The Big Fix

JAKE

Finishing breakfast after his roadwork, Jake had gone right up to his room arid to sleep. Training annoyed him and this morning he'd been doubly irritated because Arno hadn't been around when Jake returned from running in the park. “The slob is probably stuffing his fat face,” Jake told himself, “with some of the weird chow he goes for, while I'm running my legs out. I'm sure getting the hard end of this deal. All the work and I still only get a fifty-fifty split.”

Actually Jake disliked the training grind because it reminded him of the time when he had gloried in it. Not too many years before, Jake had accidentally turned to boxing and immediately ceased being merely another rough punk: he had at last found his racket. Jake knew he was a sensational fighting machine, that fame and fortune awaited him—trite words which Jake translated into: girls. In those days he would spend much of his time in the movie theatres and upon seeing any girl on the screen who struck his liking, Jake would think, Okay baby, keep looking stuck-up, and keep all that stuff warm. In a few months I'll be knocking on your door, a big money fighter. You'll welcome me—here comes the champ, the free-spender. Damn, won't be a broad I can't have.

It was a shock which left Jake on the brink of a breakdown to finally realize all that would never be. The first time he thought it was one of those things—it happens to all fighters. But after the next few times he knew the truth. He had flashy skill, a punch in either hand, and sharp reflexes: the trouble was—and it was terribly frustrating trouble—he was like a complex and beautiful machine, but a machine which would never run because a simple bolt was missing.

It was rough to take. At times Jake still thought Arno was wrong, felt he could make it as a fighter. But Jake was hardly a fellow with much imagination, and except for these rare fights of fancy, he knew Arno was right, that he was done as a pug almost before he had started. If this had been in the old days, with hundreds of fight clubs, Jake might possibly have picked up some bucks, fighting here and there, leaving before anybody got wise to him. But Jake had been a child during the “old days.”

Even when he turned to being a muscleman with a small gang of cheap stick-up jerks and would-be angle sharpies, Jake realized the days of the strong-arm men were over, too. It was then that Arno had found him.

Jake rarely dreamed, and when he did he had only two kinds of dreams. One might concern some babe he'd recently seen on the street or in a bar. The other was always about Arno....

Now, Arno shook him awake, asked, “Didn't you read the morning papers.” Arno was sucking on perfumed hard candies from Vienna.

“Sure.” Jake blinked. “You know, I start at the back and only look at the sport pages and the jokes. Why?”

Arno waved the folded paper in his hand. “The why is we got to make a fast trip to hocksville. I'll need your star sapphire ring, the money clip with the diamond and... Cut the dumb look, you got 'em, haven't you?”

Jake came awake fast. “Sure I have 'em. I thought we still had a grand?”

“We have. But we need another five hundred,” Arno said, sitting on the bed, spreading the paper so Jake could read about Tommy. “I've had a chat with Cork. He says this is all a numbers rap, needs five yards to get even.”

Jake skimmed through the news story, muttered, “Tight-mouthed old bastard never said a word when we were out running just now. Don't say a word about no numbers here?”

Arno explained the real story Tommy had told him, ended with, “So we have to pay up. Otherwise in a week or so this Shorty joker may go to the cops or the goons. Either way Tommy will be no good to us.”

“I think this is great. Let the numbers boys kill him for us.”

“You think—you dummy! What if they had killed him last night? Most likely they'd merely break a leg, cripple him. Then where are we? Or suppose the cops throw his skinny ass in the can? No, we're set, got our chips on the table, and we have to play the hand out. Maybe we'll have to speed up things—if we can. That's why I don't want to touch our grand, that's working money, gives us time to maneuver.”

“How come I'm always the one has to go to the hock shop?”

“Because you're the thrifty ant, putting your dough in rocks. What you worrying about? You'll get it back. You'll be able to buy that set of diamond cufflinks, if the fence still has them.”

“The stuff I have now is hot,” Jake began.

Arno shook his head. “It was hot in California a year ago. Here it's okay.”

Jake tried hard to think. All he could come up with was, “Why can't we raise some dough on the car?”

“Because it's dangerous. Depending on how things work out, we may not want to leave any traces. I can easily make us a grand with the car mortgage swindle. You don't know that one—pick up a guy in a bar and offer him a hot bargain; three hundred interest for a one month loan of a one thousand on the car. He sees the car, the papers, and I insist he take a chattel mortgage on the car. He's up the creek and can't get his dough or the car because over six per cent is usury in this state and that cancels any agreements... Look, what are we wasting time with talk? Get your stuff, I'll give you the pawn tickets. I'm sweetening the pot with my watch.”

“For a hundred, while I'm putting up four times as much to pay up a debt the dumb mick got into. Four to one, fine rooking you're handing me.”

“I never asked you to save your dough, stupid, that's for marks. Now give me the stuff and stop whining. Jake, don't get me riled. I haven't forgot you disobeying me, going with that whore. Just don't get me sore.”

After Arno left for the nearest pawn shop, Jake had a hard time falling asleep—it took him at least five minutes. At times Arno's smug manner gave him a hell of a pain. When he did doze off, Jake had his other favorite dream— where he was punching Arno's fat face out of shape.