High Midnight

CHAPTER EIGHT

There were waves of olive drab and dark blue in the crowd, and the place was packed. Soldiers and sailors swelled the stadium, though the nonuniformed spectators still outnumbered them. The war made boxing even more popular. Maybe it was the fact that a boxing match has a definite start and distinct end, and there’s a clear winner and loser. Violence, rules and no one gets killed. Boxing is war without the worst of war. I’d been at fights with servicemen before. There were two basic reactions. Before the fight they horsed around, spilled a little beer, argued about which was better-a fast-stepper or a slow, hard puncher. Then when the fight actually started, some of the boys went red-faced wild with every punch, their mouths open and moaning. Others sat back silent and serious, not knowing quite what it all meant to them, but knowing it meant a lot.

The crowd that night had the sound of fight crowds, a wave of sound pierced by an occasional loud, hysterical laugh or someone calling out to Maury or Al or Brian to bring back an extra hot dog or beer. Carmen craned her neck to see the ringside seats.

“I think I see Ann Sheridan,” she said excitedly.

“Ann Sheridan don’t come to no fights,” said a bulldog man sitting next to her, without looking up from his program.

“I ought to know Ann Sheridan when I see her,” Carmen insisted to the guy, who looked up from his program ready to fight and got his first look at Carmen, who was wearing her tightest red dress.

“Maybe Ann Sheridan changed her mind,” the bulldog said with a twisted smile.

Carmen accepted his apology.

“Babe Ruth is supposed to be here,” the bulldog said amiably.

“Toby knows Babe Ruth, don’t you?” she said, taking my arm without stopping her survey of the crowd for celebrities.

“Sure,” said the bulldog, eyeing me briefly and turning back to his program.

The hour hand on my watch was anchored now. It must have happened in the fight with Marco, but a firm grip on a small gear didn’t mean a firm grip on time. I asked the bulldog what time it was, and a soldier on my left told me it was just before eight-thirty. A few minutes later the heavyweights in the first fight came down the aisle. The crowd cheered. The crowd booed. The crowd didn’t know either one of the saps or their records, but they were big, and big guys gave out the hope of big punches. Both fighters looked scared. Both fighters looked young. One, a white kid with his hair cut short, was called Army John McCoy. The reason for the “Army” was made clear neither by the ring announcer nor our programs. The soldier next to me said he thought he was a soldier. Someone else corrected him behind us and said he knew he was a soldier. I doubted it but didn’t care. The other fighter was a Negro kid with the biggest arms I’d ever seen and legs to match that might make him a little slow. His name wasn’t even on the card, but the ring announcer introduced him as Archie “Black Lightning” Davis.

“I’ll put up ten on Black Lightning,” said the bulldog, looking around for a taker.

The soldier on my left dug into his pocket, and others rose to the challenge.

“Take the bet,” urged Carmen, as the fighters in the ring got their instructions.

“The Army boy hasn’t got a chance,” I said. “The Negro’s a ringer. I’ll bet ten his name isn’t Archie Davis. Look at those arms, scar tissue over the eyes. He’s been around, and the other kid can’t even look him in the eye.”

I tried to spot Babe Ruth but couldn’t. I sure as hell didn’t see anyone who looked like Ann Sheridan.

For the first few minutes the two fighters received cheers for dancing. When McCoy decided that things weren’t going too badly, he made a flat-footed rush and landed a right to Davis’s head that Davis slipped. In return, Davis put a short hard left into McCoy’s kidney that the crowd and the referee missed. The crowd went wild. It looked to them like McCoy had drawn first blood. The bulldog man looked over at me with a mean smile, and I nodded that I had seen what he had seen.

“Ten more says McCoy don’t go the four rounds,” the bulldog said.

Money came his way. Carmen dug into her purse, and I stopped her.

“He’s right,” I said.

I didn’t have time to see the end of the fight. I told Carmen to enjoy herself, that I’d be back soon, and headed up the aisle before she could ask any questions. When I glanced back, the bulldog man was leaning in her direction, explaining the finer points of the fight game to her.

In the corridor the sounds of the crowd seemed artificial, like someone had created them for a John Garfield boxing movie.

The corridor wasn’t quite empty. A woman rushed for the women’s room. A guy at a hot-dog cart was counting his before-the-fights take. I spotted Gunther without any trouble. It is hard to miss a midget, especially when the midget is trying to look inconspicuous by standing against a wall reading a newspaper while a boxing match is going on that he supposedly spent money to see. Even the woman anxious for the toilet paused to look at him.

Gunther and I were at the right gate, and a wall clock told me that I was on time. A groan rose from the crowd, so I figured that Black Lightning had done his first evident damage. Curtis Bowie came loping along about thirty seconds later, looking a bit bewildered but holding onto his smile. He wore a dark ski sweater and a thin topcoat and had his hands in his pockets. I wasn’t sure what might be in those pockets. I hadn’t brought my trusty.38. I didn’t expect a shoot-out, but you could never tell what a desperate human or a fool will do.

Bowie walked over to me and looked into my eyes, and the smile grew broader.

“I wasn’t sure I’d recognize you,” he said.

“Let’s get down to business,” I said. “Why did you do it?”

“The money,” Bowie said, still grinning.

“Money?” I asked. “What money?”

“The money Max Gelhorn promised me,” Bowie went on, scratching his stomach and turning his head at another echoing groan from the crowd. He spotted Gunther and was fascinated by the sight.

“Gelhorn paid you to do it?”

“Of course. Well, he didn’t pay me but the guarantee was there,” said Bowie, unable to take his eyes from Gunther and return them to me.

“So you killed Tillman and Larry from Chicago because Max Gelhorn paid you?”

“Killed?” said Bowie, forcing his attention from Gunther. “I didn’t kill anybody. I was talking about the High Midnight script.”

“If you didn’t kill anybody, why did you come here tonight?” I said.

“Fargo killed him,” said Bowie with a smile.

“Killed who?”

“Whoever got killed,” explained Bowie. For a writer, he was having a hell of a time making things clear.

“Why?” I asked checking the clock. I had another possible appointment in a few minutes.

“A lot of hate in him,” said Bowie confidentially, “and a lot of need. I can’t see him being in the picture, but he’d do anything to get it off the ground, even more than I’d do. He’d kill for it. He said he’d kill to get this picture.”

Gunther finally turned a page in the paper.

“You see that little guy?” asked Bowie, pointing to Gunther.

“Little guy?” I asked, looking around. “What little guy?”

Gunther packed up his newspaper and moved slowly away. Bowie shook his head in wonder, and the crowd roared again.

“Mickey would kill me, you or Cooper to get the picture done,” Bowie said, watching Gunther walk slowly and reluctantly toward the men’s room.

“You think he can reach the toilet?” Bowie asked.

“I wouldn’t know,” I said. The bell rang inside the stadium, and crowd sounds swelled. “Why would he want to kill Cooper? He’s the goose with the golden face.”

Bowie nodded and dropped his grin a bit.

“What happens if Copper gets killed?” he said.

“The picture deal is off,” I tried.

The fight had obviously ended. People streamed out into the corridor, hurrying for the toilet and the hot-dog stand.

“Maybe not,” said Bowie. “Maybe Mr. Gelhorn’s backer lets Gelhorn go ahead with someone else. If someone kills Cooper, Fargo and Gelhorn aren’t responsible for delivering him on the picture.”

“You have a devious mind and a deceptive exterior,” I said as a sailor jostled me.

“I’m a writer,” explained Bowie proudly.

“How much did it cost you to get in here?” I said.

“Cheap seats, a buck,” he said.

I pulled out a couple of bucks and said, “It’s on Gary Cooper.”

Bowie looked at the two bucks, was tempted, but plunged his hands deeper into his pockets to resist temptation.

“Nope,” he said. “I like the fights, and maybe I’ll pick up some material for a script.”

Sometimes you make a mistake. My sometimes came more often than those of other people. I tried to restore some of the pride I had shot away by returning his status as a murder suspect.

“If Cooper got killed, the chances of your script being shot would go up,” I said seriously. “Your motives might be the same as Mickey Fargo’s.”

Suspect Curtis Bowie straightened up and grinned at me. “Could be,” he said and walked into the oncoming crowd.

Gunther hustled up to me and whispered while pas-sersby watched us. “Shall I follow him?” said Gunther.

“Right,” I said, resisting the urge to tell him to be inconspicuous. “Stay with him, and thanks, Gunther.” Gunther disappeared into the crowd, and I went back to my seat.

Bulldog was counting his money and explaining the finer points of boxing to Carmen, who wasn’t paying attention.

“You missed the knockout,” Carmen said sadly. “Black Lightning electrocuted the army.”

“Very colorful,” chortled Bulldog.

“You get a jolt out of taking candy from soldiers who don’t know the game,” I said irritably.

Bulldog gave me a smirk and went back to counting his cash. There were guys like bulldog all over the stadium, guys who made their living knowing the fighters and the odds and playing on sentiment. Sometimes they lost, but usually they won.

In about three minutes the next preliminary bout was ready to go. Again one fighter was white and the other black, but this time they were welterweights, and both looked tough, and both looked like they were beyond maximum draft age. The white guy had a face even more mushed in than mine. The black guy had a double dark line under his right eye. The white guy had been around long enough to spot an old scar and work on it. If the black guy didn’t nail him in the first round, the white guy would probably open the cut and work on it.

“I’m feeling sentimental,” sighed the bulldog, talking over me at the soldier and then over his shoulder at anyone in the crowd who wanted to hear. “I take even money and take Monroe.” Monroe was the white fighter.

The soldier next to me looked in his wallet and hesitated. He looked at me, and I shook my head no.

“I’ve got ten says Harkins goes for the knockout in the first. If he gets it, I win. If he misses, I’ll go with the sentiment and take Monroe. I’m a sucker too,” I said.

The bulldog leaned over and whispered to me, “Go work another area, you clown. This is my section.”

When the fighters touched gloves, I whispered to the soldier to watch for a cut under Harkins’s eye. If it opened a little, he should push for a bet and take Monroe. The soldier looked at my battered face, took me for an ex-pug and said thanks.

“I gotta go,” I told Carmen. “Be right back.”

“You have a kidney disease or something?” she said, still looking for another glimpse of Ann Sheridan but also taking some interest in the fight.

Tall Mickey was waiting for me when I arrived at the stairwell. He was holding his coat open to reveal a jacket with buckskin trim, enough to suggest that he had something to do with horses. He looked even puffier than he had the day before, and he was worried.

Jeremy Butler was engaged in conversation with the hot-dog man. His eyes kept darting to me and Fargo, but he put up a good act. He wasn’t as conspicuous as Gunther, but at six-four and almost three hundred pounds, he wasn’t quite invisible either.

“Big bastard, isn’t he?” remarked Fargo, nodding at Jeremy as I approached.

“Yeah,” I agreed casually, “I think he used to be a pro wrestler. Can’t remember his name.”

“Talk,” said Fargo, smoothing his mustache with a careful finger.

“You killed a man named Tom Tillman, a man you hired to force Cooper to make High Midnight,” I said smiling. “I’ve got proof.”

“You got no proof,” said Fargo, shaking his head.

“Then what are you doing here?” I said.

“I know who killed the Tillman character-the one who was trying to put the pressure on Cooper,” said Fargo with an evil smile I recognized from moments on the screen just before Bob Steele wiped it from his face.

“Okay, who?”

“Gelhorn,” said Fargo. “Son of a bitch probably hired the guy and wanted him to ambush you because you were getting in the way. Tillman fella probably objected, so Max and his temper took over.”

“Gelhorn tell you that?”

“Max and I go way back,” said Fargo. “Way back. I know how his mind works when the screws aren’t too loose.”

“And Cooper?” I said.

“What about him?” Fargo said, glancing again at Jeremy.

“Gelhorn’s planning to get rid of Cooper,” I said, looking directly into Fargo’s eyes.

“What the hell for?” he said in surprise.

“Cooper’s gone, and there’s a new ball game,” I said, taking Bowie’s idea. “Gelhorn is off the hook if Cooper meets an accident. You don’t have to deliver if your promised actor is dead.”

Fargo touched his chin, and I realized that he looked a little like Pete, the fat evil wolf in Mickey Mouse cartoons. A thought had entered Fargo’s fat head, and I had put it there.

“On the other hand …” I tried, but Fargo had had enough and pushed past me. He headed not for the stadium interior but for an exit. I nodded to Jeremy Butler, who returned the nod, disengaged himself from the hot-dog man and went after Fargo.

The fight was in the third round when I got back, and the black fighter’s eye was pouring blood. He was trying to protect the eye, which reduced his offense to practically nothing. At the bell the referee called the doctor, and the doctor stopped the battle. A blood-spattered Monroe removed his mouthpiece to reveal a nearly toothless grin of triumph.

Bulldog leaned over to me and told me to keep my mouth shut or else. I laughed in his face. This time I talked to Carmen while the crowds rushed out for refreshment and excretion. The lack of kidney retention of the adult fightgoer is a phenomenon worth some study. I got Carmen and the soldier a beer and told them the main fight was a toss-up. The bulldog man, however, was not making the money he expected, and he was hawking it even for Morelia. I didn’t stay while the ringside celebrities were introduced before the main event. This time Carmen grabbed my arm.

“Are you sick or something?” she said.

“Something,” I said. “I’ll explain later.”

Shelly was at the hot-dog stand this time. He waved at me, and I pretended I hadn’t seen him. He was chomping on a hot dog and had his collar turned up like Peter Lorre in a spy movie.

The corridor was empty this time. Everyone was inside for the main event.

Gelhorn’s upper lip was pulled back as he advanced on me, showing even teeth that looked ready to bite. He wore a clean white shirt and carried his coat on his right arm. His right hand was covered and might be carrying something. I resisted the urge to move to the protection of the hot-dog stand. Not long ago on a case in Chicago, I had been shot while eating a hot dog.

“Well?” demanded Gelhora. “What is this all about? And what is that fool doing over there looking at us?”

He pointed at Shelly, who turned his back.

“That is the man who said he was you,” he said.

“Right,” I said. “Let’s get to it. You killed a man, maybe two.”

“I direct scenes like this,” said Gelhorn, looking to heaven for deliverance, “I don’t fall for them. I didn’t kill anybody.” Gelhorn put his hands on his hips, cocked his head and looked at me with mock amusement.

“You need some dialogue rewrite,” he said.

“I’ll tell you,” I went on. “If you don’t deliver Cooper on High Midnight, some goons with guns are likely to come from the people who want the Cooper movie made and be really upset with you.”

“Idiot,” sighed Gelhorn, looking at his watch impatiently, his yellow-gray hair bobbing.

“Then what are you doing here?” I said.

“I was coming to the fights anyway,” he said. “I like them.”

“Sure,” I returned, “five will get you ten that you can’t tell me who won the first two on the card or who’s in the main event. Why did you kill Tillman?”

Gelhorn took a step toward me. I didn’t like the hand under the coat. A heavy figure lumbered out of the main hall, but I didn’t look at him. My eyes were on Gelhorn’s face, which looked more than a touch wild. I took a step back and glanced at my backup man Shelly. His back was turned.

“I met Mickey outside,” Gelhorn said.

“Coincidence,” I commented.

“Yes,” said Gelhorn, “and he told me about your crazy idea about getting rid of Cooper.”

“That’s not my idea,” I said.

“It’s crazy,” said Gelhorn, looking quite crazy enough to consider it.

“It wouldn’t be much of an idea,” I said. “It wouldn’t work.”

“No,” agreed Gelhorn, without convincing me, “it wouldn’t work.”

I was sure I saw the glint of metal under the coat on Gelhorn’s arm. Maybe it told me he was a killer. Maybe it told me nothing more than that he had brought a gun. His eyes told me that he might be wild enough to use it.

“You have any idea how much this picture means to me?” he said softly. “How long I’ve waited, planned? I’ve been this town twenty-five years and never been offered anything better than second unit on The Cowboy and The Lady. I’m not going to miss this chance. Not you, not Cooper, not anybody is going to take it from me.”

“Why did you kill Tillman?” I asked at the wrong moment.

“I didn’t,” he snarled, letting the gun come out a little further. He might have pulled the trigger. Maybe he was just putting on an act. I never found out. The burly figure that had come out of the stadium rammed into Gelhorn, sending coat and gun to the floor and Gelhorn staggering with his arms out to keep from falling.

“Hey, sorry,” said Babe Ruth, clutching an armful of hot dogs and beer. Ruth winked at me and whispered, “Take care of yourself, Sherlock.” Then Ruth rumbled off on his thin legs to find out what the crowd was roaring about. Gelhorn caught his balance and tried to regain his dignity. He moved for his coat, but I got to it before him and picked it and the gun up. It was a little gun. I quietly removed the bullets and handed it to him.

“The next time you point a gun at me,” I said softly, “you eat it. Now I’m sorry if you don’t like the line, but it’s the best I can do.”

Gelhorn turned and went. I looked at Shelly, whose back was still turned, and walked over to him. When I tapped his shoulder, he almost dropped his hot dog.

“I think he spotted me,” Shelly said.

“You’ve been a big help,” I said. “Do me a favor. Go to aisle 16 and find Carmen. Tell her my kidney gave out and drive her home.”

“Mildred won’t like that,” he said.

“We won’t tell Mildred,” I promised. Shelly agreed and went into the arena.

Lombardi was scheduled to show in five minutes. He didn’t. I waited ten minutes. Still no sausage mogol. In twenty minutes I gave up. I knew what I had to do. I had to find Cooper and warn him that he might be worth more on the slab than on the hoof.

I went for the exit, considering a call to my brother, but realizing that I’d have to do it on my own. At the gate a cop I knew spotted me and started to wave and smile. Then he remembered that there was a price on my head, and the smile faded. He started to stride toward me, with one hand going for his gun. I hurried through the turnstyle and ran down the street. I could hear his feet slapping after me.

My wind was good and the cop was overweight. He could have stopped to take a shot at me, but I didn’t think he would. A lot of my survival lately was based on my judgment of human nature. If the past was any indication, I was living on borrowed time.