The Big Fix

TOMMY

It was past one-thirty when Walt and Ruth dropped Tommy off at his hotel. He was thoroughly confused, had been ever since he'd taken May in his arms, began crying as he kissed her braised face. When she told him why she had taken the money, Tommy had merely said, “Honey, I never knew the apartment meant so much to you. Look, if you want, I'll get a job, become a dishwasher, do like you say. I mean, soon... if anything goes wrong between me and this new manager. Like if he drops me. May, I haven't had the chance to tell you. I have a great manager, a real live one. I'm in good shape, staying at a fine hotel and eating three times a day, and this manager foots the bill. Isn't that something?”

She pulled away, looked him over. “You do look sharp. Tommy, do you think—now—you can get up the money for the apartment?”

“Well, I don't get much actual green. Arno—my manager —he pays the tabs and all I get is a few bills for spending. Listen, forget the apartment, the first thing we have...”

“I can't forget the apartment!”

He pulled her to him, gently ran his fingers over the purplish skin under her eyes. “May, what's the use of having an apartment if we can't live in it? We have to get square with the numbers punks before thinking of anything else. For true, how much did the guy hit for with you?”

“A dollar.”

Tommy whistled into her graying hair. “Could be worse— like a five dollar hit. A buck—means we have to raise six hundred fish. Know what. I'll go see the guy tonight, explain that we'll pay off, fast as we can. That way, he won't be sore and the numbers mob won't have anything against you any more. Yeah, at least let him know we're paying off. What's the player's name and where can I find him?”

“They call him Shorty. Shorty James. He works in the icebox at the big meat house down the block and across from the diner. Oh Tom, how can we raise so much money?”

“Right this minute I don't know, but I'll ante it up—in time. Ill get these numbers jerks off your back, then we'll see about the apartment. Say, if I can get up six hundred, no reason why I can't pony up another hundred and fifty.”

“Oh, Tom, do you think you can?” May said, kissing him wildly.

Now, as Tommy left the hotel, buttoning his coat against the night cold, he made sure Walt and Ruth had driven off the block, then headed for the market. Tommy wasn't thinking of the six hundred dollars, but only of May's kiss. He had never been a passionate man, hunger and the constant training grind had drained his excess energy, and desire needs fuel. The truth was, he rarely thought of sex. But May's kisses had aroused in him memories of their early marriage nights—his delight at the way her delicate little body would come alive, roaring and demanding, sending fire racing through his own blood.

Walking with his head bent against the wind he thought, Maybe after Arno gets me a couple of fights, at least one or two big ones, I'll throw my ring shoes away. Take about a year but May and me will still have plenty of time ahead of us. I should have about ten grand socked away after two main events, say on a nation-wide TV show. At least, five thousand. I'll buy a business, a gas station. But what do I know about cars? If the fight game wasn't so dead, I'd hire out as a trainer, perhaps manage a few guys or... Hey! I know a natural for May and me. We'll buy a small house, going into the rooming business! Yes, sir, we sure know enough about rooms! Yeah, we won't be pigs, charge a reasonable rent and keep a clean place. Only steady roomers, no drunks. Not much work, some cleaning every day and changing sheets once a week, that's about all. Man, will May go for this idea, she'll love it! When I see her tomorrow night, I'll spill it to her. Be better than an apartment—be our home and a business beside. Keep it small, no more than ten rooms. Guess you can buy one of these old brownstones for five grand down, all right.

He suddenly side-stepped, did a graceful jig on the sidewalk—felt as pleased as if he already had the house, or the money for one.

Passing the diner he dropped in to tell Butch, “May's okay. She's with her cousin.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

Tommy shrugged. “Anyway, she said to tell you thanks for all you done.” Tommy motioned toward four or five men at the counter. “This Shorty James around?”

“Who's he?”

“Okay, forget you saw me.”

“I forgot the first time I ever saw you,” Butch said, still annoyed at having his sitting ritual disturbed earlier in the evening.

Tommy couldn't help but see the meat plant. He asked a driver unloading a track full of frozen sides of beef where he could find Shorty. Glancing at Tommy's face, his clothes, the driver shouldered a side of beef, said he'd see if he could find him. Minutes later a tall man wearing a bloody once-white butcher coat over layers of sweaters and dirty fur-lined boots, came out holding a baling hook in one hand. A stained ski cap with earflaps was pushed back from his swarthy face. The driver was carrying a heavy wooden mallet. The tall man asked, “You looking for me?”

“Yeah, if you're Shorty James,” Tommy said, watching the driver edging over behind him.

“What you want?”

“I have some private talk for you.” Tommy glanced at the driver who didn't make any move to walk away.

The tall Shorty said, “I don't know you. What we got to talk about?”

“I'm May's husband. May, the waitress at the diner. I come to tell you she didn't mean to hold out, that I'll make up the dough coming to you.”

A smile formed on Shorty's dark face. He told the track driver, “It's okay, Al.” As the driver went back to unloading his truck, Shorty told Tommy, “We thought you were a loan-shark goon. You have my money?”

“Not with me. Ill have to get it up. But my May isn't a thief and you'll get every cent due you. Six hundred bucks.” Tommy pulled out a ten dollar bill, handed it to him.

“What's the ten spot for?”

“On account. Look, I don't know if I can raise the dough in one hunk, but the main thing is you know you'll get it. What the devil, if you got it all at once you'd probably ball it away. My way...”

“Don't worry about me balling away my dough. Ill worry about that. How soon will I be paid?”

“I don't know. I got to raise it. But May isn't running out on you. She admits you're owed the six hundred, that's the important thing. I'll get it to you soon as I can. I know what it means to score a hit and not get paid off.”

Disappointment flooded Shorty's long face. “When I found out I'd hit I... Look, will I get the dough next week, next month? When?”

“Get the spot I'm in, Mr. James. My wife's in a jam, didn't know what she was getting into. But that ain't none of your worry. I'm trying my best to straighten things out. Ill get you the dough as soon as I can. That's the best I can tell you, except you won't loose a cent of the six hundred.”

Shorty gently scratched his leg with the bailing hook. “Okay, I knew May would never job me. I was surprised when she started picking up the digits, but I give her my bets because I figured she was absolutely on the level. Try to pay me soon as you can, I'm up the creek for dough, and I'd like it in a lump sum. You know where to find me. Not six hundred, only the five hundred and forty I expected, I would have ripped May the difference.”

Tommy pocketed the ten dollar bill. “You don't have to worry, I never welshed on anything in my life.”

Switching the bailing hook to his left hand, Shorty shook hands with Tommy, told him, “It's a deal. I hear May got worked over. I'm sorry about running to Big Burt. Tell May I'm sorry. But you know how it is. Keep playing every day and when you get a hit that might make you at least even. It gets messed up. I swear I never thought Big Burt would whip her.”

“Sure.”

“I don't go for women being beaten. I wouldn't have said a word if I'd known that was going to happen. I thought Burt would pay me, that's how I went to him. May badly hurt?”

“I don't think so,” Tommy said, Big Burt's name making the anger deep within him boil again. “Say, what's this Burt look like?”

“Heavyset guy, tall as a basketball player. Wears a beret. A pretty boy.”

“Is he around now?”

Shorty hesitated. “Well, yeah. He's picking up the play for tomorrow. Generally find him hanging around the all-night bar on West Street. Listen, if you're thinking of tangling with him—don't. Your face says you been in plenty of brawls, but Big Burt ain't as soft as he looks. He's handy with a knife. Said to have cut up lots of guys.”

“I only want to tell him you and I are straight, so hell leave May alone. I'll see you soon.”

“I'll be waiting.”

Tommy found West Street. There was only one open bar, an ancient place with neon beer signs in the dirty window. A few produce men were having “lunch” and beers. Tommy asked the bartender, “Where's Big Burt?”

“He'll be around.”

“When?”

“What's the matter, you guys can't wait to lose your dough? Must of had a hot dream. He's got his rounds to make. He'll be here. Want anything?”

“Later.” Tommy leaned against the bar, yawning. He was usually in bed before midnight. Jeez, he thought, even the barkeep has plastered down hair. All they need is gas-light.

Fifteen minutes later the bartender came over. “Ready now?”

“Gin—straight.”

Tommy was on his second gin belt a half hour later when Big Burt entered. He sported a worn blue beret and was well over six feet and fleshy. He wore a blue work shirt, dirty white bow tie, a once-white sweater, and a baggy heavy overcoat. These were his work clothes. He knew it was poor advertising to dress in his usual flashy manner around the markets. His large-featured face was loose, and almost over-handsome. Tommy took in the soggy chins, the padded shoulders, the lardy backside, decided Burt was big, but that was all. Not that it mattered. He wasn't here to fight. And while he believed the old fight maxim—a good big man can whip a good little man—he also was aware of the difference between a pug and the ordinary man.

Burt stopped to talk to a man at a table, and pocket a half a dollar. Burt took out a deck of cards. He was using hearts for the first figure, spades for the second, and clubs for the last number. On the joker he wrote the man's initials and one-half. Then he penciled the initials on one comer of the five of hearts, in the same comer of the two of spades, and on the comer of the nine of clubs. He had the man down for fifty cents on 529. Thus if Burt was ever picked up —and now and then he had to stand still for a routine arrest (but 'somehow' never for an indictment or conviction) Burt didn't have any slips or evidence on him. There wasn't any law against carrying a deck of cards, even marked ones.

The barkeep called Burt over and whispered. Burt approached Tommy, asked, “You looking for me? You're new around here.”

“Aha.” Tommy counted the overcoat buttons. Between the third and fourth buttons, if it came to that, as he thought, “Main thing is to control myself, get this settled. He said, “I came to tell you that May, the waitress at the diner, squared the play with Shorty. It's all settled.”

Burt grinned. He was certain Tommy wasn't a dick. His face shouted pug, but a small one. “Who settled it?”

“I did. I'm making arrangements to pay Shorty off. May's sorry, and don't want no more trouble with you. Okay?”

“Who are you?”

“What's the diff? The beef is squared.”

“I like to know whom I'm talking to.” Burt had a vague fear the syndicate brass might be behind Tommy.

“I'm May's husband. Now you know. Everything okay?”

“Tell your bitch if she ever shows her ugly puss around here, I'll...”

Tommy's right hand moved. Burt's raced for his coat pocket. But Tommy was merely feinting with his right; a perfect left hook landed in the middle of Big Burt's groin, then a short hard right thudded between the third and fourth buttons into the solar plexus. It was so fast Burt still had his hand at the top of his pocket. As he started to sink to the floor, big face tight with pain, another left slashed Burt's eye, a right closed the other eye, a left broke his nose.

All of this took less than a brace of seconds. Tommy glanced around to see what the others were going to do, watched the bartender out of the corner of his eye. Everybody seemed scared, motionless.

Tommy shook his fingers, felt of his knuckles. Burt's head was resting on the bar railing, then hit the floor with a dull sound. His face was red with blood, right hand still in his pocket, left hand pressing between his legs. Tommy said, “You big bastard, you didn't have to slap her around. She didn't know what she was doing. She would have made the money good.” He walked out of the bar. No one made a move to stop him. In fact, when he had left the bar the first sound was a produce man muttering, “Geez, did you see that little redheaded guy go? Wow!”

Outside, Tommy walked fast, turning comers and listening for any following footsteps until he found himself out of the market area, in a silent street of dark office buildings. Tommy trotted over to a bus and thirty-five minutes later he was in his hotel room, undressing. It was after three. His knuckles were swollen but not broken. The skin wasn't even cut. He got into bed and fell off to sleep at once. Tommy felt very good.