside, smoking an aromatic cigarette, Arno called up, “Want you boys to go about three rounds. Tommy, you tell me later what Jake does wrong.”
The moment Arno reached over and rang the bell Tommy realized there was little Jake did wrong. He was an excellent boxer with very fast hands and sure footwork. His defense was good and his left jab fast as Tommy's. He was tremendously strong and it was only at infighting, the little tricks of being up a man, feinting with his feet, spinning, that Tommy's greater experience showed.
When the round ended, Tommy walked around the ring slowly while Jake lounged against the ropes, breathing too hard. Tommy studied Jake's vaselined face, the lack of scars, nothing except the thickened nose and lean hard cast of his face as evidence he'd been in many rings. Tommy thought, One thing, he never learned all he knows in the amateurs. He's ring-wise, moves as gracefully as Conn used to. Must be something wrong. Probably hasn't a punch. Those big muscles don't mean a thing.
In the next round Tommy showed his class by crossing his right over Jake's left hook, slamming him in the gut. Jake clinched for a second to get his wind back. Jake tried another left and although Tommy was pulling back from the punch and it landed on the side of his headguard, it shook him. There was no doubting the wallop Jake packed in his left. In the middle of the round, Tommy decided to show off for Arno, suddenly switched to a southpaw stance. A short, whistling right landed flush on the side of Tommy's chin. He fell to the patched canvas—out cold.
Jake leaned against the ropes, grinned down at Arno; his white mouthpiece making the smile almost grotesque. Arno had jumped to his feet, anger on his fat face. Jake spit the mouthpiece into a gloved hand, said, “That does it. He's our boy.”
“Shut your damn face, you fool!” Arno said, climbing into the ring with difficulty, kneeling beside Tommy to remove his mouthpiece. “Think he heard you?”
“Come on, look at him. All he's hearing is the birdies. I was just testing.”
“He looks dead now, you idiot!”
“Leave him alone, he'll come around in a few minutes. Help me get his gloves off.”
When Tommy opened his eyes, he found himself propped on a ring stool, head resting on the faded padding of the ring corner ropes. Jake was banging away at the heavy bag, granting with pleasure each time his gloved fists slammed into the long bag. Arno was pressing a sponge full of snow and cold water to Tommy's face, held another at the back of his neck, watching the fighter's pale face with anxious eyes.
Tommy blinked, shook his head, tried to sit up. Arno held him back. “Easy now. Sit still.”
The buzzing deep in Tommy's head dropped to a dull little roar, then died. His eyes were out of focus. After a moment, Tommy tried to push the cold sponge from his forehead, muttered, “Did... he... cool me?”
Arno nodded.
Now clarity and steady strength rushed into Tommy. He pushed Arno aside and stood. “Let me walk around. I'll be okay.”
“Sit down and rest,” Arno said, pulling a flask from his hip pocket. “I have some good brandy here.”
Tommy shook his arms, as if trying to shake the gloves off, then sat down and shook his head. He gave Arno a sad smile. “I guess this sours you on me. Honest, this is the second time I've been clean-kayoed in my life. I've had fights stopped because I was out of shape but... Jeez, your boy can hit. With training gloves on, too!”
“I'm not soured on you. I...”
“You mean our deal is still on?”
“Of course. I know Jake can hit. Listen, you take a shower and get dressed. I'll be waiting for you up at the house. We need to have a talk. It's time I told you my plans.”
“Anything you say, Mr.... Arno.”
Arno walked down the few ring steps as if he was on a tightrope a mile high, took a belt of brandy. Tommy shadow-boxed for a few minutes, then jumped over the ropes to the ring apron, then to the floor. The jar when he landed completely cleared his head, although he still felt weak.
He walked over to Jake, watched him slug the heavy bag for a few seconds, then held out his gloved hands. Jake pulled his punching-bag gloves off, untied Tommy's heavy training gloves. “Sorry, Pops. I clipped you with a lucky one. You walked into my right.”
“It happens. You have a lot of stuff. Jake. A barrel full.”
“Thanks. Guess I'll go another round, then knock it off.”
After a shower, Tommy felt fine—almost. He ran up to the house and found Arno watching a Western on the small screen TV in the old living room. Arno had a bottle of Scotch and glasses, motioned for Tommy to take a glass. When Tommy hesitated, Arno poured him a big hooker, said, “Come on, it will relax you. Sit down.”
Tommy sipped the drink, although he never liked Scotch, told Arno, “You got a hell of a fine boxer in Jake.”
Arno motioned for him to keep his voice low, pointing toward the kitchen where the woman was making lunch. He whispered, “I know what I have in Jake.”
“I've been around, Arno. I've seen all the good welters, boxed with most of them. I've sparred with Cerdan, Graham, Olson, and battled Sugar Ray. Jake is not only a sharp boxer, but he's probably the hardest puncher I ever saw.”
Watching the TV Western out of the comer of his eye, Arno nodded, pleased. “Jake is not only very good but, what's even better, nobody knows about him. I've been bringing him along quietly. I'm capitalizing on the fact TV has killed the smaller clubs. In the old days I couldn't keep a Jake a secret. Now—I'm not going to cut in any of the fight mob, either. Same goes for you. When I manage a fighter, or any other business, it has to be all mine.”
The Scotch filled Tommy with a nice warmth. “Jake can take any welter around—Jordan, Akins. I'd bet on him taking most of the middleweights, too—Basilio, Fullmer, Webb.”
Arno nodded again, filled Tommy's glass. “I know that. When I finally spring Jake, it's going to be so big, so sensational the fight mob will have to let me in, on my own terms. I'm a gambler, and believe me, when Jake pops, I'll also make a betting killing.”
“That's playing it smart,” Tommy said, a little puzzled. “But how are you going to get Jake 'in'?”
“The reason I'm taking you on. Tommy, you're my key. You have the name. You train right, start getting a few bouts here and there. You'll have to piece yourself off to get the fights, but that's okay. That's my edge on the fight mob, money isn't important to me. This is also why I'm not your manager—on paper. Now, soon as you get to be a contender again, you'll agree to fight an unknown, take what seems like a soft touch.”
“Jake?”
Arno beamed. “You know Jake can take you, don't you, Tommy?”
“Well, I'm not in shape and he caught me trying to be cute. I... You want me to take a dive?”
“Would you do business?”
Tommy finished his drink and laughed. “Arno, I been a pro pug for about fifteen years. Pro means fighting for one thing—dough. I've gone into rings sick, hungry, and once with a busted hand. The glory bit has worn thin for me.”
Arno reached for the bottle but Tommy shook his head. Arno showed his strong even teeth in a grin, turned the TV down as the commercial came on. “I knew you were a smart cookie the moment I saw you, Cork. I admire a man like myself, who faces up to the facts of life, not the dreams. You won't regret it. I figure if you go into the tank, especially on TV, why, then they can't freeze us out. The fans all across the country will demand Jake fight the champion. I'll be in the driver's seat. Also, I have a couple of new angles to show the fight mobsters, that I'll tell you—in time. Once Jake is champ, then we call the tune, and you get all the big paydays you want. Jake might even take a fall for you, let you hold the crown for a while. You buying?”
“All the way,” Tommy said, holding out his hand.
Arno shook it. “Let's drink on that.”
“I've had enough,” Tommy said, only because too much Scotch made him sick. “Hey, when they going to have chow ready?”
“One thing we have to get squared away on—nobody is to know of this except us two. Not even Jake. I'll let him in on things later, when he has to know. But you must see that if anybody else knows, it queers our whole set-up.”
“Don't worry about me, I can be speechless when necessary. How soon do I start fighting?”
“When you're in shape. Like I told you, you're the key to the whole works. Take your time, you have to be right. Perhaps in a month or two.” Arno took out his wallet. “In the meantime, as per our agreement, I'll pay your room and board, give you twenty-five a week.” He handed Tommy two tens and a five. “I'm strictly a businessman, I'll keep track of what I loan you, start taking it from your first large purse. Okay?”
“I wouldn't want it no other way.”
The woman in the kitchen called out she was ready to put food on the table. Arno asked Tommy, “Will you go down to the barn and get Jake?”
“Sure.”
Arno winked, put a fat finger on his lips. As Tommy left the room, Arno turned up the TV to catch the end of the cowboy show, took a fast swig from the brandy flask in his pocket. He
