The Big Fix

TOMMY

Leaving the steak house, Tommy headed west. At the corner he glanced at a window clock. It was a few minutes after eight and the window happened to be part of a bar. Knowing May didn't come on until around ten o'clock, he decided to have a shot. He needed one.

Over his third belt he told himself, “Man, when you get a nutty fight fan, you got the tops in being dumb. Arno takes out a policy on me, as a favor, and Al starts yelling murder. If I hadn't put the lid on him hard just now, Al would have ruined the works for me. For crying out loud, the way Al reasons, if Arno decided to buy me a tux it would mean he was thinking of marrying me. 'Cancel the policy and see what Arno does.' What would they expect Mr. Brewer, or anybody else, to do but throw me out? I got it made and no creep is going to spoil my last chance....Now why am I calling Alvin a creep? He's been plenty decent to me, give me what breaks he can. That cop, that Walt, he was something.

“If I packed his weight, I bet I'd be working at least once a month. And with my savvy—most heavies don't know how to move off their flat feet. Sure can't figure Walt for not turning pro, getting in a couple big paydays. Being an amateur was the good life. Really kid stuff but I sure felt I had the world by the hairs then. Seventy-two bouts—I damn near had more watches than the Swiss navy; if I hadn't hocked them with the promoters. And those bootleg fights, hop into some beat-up car and spend a week fighting in Troy, Albany, Toronto, come back with a pocket full of bucks. I don't get it, even the medal chasers can't get a fight today. TV killed off the amateurs, too. And I figured TV would be a shot in the arm for... Aw, what am I stewing about? I'm set. I'll make some good fights now, I'm feeling strong, ready to go. Always knew my Irish luck wouldn't let me down. That Al.

“Good thing I didn't blow my cap trying to calm him down. Got to keep in good with these TV guys. They're as important now as the mob boys. Well, guess I'll stop with this shot, really have to keep in shape. I'll go see May now— only get tanked if I hang around here. Another thing I like about Arno—he don't mind if I take a belt now and then. Yeah, I'll see May now, show her I'm on my way, all togged out. She hasn't seen me look this sharp in years. Even if she isn't working yet, I'll find out where she's rooming and.... Hey, that was Walt looking in here! I hope that dick isn't tailing me.”

Going to the door, Tommy watched Walt Steiner walk on down the street. He decided the detective was merely passing by. He straightened his tae and overcoat, inspecting himself in the bar mirror, quite pleased with what he saw, then started for the diner.

Mac, the partner on duty, was the baker—although despite the sign behind the counter, all the cakes and bread weren't “baked on the premises.” It depended on how drunk Mac was. Tommy walked in and sat on a counter stool. Over a cup of coffee he asked Bertha, “What time does May Cork come on?”

“You mean what day will she be back, if she comes back,” Bertha said.

“What? Is she unwell?”

Bertha giggled. “Unwell? Yeah, guess you might call her unwell at that. All the gals I ever seen get beaten up weren't exactly well.”

“May's been beaten up?” Tommy said, jumping to his feet. “What is this?”

Bertha examined his rough face. “Who you, mister?”

“Her husband. Where's May?”

“Who knows? In hiding, I guess. I'd be. I only hope she gets all this settled before the month's over so I can go to California and...”

“What's going on here?” Tommy asked loudly. “Where is May?”

Mac came over, asked Bertha, “Any trouble?”

“This guy is asking for May. I told him...”

“You run your flabby mouth too much.” Mac turned to Tommy. “What's all this to you?”

“Where's my wife? What's happened to May?”

“I don't know where she is. I don't know nothing, see? I ain't sticking my nose into nothing. You say you're her husband but...”

“I am!” Tommy snapped. “And stop stalling me.”

Mac shrugged. “Okay, maybe you are her old man. And then maybe you're a strong arm punk sent around to work her over,” he said, his voice mild. Mac was a large fat man, with an alcoholic's indifference to fear. He asked Bertha, “You know May's husband?”

“Never saw him. But she told me he was a pug. This one sure fits the part What a puss! I seen the husband once on TV.”

“Then you know who I am!” Tommy shouted.

“I was pretty bug-eyed then. Besides, this guy had so many gloves hitting his face, I couldn't see much. Anyway, I don't even know May wants to see you. I hear the last time she saw her ever-loving, she had to hit him. I always say a gal...”

Tommy slapped the counter. “The both of you cut the chatter. Just tell me where she is!”

“What you making all this noise for?” Mac asked.

“I'm asking where my wife is and you'd damn well better tell me before I knock your ears off!”

“That kind of talk don't impress me. I got nothing more to say.” Mac started toward the cash register, walking casually, where he kept an unloaded automatic.

“I'll impress your fat face with a...!”

Bertha rested all of her bosom on the counter as she said, “Come on, cut the rough stuff and listen to me, May's husband. Mac's only a good-natured rummy. He don't know a damn thing. None of us do. That's a fact.”

Yanking out his wallet, Tommy held up his plastic-covered boxing license. “Read it! Tommy Cork. That's my picture there. Now you believe me?”

Bertha glanced at the license, also measured the thickness of the wallet. “For sure, you were never strong on looks, even when this snap was taken. What Mac was trying to say is, So what if you are her husband? I mean, not only don't we know anything, but maybe you're working for them too. May was all wrong to start this stuff in here, and we don't want no trouble.”

Tommy shoved the wallet back into his hip pocket. Trying to hold his temper in, he said, “Look, Miss, I been out of town for a while, training. First chance I get to see May, you start giving me double-talk. What did May start? What trouble is she in?”

“She began picking up numbers. Butch warned her not to start that here. The way I hear things, she was holding out. But May had bad luck. One of the numbers she held out hit for a buck. Naturally the player yelled. So the boys found out she was stealing and the syndicate man slapped her around. Now we don't know where she's been hiding out That's a fact. I haven't seen her in two days. Maybe Butch knows something, but he won't tell. Even though he's sore at her for bringing the syndicate in here, involving the restaurant still he likes May—not the way you think—just likes...”

“He'll tell me! Who's Butch?”

“One of the bosses. Guy who was on the last time you were here.” Bertha sighed. “Look, I keep telling you, even if Butch knows where she is, and I ain't sure he does, he won't tell anybody.”

“I'll call the cops.”

Bertha gave him another sigh. “That would be the best way of making everybody clam up. Butch won't talk, for May's own good.” She examined Tommy's clothes for a second. “You going to give May the dough for my apartment?”

“Right now all I care about is finding my wife!”

“Sure, I understand. Luck, Mr. Cork. I hope you find her okay, and she's like six o'clock with the syndicate—straight up and down. I hope also she gets that one hundred and fifty bucks up, so I can make California. Now that's about all the hoping I can do.” Bertha walked away to wait on a new customer.

“You know where she was rooming, before... this?”

“You're a bright one,” the fat blonde called over her shoulder. “If you're in hiding, the last place you'd be is in your old room.”

“Yeah,” Tommy muttered. As he started for the door, Mac called softly from behind the cash register, “This ain't no mission. We charge for our Java. One dime.”

“You sure say nothing for a slob who talks too much,” Tommy said, throwing the dime on the counter. Outside, he breathed in deeply of the cold night air and wondered what to do. It didn't sound possible—May mixed up with the numbers racket. Why in the old days, she wouldn't even go to the races with him. If she found a nickel on the street she would insist upon putting it in the church poor box.

For a half hour Tommy walked through the markets, the side streets, not really expecting to see May, but not knowing what else to do. He couldn't go to the police, if May was really in this. Then he stopped at another stool joint, phoned Walt Steiner, told him what had happened.

Walt was just taking off his shirt—having decided to stay home—when the phone rang. After listening to Tommy he told him, “Look, if you want to make any charges, go to the local police station and report your wife missing, then...”

“I don't want charges or reports. I want to find my wife!” Tommy said, almost crying over the phone. “The blonde said May's been beaten up. She may be hurt, needing me. Before, we... well... we were living apart; but what I mean, she was not in danger or hurt. Walt, I don't know what to do. But you have a badge, you're a cop. Can't you help me?”

Walt hesitated. He had learned long ago not to volunteer. Throw your badge around and it could easily bounce back in your face. Still, he could feel the real grief in Tommy's voice, and anything was better than moping around, waiting for Ruth. Only because it was something to do, Walt asked Tommy where he was, told him he'd be there in twenty minutes.

When he met Tommy a half hour later, Walt was sorry he'd come and told Tommy, “Before we start anything you have to remember once I step into this as a police officer... that... if your wife is mixed up in any numbers deal... Well, when the wagon comes, everybody goes. Understand?”

“Just find her,” Tommy said, thinking, What's wrong with this big joker? If he knew anything about May, he'd have to know she's too sweet to be mixed up in anything shady. Not May!

“Okay, let's go to the diner. Let me do the talking,” Walt said, shivering slightly with the cold night air. He also knew the numbers syndicate was real big-time, far too powerful for one cop to buck, even an honest one. He almost wished Tommy would argue, give him an excuse to back out of this.

When they reached the diner Bertha was kidding with one of two coffee-and-cake customers. Mac was kneading a pan of dough, having had his usual sampling of “cooking sherry” some minutes before. He gave Tommy and Walt a sloppy, loose grin, told Walt, “Absolutely no point in asking who you are. It's all over your face. What can I do for you, officer?”

“Where's May Cork?”

Mac grinned, as if Walt had told him a joke. “I can answer that one easily and truthfully. I don't know.”

“When did you last see her?”

“Oh, maybe I saw May last month. Once, I think,” Mac said, the silly grin still on his wide face.

Walt glanced at Tommy, annoyed, then asked Mac, “Doesn't she work here?”

Mac nodded, working on his dough again. “Sure, she worked here. But you asked when was the last time I saw her. As it happens I generally knock off about a half hour before May's due on, so...”

“Cut the coy crap,” Walt said, putting muscle into his voice. “I want some straight answers and I want them fast!”

Mac made a slight bow, his hands still in the white dough. “I always work with the police. Like I told him,” he jerked his big head toward Tommy, “if I knew where May was, I'd tell you. All I heard was May was beaten up. I don't even know that for a fact. I didn't see it. I only heard about it. I can only...”

“Was she taking numbers?”

Mac looked sad. “So I've heard. However, officer, I want you to know that if May was doing it—and I said if—she was doing it solely on her own, without our knowledge. In this eating establishment, we don't allow gambling or solicit...”

“You serve beer here?” Walt cut in.

“Sure. Bottles only. You want some?”

“I don't want any beer and unless I get some real information out of you, nobody else is going to buy any suds here, either. I'll request the state board to revoke your beer license—something about racketeers and unsavory characters hanging about.”

The smile fled Mac's puffy face. For the first time Tommy was impressed by Walt, was glad he'd let Walt carry the conversation, as he'd been told. He glanced up at Walt's grim face, which didn't hint that Walt was merely bluffing. Hell, this wasn't even near his squad area.

“Now you guys wait just a fat minute,” Mac said. “I'm not holding out on you. Told you all I know. Don't see why I'm suddenly in the middle of this thing. Like I said, I hardly see—saw—May. You speak to my partner, Butch. This is all his baby and I ain't going to get my feet wet. He'll be here in an hour or so. Comes on around eleven-thirty.”

Walt asked, “Where's he live?”

“Two blocks east. Nineteen Rand Street. Morris, Fred Morris. Talk to him, let him say what he wants. He's the big-hearted slob protecting May. I told him... well, never mind.”

“What's 'never mind' mean?”

“It means nothing. I told him to keep our noses out of it. She wanted to mess with these digit punks, then it's her business and she had to take what she got. We...”

“Got? What did May get?” Tommy suddenly asked, leaping toward Mac. Walt practically lifted Tommy off the ground as he turned him toward the door, said, “Take it slow. Let's see this Morris fellow.”

“Fred Morris, the third, no less,” Mae called out happily, adding for his own benefit, “And you can tell him to quit lecturing me about my drinking. Ruining the business he says and he...”

Butch always went through a simple ritual before he started for the night shift at the diner. He'd sit in an old worn leather easy chair and carefully read the evening paper. He read nearly everything in the paper, including the want ads. The reading wasn't part of the ritual, but sitting was very much the ritual, and an important one, since he would be on his feet for the balance of the night, and part of the morning when he bought meat. These were by far the most enjoyable few hours of each day because his wife was generally in bed by then, and he could read in peace without hearing the TV.

He was angry when the doorbell cut into his quiet. His anger reached a boil as Walt flashed his badge. When they asked about May, Butch said, “I haven't nothing to say.”

Butch was standing by his open door and Walt asked, “Can we come in and talk this over?”

“Do your talking right here.”

“Now Mr. Morris,” Walt said softly, “I understand you're trying to protect Mrs. Cork. That's fine, but don't you think she'd be in safer hands if she was under police protection?”

“No! Look, May ain't nothing to me, but she's a good hard-working woman, steady, and I don't stand for her getting the wrong end of the stick. You don't con me. How do I know you're not goons for the numbers boys? And don't wave that badge at me, that don't make no difference, you can still be working with them. Hell, numbers is being played all over the city and they couldn't do it without the help of the police! I don't know nothing about May.”

“That's a hell of a thing to say about the police force. I know your type, talk us down in one breath and be yelling the loudest for the police when there's trouble,” Walt said, his face flushed. Although this was another sharp bit sticking in the back of his mind, he knew if he fooled with the numbers syndicate he could easily be busted. Their pay-off went right to the top, all the way up to City Hall.

Butch said, “Sure I'm saying it, but that isn't what makes it a bad thing. It's being true makes it sad. Look, I'm not out to be a hero, or hunting trouble. That's police business, you run it how you see best. Well, we got us a good restaurant business, and we put in a lot of sweat and varicose veins to make it that. But my ancestors battled the Indians and I sure ain't going to help a decent church-going woman like May get hurt no more.”

“She's my wife!” Tommy said.

“I heard you say that before—when she had to sock you. You didn't see her from one brace of months to another. I'm busy resting, have a long night ahead of me, so...”

“You might have a longer night ahead of you in the station house,” Walt began, “unless you act right and....”

Butch cut in with, “I come from one of the oldest families in America. You think I don't know my rights? You running me in? For what? Is this an official visit? Except for flashing that tin, you haven't even identified yourself as a policeman!”

“I'm a detective asking if you know the whereabouts of May Cork.”

“I don't know. Now the both of you get out of my doorway. The next time you come calling, let me see a warrant!”

Tommy was surprised to hear Walt mutter, “You'll be in real trouble if anything happens to Mrs. Cork. All this talk about oldest family and you don't think the police...” Butch shut the door in their faces. For a moment he leaned against the closed door, shaking a little with fright, but then a feeling of righteous indignation calmed his fears. Besides, he always had a blind dislike for cops.

On the other side of the door, as they stood in the dim hallway, Tommy said, “I should have flattened him.”

“That would have been a real third strike,” Walt said, feeling slightly ridiculous, and depressed.

“From the way he was acting, wouldn't even let us in the apartment, I'd give odds May's in there!”

Walt shook his head. “I don't think so. If she was, she certainly heard you shooting off your mouth... and she didn't show herself.”

“Okay, then what do we do now? I thought with your badge...?”

“My badge isn't a magic wand! You're making dummy-talk. Even if she was in there, and if I believe what you've told me, she isn't being held against her will. It's not a crime for a woman to refuse to see her husband.”

“Naw! May wants to see me. No matter what we went through, it was never like that. She'd always want to see me. Or me see her. That Morris knew something. I ought to go back there and beat it out of him.”

Walt's feeling of depression went deeper. “Talk sense. Then I'd have to collar you. That would be a big help to May.”

“But maybe Morris would say something first? Okay, we'll play it your way. What do we do beside standing here and talking to each other?”

The “we” hit Walt like a dull slap in the face. He was annoyed—with himself, at Tommy, and at Ruth. If they had a normal relationship, and she'd been at home with him, Walt would never have gone off on this wild goose chase. The men in the squad room would laugh at him, working on his own time. But mostly he was annoyed with this wiseguy, Morris. Walt had run up against this type of citizen before— lumping cops with thugs. He asked, “Tommy, haven't you any idea where May'd go? No relatives or friends?”

“Naw. Only relative she has is a cousin out in Tacoma, Washington. All my folks have been dead long ago. As for May's cousin, Helen, she hasn't seen her in years. They send Christmas and Easter cards to each other. You're the detective. Isn't there anything you can do?”

“Dammit, stop talking like a fool. Let me think before I slap your mouth shut!”

Tommy shook his head. If his eyes grew hard, his voice was friendly as he said, “Now you're talking like a dummy, Walt. You have plenty of weight on me but there never was an amateur yet who could take a real pro. I... I didn't mean to steam you, and I'm sure glad you're trying to help. But you can understand how I feel. What the hell am I still fighting for, staying with the game. Who did I ever stop a punch for, if it wasn't for my May? Sure, I ain't been no model husband, but I have been in there trying all the time, best I can. Now, when I finally get my break, this has to happen.”

Walt stared at Tommy's beaten face for a second, shocked to realize Cork was probably about his own age, or a few years older, despite looking like an old man. (He didn't even consider that Tommy might be younger than he.) “May's cousin out in Tacoma, when was the last time they saw each other?”

“What's she...? At least about fifteen years ago, I guess. Helen is married and settled out there. They exchange greeting cards now, that's all. About the only mail May gets, so she's always showing the cards around.”

Walt nodded slowly. “May must have shown Morris, the blonde waitress, those cards. Wait here for a moment,” he said, going into a drugstore. Walt was surprised and happy to find Ruth home. Then, as he and Tommy rode the bus to his place, Walt got all the dope Tommy could recall about Helen.

When they entered the apartment and he could tell Ruth had been home for some time, Walt was ashamed of what he'd been thinking all evening. Ruth looked positively beautiful in her robe, Walt thought, as he introduced Tommy and said, “You see, Tommy's wife has disappeared and, while it isn't a police matter yet, we want to find her before she gets into any more trouble. She may be hurt. I've been fishing around but I think my badge frightens her boss, makes him clam up. Might be a sort of adventure for you if...

“Wouldn't be no real trouble for you, ma'am,” Tommy said. “I mean no chance of you getting hurt.”

“What is it you want me to do?” Ruth asked, almost giddy with relief that Walt hadn't brought another woman home.

“May, that's Tommy's wife, has only one relative, a cousin out in Tacoma. I thought that after we fill you in with the dope on this cousin Helen, you could go to the diner where May used to work, pose as the cousin. Say you just came in, or you're passing through, and wanted to take May back to the Coast with you. I think the boss will tell you where May's hiding. As Tommy said, no risk—we'll never be far away. I realize it's sudden and... Ruth, will you help Tommy?”