The Big Fix

ALVIN HAMMER

Al went to bed at ten after two and was up at five o'clock. He was far too nervous, excited, and over-tired to sleep. But he was happy. Work was a tranquilizer to him, and the faster the pace the more he enjoyed it. He often found work more relaxing than the high-priced call girls he patronized. His station had set up an on-the-spot remote for the nightly eleven o'clock news. Everything had been a happy blur of activity from the moment his heart froze—when Big Burt came at Tommy with a knife—until he was telling the TV audience what had happened, pointing to the crude chalk outline on the floor, showing where Burt had fallen.

To Alvin's amazement, Walt had been shy, in fact almost sullen, over the whole deal. Walt and a plump police lieutenant had a fast talk and Alvin was told not to mention Burt's connection with the numbers racket. Al didn't quite understand what they were talking about, since he didn't know about May, but Tommy seemed pleased. All Alvin knew was he had walked into the crummy bar a few minutes before eight, and started over toward Tommy, who was standing in the middle of the bar. Cork had stared at him, eyes big under his scarred eyebrows.

“Get out of here, Al. There's going to be trouble.” Cork's voice had been a hoarse, dramatic hiss.

“What's up? You find something about Arno?”

“Please, get out of here! At least stay away from me. Go sit down.”

Puzzled, and a little hurt, Alvin had hardly reached the end of the bar when he heard a loud, “Ain't you the dumb, stupid-brave little sonofabitch for showing again!”

There was this large, heavy-set man with the bruised face, wearing a shabby overcoat and a silly little blue beret perched on his pumpkin head, slowly approaching Irish. He jerked his hand from his pocket and the knife blade appeared like a rabbit out of a hat.

Tommy seemed calm, if pale, but Alvin was so frightened he had to clutch the bar to keep from fainting. Several hysterical thoughts crashed around in his head. He must jump forward and shield Tommy. Al had no idea why he thought this, and if he had been able to move he would have faced Burt. He could scream. Then, he wanted to urge the others to do something. Alvin even considered hurling the beer bottle of the man standing next to him at Burt, but he might hit Tommy.

Then things moved into high speed. Suddenly there had been Walt walking toward Burt's back. Walt looked as large as Burt, but far more solid. The rest had been too fast to really see. Burt whirling on Walt, then turning again toward Tommy and the two orange flames leaping from Walt's clenched hand, the short barking sounds... and Burt falling.

But the second Burt crashed to the floor, Alvin not only came alive, but took charge. By the time he went on the air, he was half-crocked. After all, it had happened in a bar. But his voice was steady and booming, the excitement he felt almost an understatement. Although the bar was jammed with reporters, police, and the curious, Al had the stage to himself as he faced the TV camera. Leaning casually on the bar, pipe in hand, he had said, “In this bar—an old-time saloon—now a part of your living-room, a man was shot to death many minutes ago. I am Alvin Hammer, the fight announcer, and by chance I witnessed the whole thing. Irish Tommy Cork, a fighter, and a personal friend of mine, was standing exactly where I am at this moment, when without a word of warning, a giant thug known as Big Burt approached him with a switch-blade. We now know Burt had tried to assault Mrs. Cork several nights ago and last night Tommy had confronted and licked him—although outweighed by at least a one-hundred pounds. Undoubtedly Big Burt had been plotting his revenge all day. Burt has a criminal record; once served five years for armed robbery and was also twice arrested for assault and battery.

“Unarmed and unflinching, Irish Tommy stood his ground, facing the cold steel. There certainly would have been a bloody murder if Detective Walter Steiner hadn't walked into the bar. Identifying himself as a police officer, Steiner ordered Burt to drop his knife. Burt's answer was an attempt to slash the detective. With lightning speed, Detective Steiner, a former Olympic boxer himself, went for his gun and shot the thug dead—two bullets in his heart. I salute Detective Walt Steiner who risked his life while off duty, and I know the police department and every citizen must indeed feel proud of this heroic police officer...”

Now, sitting in his office, Alvin felt fine. His picture, along with an old one of Tommy and a mug shot of Big Burt, was on the front page of the morning papers. A major TV columnist lauded the network and Al for a “thrilling, on-the-spot-human interest report.” Even the elevator operator had told Al what a “kick” it had been. There was a memo telegram from the studio president, and all during the morning Al received a steady stream of calls and congratulatory handshakes. He phoned Walt at the squad room but was told Walt was downtown. He felt it was safe to call Tommy at his hotel but the desk clerk told him Tommy was doing road-work.

Later in the morning, while being shaved, Alvin had a new idea and ordered a phone brought to the barber chair. Calling Bobby Becker, Al told him, loud enough, of course, for everybody in the shop to hear, “Becker, you've seen Tommy's name and face all over the front pages, haven't you?”

“Aha. Between boxing and his outside interests, that Irishman isn't long for this world.”

“You don't recognize true courage when it hits you right in your fancy eyeglasses, my Bobby. Look, I was thinking, with all this publicity, how about giving the old cock a break and...”

“What did you say? The old what?” Becker asked, while in the barbershop the ancient blonde manicurist let out a giggle.

“Old cock, as in a game old bird—a fighting cock. I think it would get your club and fight card reams of free publicity if you announced you're giving Tommy a break, move him up to the main go. Surely increase the sales and...”

“Now, Hammer, you know the score. I... eh... don't pick the main event pugs... just like that.”

Alvin lowered his voice. “Show the same courage Tommy revealed! This is your chance to tell... them... to go to hell!” He wondered if it really was true Bobby received a modest flat salary and was running the club as a front for the fight mob? The “mob” was such a nebulous term. Of course Alvin had heard the “game” was in the hands of a small gang of racketeers... yet he'd never seen anybody who “looked” like a gangster, nor had he ever seen any rough stuff. Rather it was all like a strict business set-up in which the top executives are rarely seen by the public—the phone user who doesn't even know the name of the phone company president.

Bobby said, “Hammer, you know how I feel about Tommy. But I can't buck... nobody. Why don't you do it? You pull the strings. You TV crew-cuts control boxing now. A real pitch by Madison Avenue and the fight game would be clean within a month.”

“You're the promoter, matchmaker, or whatever your title is, so don't give me the ball, you gutless wonder!” Al said, hanging up, remembering, with disgust, Becker taking his cut of Tommy's last purse, thinking, By God, if they cut the lousy few bucks from an emergency four-rounder, how cheap can you get? If I ever get out of fight announcing, I'll blast the sponsors for not cleaning up the game. Their silence is consent. What a page-one story that will make, and they'd probably send the mob gunning for me. Make another headline which I wouldn't be around to read.

Alvin taped a commercial on the first take and phoned Walt again, left a message he would be in the Between Rounds Bar later that afternoon. Then he had lunch with an agency man who had an audience participation contest gimmick: they would show films of the various old championship fights in each division. The listener would then send in a one hundred word letter as to why he thought Dempsey or Louis was the greatest heavyweight champ ever, along with the all important box top. A panel of sports writers would pick the winning letter and if the champ named was still alive, he would present the letter writer with the grand prize. As the agency man said, “Why we'll even have old maids buying shaving cream to get into the contest.”

Alvin wanted to say the man was demeaning the sport, but all he did say was, “I'd be glad to m.c. this, if you get the package off the ground.” And in his mind he again saw the shooting of last night and felt sincerely proud of himself—Al now felt his courage was on a par with Tommy's, or Walt's... or any other fighter. He was sure he now truly belonged.