The Big Fix

TOMMY

Tommy was sprawled across the bed, still wearing his clothes, including his overcoat and shoes. When Jake shook him Tommy moaned, “Go way.”

“Wake up, Pops.” Jake slapped his face.

Tommy sat up slowly, rubbing his cheek, blinking and trying to swallow the thick taste in his mouth.

Jake was dressed for the road and said, “Come on to the park with me. I don't like to run alone.”

“Not this morning.”

Jake laughed. “Your room smells like an old bottle. Look at you, didn't even undress. I see you're training to be a champ—a champ rummy. I warned Arno you'd never snap out of the bottle. Go back to sleeping it off, old man.” Jake started for the door.

Tommy struggled out of bed. “I'll meet you in the lobby in ten minutes.” Tommy rushed to the bathroom and before he left his room, took a nip to “quiet” his stomach.

They took a long run, Jake full of pep and sarcasm. Tommy kept up with him, his head hurting. He felt exhausted. When they returned to the hotel Tommy breakfasted on a pint of milk and went right to bed. A few minutes later Arno came into his room and asked, “How do you feel after last night?”

“Okay.” Tommy wondered how long he'd slept, didn't know it had been only a few minutes.

“How about sparring a few rounds with Jake? I know you want to take the day off, but just a few rounds. I can't use any other sparring partners—you know.”

“My stomach is kind of upset. I was on the road this morning and...”

Arno's round face showed mild horror. “After last night? What did you run for?”

“I don't know,” Tommy said, trying to collect his thoughts. “Jake asked me to and I did.”

“I want to keep Jake sharp, but we'll skip the sparring. You get your rest.”

“No, no, I'm okay,” Tommy said. “I'll get my things from the gym and meet you guys uptown.”

“Well, if you think you're up to it....”

Tommy grinned. “I'm fine. How soon you want me up there?”

“At noon. And remember, not a word—you know.”

He and Jake went six fast rounds. Tommy was sober and the exercise seemed to give him pep. He jabbed and out-boxed Jake in the early rounds, but began to tire fast after the third round. Arno called out, “Take it easy, Jake,” and Jake never tried to hit Tommy's face, but gave him a hard body pounding. After the fourth round Arno told Tommy, “You'd better knock off for the day. I'll have Jake shadow-box the next couple of rounds.”

“Don't worry about me. I'm feeling fine,” Tommy said, not wanting to admit he was bushed. “I'll go another two rounds.”

After the workout, his body sore, he nearly went to sleep on the rubbing table. Arno asked if his stomach was still acting up and took him to a bar for blackberry brandy and a few drinks.

May was off at six that night and when they met in the cafeteria she sniffed after his kiss, said, “You've been boozing again.”

“Arno took me on the town last night. I told you he's a pal. I bet he spent at least fifty bucks and...”

“I don't care what he spent. Look at you, all pale. You need a good bowl of soup.”

“I don't want any food,” Tommy said, nearly throwing up at the thought. “And stop lecturing me. I've been training so hard I'm stale, needed a few shots. Get a good night's sleep and I'll be tip-top.”

But May kept nagging him about drinking and when was he going to quit Arno. And Tommy was relieved when she said she had a date with Ruth that night. Something about a story Ruth was doing. May was to talk into a tape recorder, or something. May wasn't sure what it was all about. She wanted Tommy to come along, since Ruth wanted to have May talk about the “old days,” but he begged off. After he promised to eat a “decent” meal before going to sleep, she left him.

Tommy stopped for a few beers, still feeling giddy with tiredness, and when he got to his room and undressed, Arno came in with a bottle and they had a few drinks. Arno told Tommy to get some sleep and he'd leave the bottle on the bed table.

Tommy was so overtired he took a few big belts and finished the bottle. The next thing he knew it was noon and the sun streaming through the window was sickly hot on his face. Arno was grinning down at him, fully dressed. Jake was leaning against the door. Arno said, “Get your things on, Tommy. We're leaving town.”

“W-what for?” Tommy's head was full of sickly cobwebs and he kept his hands under the covers because he knew he had the shakes.

“I got a phone call this morning. We got us a fight for tomorrow.”

“Us...me?”

Arno nodded.

“Where?”

“Out of town. Don't worry about the details.”

Tommy tried hard to gather his drunken thoughts.

“I'm not in...”

“You'll be fine by tomorrow. And you don't have to be in shape for this one.” Arno winked at Tommy and put a finger across his lips as he motioned with his head toward the door and Jake.

“Okay... but...”

“But what?” Arno asked abruptly.

“I thought we'd wait for a main event?”

In what was either a whisper or merely keeping his voice low, Arno bent over and told Tommy, “This matchmaker is very hot for Jake, so I figure at this stage, why risk anything going wrong? What if they throw Jake in with a guy who holds all night, and the fight is a stinker? The promoter won't be keen to have Jake back again. We clinch it by you taking a dive—make it look like a fast, clean kayo, in the first round. Then you can claim you never had a chance to get started, ask for a return bout. Perhaps you'll floor Jake first, then he gets up and you dive—slambang stuff. Make the return go a main event. We have a long drive ahead of us.-We'll iron out the details.”

Tommy took a quick cold shower, tried to think straight— with his mind still clogged with drunken slush. “Why the whispering act?” he asked himself. “Jake has to be in on this. Or was Arno whispering? Maybe my ears are foggy. “I'll be seeing pink leprechauns next. And maybe this is it, like Walt warned me? Now why think like that? Doesn't it also show Arno really had a plan all the time, like he said? Sure, after feeling so low, resting my luck, now it's working for me again. Damn, cold water feels good, stopped the shakes.”

He dressed and as he was packing his bag he said, “I'll have to go by the gym and get my ring stuff.”

“You have your shoes and protector from sparring with Jake yesterday. I've bought you a set of new trunks. No time to waste, have to be up there to close the deal.”

Tommy nodded, suspicion flooding his hazy mind. Still, trunks were only a few bucks and if they really were in a hurry.... The rough knot of tension inside him began to slowly uncoil. Closing his bag, he asked, “Have we time to grab a bite?”

“We'll stop on the road for chow, Pops,” Jake said.

Tommy tried again to clear his mind of sudden doubt. Was it his imagination or was Jake really nervous? Why be on edge for a fight which was in the bag? And why hadn't Arno closed the deal over the phone? This wasn't any last minute substitution, why all the big hurry? But then, some things couldn't be said over the phone.

Now I'm in a fine spot, Tommy thought. If I don't call them—when they learn I've battled Jake—Walt and Al will be sore as boils. At the same time, I don't want them spoiling this payday for me. Hell, they have been good friends. What harm can phoning them do? I'll be in a big rush and they'll sputter, over the phone, and I'll have kept my end. What the devil was Walt's number? I can phone May. No, she won't be on the job yet. And I don't want to hear her crying. Hell with it.

But as he was closing the door, Tommy told them, “Say, I got to make a call. Only take a second. My bookie owes me a few bucks and I want to tell him I won't be around, to hold it. I'll stop at the cigar store in the lobby and...”

Arno pushed the door back, pointed to the hotel phone on the table. “You might as well make it now. But be quick.”

“Sure,” Tommy said, sorry he'd started the whole thing, suspicion rising strong within him again. And it would certainly sound 'funny' to Arno if he called a precinct house or a TV office now, with them listening. But why where they listening? Aw, here I go again, jittery as a kid having his first bout. The phone is right here, so Arno says make the call here. What's wrong with that?

He told the operator, “Let me have the number of a magazine called the Make-Up Age.” Tommy grinned at Arno over the receiver. “My bookie is sharp, uses this for a front— gets all his calls through his wife.”

“That won't save him if the cops are out to bust him,” Arno said. “All these bright slobs who think...”

“What are we standing around and gassing so much for?” Jake asked, his voice practically a growl.

Tommy held up a hand for silence, asked for Ruth and told her, “This is Tommy Cork. Please tell your husband I'm leaving town for a few days, to hold my back pay for me. He'll know what it's all about.”

“Tommy, what is it?” Ruth asked. “Can you talk? Where are you going? Are you boxing?”

“Just tell him I'll be out of town on business and not to give my dough to anybody until I come back. Good-bye.”

Downstairs, as they got into the flashy car, Arno asked Tommy, “Want to drive?”

“Sure. Where?”

“Get on the parkway and head upstate. I'll take over the wheel later. We have a good six hour drive ahead of us. Want some mint toffee?”

Tommy made a face as he shook his head.

Arno winked, pulled a pint of brandy from his inside pocket. “Take a nip of this—for the cold air.”

The brandy immediately quieted his nerves and Tommy drove for several hours. Being behind the wheel of a powerful car eased his mind, gave him a sense of well being. The big car, a bout coming up, main event soon, maybe, things were breaking. Even from this purse, depending upon how much Arno took out, he'd have enough for the first month's rent on the apartment. Give May the dough to hold. That would make her happy. “Guy is giving me bread,” he told himself, “and me acting coy as a schoolgirl being seduced. Silly to have even tried to call Walt. Naw, maybe it was a smart move. He can't reach me, possibly stop the fight, even if he gets the message. We can be fighting in any one of five or six states, and not being a main go, won't be listed. Neither will the results, so he and Alvin will never know. Okay, I tried to call him. That gets me off the hook. I don't know what's the matter with me this morning. Being hung-over never made me this upset before.”

They stopped for lunch at noon and Tommy ate a big meal and felt fine. When he went to the John Jake went along. Jake seemed moody and even more sullen than usual. When Tommy said, “You're a regular hot chatterbox today,” Jake snapped, “I'm always on edge before a fight?”

“Even this one?” Tommy asked, wondering if he was talking out of turn.

“Pops, leave me alone.”

Arno took the wheel and when Tommy asked where they were going, Arno said, “Benson Harbor. Pretty good fight town.”

They reached Benson Harbor two hours later and checked into a hotel—each of them taking different rooms. It was a second-rate hotel, without phones in the rooms, or baths. When Tommy went out to wash, Arno opened his door and came out, towel in hand. As they cleaned up he told Tommy, “The matchmaker will be over in a few minutes, with contracts to sign. Don't forget, you're your own manager. It's a six-round semi-final and you're getting one hundred and twenty dollars—so is Jake.”

“Good. Listen, it's about time you started taking your cut. Take fifty per cent of this one....”

Arno patted him on the back. “Of these two-bit purses? You keep it all. When you're pulling down five or six thousand a fight, I'll get mine.”

Tommy was too happy to say a word.

The matchmaker was a thin man in tacky clothes. Tommy had never seen or heard of him before. The matchmaker told him, “You get examined by the doc and weigh in at noon tomorrow. You really fight Robinson, all those others?”

“Sure, I'm one of the last true Irish pugs fighting and one of the few hundred-bout guys going today.”

“I hope you fight as good as you talk. On account of the Harbor being out of range of most TV stations, we still draw a pretty good crowd here. My fans like action.”

“All fans do,” Tommy said.

When the promoter left, Tommy stretched out on his bed but before he could get any sleep, Arno came in. Sitting on the bed, he offered Tommy a belt of brandy but Cork turned it down. “My stomach is finally holding its own. Want to keep it that way.”

Arno shrugged and took a drink himself. “They say Spanish brandy is the best. Not so. This stuff, from grapes grown in the Azores, has a body all its own. Listen now, won't be good for us to be seen together too much. Well all eat in the joint downstairs at five-thirty sharp, but we'll sit at different tables. Act natural. I mean we can know each other but not be too friendly. Then at seven we'll be back in our rooms, get a good night's rest. Remember, it's always some little unseen bit that throws a deal, so we'll be careful. Don't talk to anybody, or get lost. Understand?” Tommy nodded.

Arno made for the door. “You have an hour before supper. Get some rest.”

There was a luncheonette next to the hotel and on the other side a small liquor store. Tommy, Arno and Jake drifted into the luncheonette, had a good supper. Tommy finished first and went back through the lobby, passing several phone booths, and out the other side entrance. At the liquor store he bought a Dint, then reached the lobby as Arno was coming in from the luncheonette. Tommy stood by the large window which was the front of the lobby, watching the people passing by on the main street. The Harbor looked like a neat little town and he wanted to walk around. Being big city born, all small cities filled him with a patronizing curiosity. But Tommy saw Arno plant himself in one of the ancient leather lobby chairs and read a paper. Jake bought a magazine and went up to his room. After a few minutes Arno stood up and yawned; Tommy took the hint, went to his room. Undressing slowly, he drank a long nip from the pint and hid it in his bag.

There was a small radio chained to the table and he turned that on, listened to a local station. He was quite pleased when an announcer with a twangy voice said, ”... In sports, tomorrow night the Harbor Arena has what looks like a thrilling semi-final. Jake Watson versus Irish Tommy Cork. We all recall Watson as the dynamic puncher who thrilled fans a few shows ago with a whistling knockout. Cork, although a newcomer to these parts, is an Irish ring veteran with well over a hundred fights behind him. He's met Robinson, Olson, Hart, and most of the top fighters in his class... In baseball news, word comes from Havana that...”

Tommy was so delighted he sat up in bed and waved at himself in the dresser mirror—wished May could have heard the broadcast. He hadn't had a build-up like this in years.

He decided to take a tiny nightcap and was turning out the light at eight-thirty, the bed feeling comfortable as heaven, when Arno knocked softly, then came into the room.

Belching a little, Arno said, “Guy that runs that stool joint should be arrested. The difference between messing food and cooking is only common sense but so many jerks... Are you tired?”

“No,” Tommy lied, thinking Arno had come to discuss the fight.

“I'm not sleepy either. I'd get a bottle except I don't want you drinking the night before a fight. Play gin?”

“No. How about casino?”

They played until eleven with Tommy fighting to keep his eyes open. Finally Arno yawned and said it was time for bed. Tommy dozed off the second he was alone. He awoke at seven to go to the John, still feeling pooped. Walking back to his room he saw Arno standing in the doorway of his own room, his round face tired and bleary-eyed. He mumbled, “Next time I'll take my own food along. Couldn't get a wink last night.”

“I slept like a log. Think I'll get something to eat and take a walk.”

“That's an idea. I'll go along, but we won't walk together.”

Tommy got in another hour's sleep and at noon he was in a doctor's office where several other pugs—all kids—were also waiting for an examination. Tommy smiled at the kids, thought, I'm sure getting to be the grand old man of boxing, don't know a one of these muscle-heads.

Jake came in and merely nodded at Tommy. Arno, of course, wasn't around. The examination took only a few seconds. They all weighed in and when Tommy started for the scales the doctor said, “Wait a minute. Are you limping, Mr. Cork?”

“I've had a stiff toe. Had it for years now. It's okay, doesn't stop me from boxing or running,” Tommy said fast, fear that he'd lose the fight freezing his insides.

“Well, I don't know,” the doctor said. “Better let me see your foot.”

As Tommy slipped off his shoes, the matchmaker came forward and told the doc, “Henry, Tommy has had over a hundred bouts, means a hundred doctors have passed him.”

“That's right. Why I've had this bad toe ever since I was a kid,” Tommy said, glancing at Jake, who seemed pale.

The doc merely felt of the toe and then said, “All right. Get on the scale.”

Tommy and Jake weighed in at the same weight—a hundred and forty-four pounds. Tommy was surprised. Jake must have been working hard. He usually had five or six pounds on Tommy.

They went back to the hotel and Tommy got in an hour's nap before they all went down for a light supper. Arno had also got in some sleep and looked better. Jake seemed very jumpy. Going upstairs, Arno whispered, “Come to my room, Tommy. We need to have a talk.”

Tommy nodded.

When he opened the door, ten minutes later, Arno was stretched out on the bed, an ash tray resting on his stomach, a cigarette in his mouth. Tommy sat on the foot of the bed; Arno said, “Since you know more about boxing than I ever will, I want your advice. But first I'll give you my views on our deal. We're after two things. We want to make Jake look spectacular, have the fans gasping to see him again. At the same time we want a return bout. Right?”

Tommy nodded, thinking, Jake is a hell of a spectacular fighter without any build-up.

Arno blew smoke at the ceiling. “I've talked it over with Jake and we have this plan....”

Tommy laughed. “I was wondering if Jake was in on it, the way you been whispering.”

“I hardly want to broadcast our plans. Of course Jake knows. He has to. We think it should go like this: Jake rushes out and pulls you into a comer. You act surprised at his rough tactics. He hits you and you go down.”

“No room to roll with a punch in a comer, and Jake hits hard.”

“Naturally, Jake will pull his punches. And you do the same—that's understood. Now, you take the eight count and get up, stagger a little. Don't overdo it and let the ref stop it. You left hook Jake and he drops. He's up fast, acts mad as hell, but the ref makes him take the mandatory eight count. While standing in the opposite corner you still act groggy. Jake rushes over and lands a right as you jab. You go down for the full count. This last fall has to look good. Act stiff.”

“I know, I'd be stiff but with my feet kicking a little.”

Arno crushed his cigarette in the ashtray, tossed a mint into his mouth, held the package out toward Tommy—who shook his head. Arno said, “Sounds fine. If this doesn't get the fans into an uproar for a return bout, I don't know what will. Now, as you leave the ring there'll be some fans telling you tough luck and all that. Always a couple—and you say, loudly, you were caught napping, will flatten Jake the next time out. Main thing, make sure Jake can hit you with his right in the comer. And he'll leave an opening for your left... when he's to hit the canvas. Any suggestions?”

“Nope. Be sure to tell Jake not to get excited, be certain he pulls his punch, only don't make it look that way. Perhaps we should have practiced this.”

“Look, you're both pros. It will play smooth. Be sure you pull your left. You have the best in the business.”

Tommy grinned as he stood up, walked toward the door. He opened it a crack, turned to Arno, “How do you plan on getting Jake from here to a big TV spot?” Tommy was surprised to see, through the slightly opened door, Jake sneaking out of Tommy's room.

“I figure in a return match, Jake will flatten you again in a fast, thrilling fight. Then I'm going to work on the promoter to lay out money to bring a good boy up here. If Jake flattens him, we'll be on our way.”

“I don't know, you'll still have to cut the mob in,” Tommy said, hearing his own voice and wondering what the hell Jake was doing in his room.

Arno shook his head. “Don't worry, Tommy. I have other aces up my sleeve I've never told you. I own a big chunk of stock in one of the companies sponsoring the fights. If it comes to that, once Jake has a reputation, I can make them demand Jake fight on TV. Look, this is something I've planned for a long time.”

“Don't forget me when the going is gravy.”

Arno laughed. “I have a number of projects, and you're one of them. If the return match is a thriller, I can get the promoter to bring in pugs for you, start a sort of double build-up, so when Jake is champ you'll be knocking at the door.”

“All I want is a few good paydays,” Tommy said. “Think I'll go get some rest now.”

Reaching his room he carefully locked the door and looked around. Things seemed the same. He looked through the few things in the drawers, sniffed at the water carafe on the dresser, remembering what Walt had said about watching what he drank, and telling himself he was a fool. Arno had a sweet deal going and he was lucky to be in on it.

He looked through his ring bag. He'd cooled his suspicions, telling himself Jake might have dropped in to talk, only he must have known that would look bad and...

Tommy suddenly touched the top of his pint bottle. It was wet. He pulled out the bottle and sniffed at it, fear and suspicion boiling within him again. The whiskey seemed far lower in the bottle than when he'd last seen it. Had Jake been looking for a drink? Of course, he'd be pretty sure Tommy had a bottle with him. But what really made Tommy jittery was—Jake wasn't a bottle man. Why did he need a drink for a tank job? What was he so nervous about yesterday and today?

Sitting on the bed, Tommy looked at the bottle, handled it as it were a time bomb. The fact Jake had not only taken a drink, but a good stiff hooker, alarmed Tommy more than any of Alvin's or Walt's warnings. In fact he felt in sharp need of a belt himself, but instead he poured the rest of the bottle out of the window. The small hotel room seemed to fill with the aroma of whiskey and Tommy suddenly laughed, said aloud, “My God, I must be going nuts, wasting good booze. Jake comes in for a belt and I get all upset. What the hell, there's some pugs who get all nervous before any fight. So he isn't a drinker, but maybe he needs a shot before a bout, any bout? He's known here, he can't walk into a bar and ask for one. He comes to my room, I'm out, but Jake needs the shot badly and helps himself. So what am I getting excited about?”

Tommy turned on the radio, fell on the bed, and for a time was almost calm enough to sleep. But every once in a while little barbs would start digging into his mind. Like he came awake with the troubled thought, If Arno owns stock in one of the companies sponsoring the fights, with a guy as good as Jake, what does he need me for?

Tommy answered that with, But Arno is a rich fight buff, he wants to push two fighters. Guess it will be a feather in his cap to make a big-timer out of me—I'm Irish, I'm the last of the one hundred-bout boys.

The afternoon passed with Tommy either sleeping or silently arguing with himself. In his confusion only one thought was clear: One way or the other I have to know.

At eight o'clock as &e was packing his ring things, he suddenly knew of a simple way to learn the truth. He'd ask Jake, indirectly.

Arno rapped on his door and the three of them left for the fight club—Jake walking on the other side of the street, Arno a hundred feet or so behind Tommy. Irish was in a relaxed, almost jolly mood. He would learn for certain, very soon, that things were on the up and up. He was about to make some dough and start a plan which would bring him real folding green. Tommy could picture May's face tomorrow as he handed over the money for the first month's rent, casually told her, “Hold on to this until we get the apartment.”

Arno took a ringside seat in the club, he had neither a license or a reason to be in either comer, while Jake and Tommy went to separate dressing rooms. Tommy undressed and dressed carefully, admiring the clean dressing room as he looked for a place to hide his ring. He finally hid it inside a balled-up sock. He went to the bathroom like a robot, keeping his old green robe on and careful to stay out of a draft when the door opened. He was sharing the room with kids waiting to go on who had friends and seconds with them. Cork was pleased with their whispered, “He's a real pro... hundreds of fights. Look at his face.”

A kid helped him bandage his hands and when he was sure everything was in order, Tommy stretched out on the one rubbing table and hummed a pop tune, certain he was setting a fine example for these nervous kids.

He was due to go on at about nine forty-five and a few minutes after the second prelim bout pug returned, bloody but grinning, Tommy let the kid have the rubbing table while he shadow-boxed and warmed up. A slim Mexican with an ear thicker than Tommy's and wearing a worn red turtleneck sweater came in and said he was Tommy's second. Cork wasn't sure if the fellow was eighteen or forty-eight years old.

When his time came, Tommy had the thin fighting gloves on and marched out of the room, throwing punches in the air, dancing on his toes... followed by the Mexican carrying the pail, a water bottle, and his mouthpiece. Almost grinning to himself, Tommy thought, Now I'll ask Jake, get this uncertainty over. Crazy, we couldn't be seen talking together on the street, but I can ask him right in the ring, talk to him before all the fans. Not a bad house—must be close to eighteen hundred, two thousand folks. Nice little club.

Climbing into the ring he glanced across at Jake's sullen face, at the strong legs as Jake jogged up and down, shook out the muscles of his thick shoulders. Tommy told himself, “I bet he dried out for the weigh-in, he must have taken on fifteen pounds since noon. Sure looks heavy. Man, if Jake and I can only play it like Benny Leonard and... think it was Johnny Dundee. Read where they fought each other about a dozen times.”

The Mexican vaselined Tommy's face as Cork sat on his stool and waited for the introductions. He saw Arno eating something out of a bag, admired the blank expression on the fat face. Tommy got a mild, polite hand when he was announced while Jake received a lot of applause. The Mexican, gently rubbing the back of Tommy's neck nodded across the ring at Jake, said, “I see that boy over there some place. Maybe in California. Couple years ago.”

“Was it in Utah?” Tommy asked quickly.

“No, I never there. He had different colored hair then, and maybe he was a lightweight. Going like ball of fire in amateurs.”

“Real good boxer?” Tommy asked, slipping off his robe as the ref called them together in the center of the ring for their instructions.

“Yes, but if this the same boy, was something, something wrong with him,” the Mexican second said. “Let me think.”

The referee was a squat man in a blue work shirt and from the way he gave his instructions, an experienced ref. Jake stared at the canvas, flexing his heavy muscles as his second kept patting him on the back. When the ref asked, “Any questions? Okay, now touch gloves and come out fighting....” Tommy suddenly said to Jake, “My second claims he saw you fight out in Utah, under the name of Harold Barry.”

This was the simple plan Tommy had hit upon during the afternoon. He expected no reaction from Jake, but the moment the words were out Tommy knew Alvin had been right—dead right! For Jake's face went white and he turned, glanced frantically at Arno. The referee snapped, “We ain't serving coffee and cake here. Cut the talk and get to your comers. Give me a clean fast fight.”

In his comer, as the Mexican pushed the rubber mouthpiece between his lips, Tommy stood like a lump; sweat pouring out all over him. The Mexican said, “This fellow is strong like a bull, but I tell you to go out and rush him. If he is the same boy I think, he's got....”

The bell for the first round sounded—a sharp and dreary call to Judgment Day. Licking the mouthpiece firmly in his mouth with his tongue, from force of habit, Tommy danced out of his comer.

Jabbing Jake twice and weaving away from a vicious left hook, Tommy wondered what he was going to do. It was a very fast and brief thought because he was too busy watching Jake's gloves and feet to do much thinking.

He blocked a right, picking the punch off in mid-air, then snapped Jake's head back with a left hook on the temple. He missed another left, ducked under Jake's right, and grabbed Jake as he came up, pulling him into a clinch. Tommy stared into Jake's set face, the hard eyes—still hoping, somehow, to see something which would prove his suspicions were all wrong—but Jake's eyes were like looking into the business ends of twin guns.

Tommy didn't try any infighting, merely held Jake's arms. As Jake twisted and wrestled, using his greater strength, Tommy stared into Jake's set face, the hard eyes—still Hail Mary, Sweet Virgin... If I'd only listened to Walt and May. How could I ever have imagined Arno would really be interested in an old washed-up pug like me? I must have been crazy....

Muttering, “Cork, you're holding,” the referee parted them. Tommy's left jab darted out, keeping Jake from getting set. Tommy bounced a hard left off Jake's iron stomach, missed a right to the chin. Tommy felt as sick as if he'd stopped a gut punch. His hook to the stomach had absolutely no effect on Jake. Jake started circling to Tommy's left, feinted with his right, then his left, and sent a looping overhand right over. Tommy blocked this with his left forearm and sudden fire and pain raced up the arm and into his heart, nearly driving him crazy as he realized the punch had broken his left arm.

He danced away, back-pedaled across the ring. Jake came after him, the killing right cocked. Tommy knew he was finished, he surely had no chance against Jake with only one hand. Perhaps he also knew he could drop to the canvas and be counted out; he could duck through the ring ropes; he could scream at the referee to stop it—tell him his arm was broken; he could even yell at the ringside cop that he was being murdered. Yet he really couldn't do any of these because he was a stupid-proud pug named “Irish” Tommy Cork.

Tommy started moving toward Jake's left, to get out of range of lethal right, but with cat speed, Jake also shifted. Tommy tried to hold up his left but the pain made him tear and he let the hand dangle helplessly at his side as he stepped back. He felt the ropes against both shoulders and knew he was trapped in a comer, left hand down—chin open for Jake's right, almost the way they had planned the “dive.”

As Jake came in Tommy tried to mumble a prayer, call May's name. He saw Jake's right glove come rifling at him. In reflex action, Tommy let his own right go.

Tommy only had a fair wallop in his right; his left hook had accounted for most of the kayos in his record. This right wasn't much of a punch but it was a short, straight blow while Jake's right, all his body behind it, was making a slight arc through the air. Tommy's punch landed first, smack on the side of Jake's heavy jaw. Jake's right hand seemed to falter in mid-air, his eyes turned so bright and glassy they looked as if they'd crack, became like two marbles. His hands went up in the air and from force of habit as Tommy absent-mindedly whipped over another right to the body, Jake crumpled to the canvas—out cold!

Tommy stared down at him, refusing to believe his eyes. Then, through his bulging mouthpiece-stuffed lips, over the roar of the crowd, Tommy tried to laugh. He knew now why Jake was such a big secret, had never fought much. Jake had everything, including a glass chin! There was plenty of china in that “strong” jaw, the odd bone formation some fighters are cursed with which causes the lightest of blows on the chin to be transmitted directly to their brain, making them black out.

The referee was waving Tommy toward a neutral comer as the timekeeper was banging out the count on the ring apron. Except for a twitch in his heavy leg muscles, Jake was a study in still life. As the ref reached ten, Tommy glanced down at Arno—the neutral comer seemed to be directly above Arno. Brewer was standing, hand deep in his pocket and it seemed to Tommy the fat face was a concrete mask of hate. He could almost picture the knife coming out of the deep pocket.

Tommy ran across the ring to the opposite corner, shoving the astonished referee aside, eyes only on Arno. The ref tried to raise Tommy's hand, but Cork pushed him away— moved out of the comer. Arno was coming toward him, around the ringside. Tommy wanted to scream but merely chewed on his mouthpiece.

Suddenly he saw three large men racing down the aisle. They all grabbed Arno, who started to sputter explanations. One of the men was Walt Steiner. Tommy slumped against the ropes with relief, leaning on his right shoulder. The ref came over while Tommy was watching Walt and the other two men take Arno away. The referee's face showed puzzled annoyance. He wanted to go home. He grabbed Tommy's broken left arm and raised it high—the winner. Tommy let out a yell of pain that silenced the arena before he fainted.

In the dressing room, as a doctor was setting Tommy's arm, Cork asked Walt, “How did you know I was fighting here?”

“That wasn't so hard, not many clubs operating. Alvin checked on that ring death out in Utah, the Harold Barry thing, and lucked up on a local news photo. Of course it was Jake. Then when I started looking for you, I found there were only three clubs operating in the entire Eastern half of the country. Little more checking and we found Jake had fought here a few weeks ago. Arno had to establish him. I told you to let me know if they left town.”

Tommy shrugged and the doc told him to sit still. “Yeah, I guess I was playing it dumb, but I thought... Tonight I sure thought I was a goner. It was a light right and if Jake didn't have all the crockery in his chin I wouldn't be talking now. But my luck held out. What was Arno trying to pull after the fight, following me around the ring?”

“He was trying to reach you to give you a fast sales talk, the cover-up,” Walt told him. “We would have got here sooner but the plane connections were bad and... Look, this is Detective Chandler of the local force, and this is Frank Flatts, an investigator for the insurance company. Frank, shouldn't...?”

A loud voice was arguing with the cop outside the dressing room door and then the promoter came busting in. “Cork! The second your arm is okay, you got yourself a main go here, and as many as you keep winning! This was the most sensational fight I've ever had and with all the publicity!”

“Take it easy, mister,” Walt said coldly—it had taken him time to be convinced the promoter hadn't been in on the deal. Walt turned to Flatts. “Frank, in view of everything I've told you, shouldn't there be a reward of some kind for Tommy? He saved your company a big bundle, by saving his own life.”

Flatts said, “That isn't up to me to decide. Something probably will be worked out. Mr. Cork, my company is grateful for your courage and...”

“I'm grateful for my courage, too,” Tommy cut in. “Listen, Mr.... insurance man, can your company do me a favor, a real reward—get me a job?”

“A... what?”

The promoter said, “Cork, I'll give you a build-up! Who knows how far you can go with me?”

Tommy waved his right hand at the matchmaker; a shut-up motion. “I'll tell you who knows—me! Thanks for the offer, but you're years too late. I never want to see a glove again. Insurance man, I'll take any kind of a job—guard, messenger, porter, elevator operator. I know I look like a... thug... but, that's the reward I want, a steady job. How about it?”

Walt said softly, “Don't pass up any cash, along with the job. After all, the policy is still in force and now there's no reason to cancel it. You're a professional boxer and unless the company gives you some other means of income, you'll have to return to the ring and...”

“And I'll give him all the bouts he wants,” the promoter said.

Flatts smiled at Walt. “You a lawyer along with being a dick, Steiner? You don't have to sell me, I'll do my best. But it isn't up to me. I think some sort of small cash reward can be worked up. But I can safely say my company will certainly give you a job—that's the least they can do.”

Tommy signed. “Man, wait 'til I tell May. My Irish luck is still hitting on all cylinders. Insurance man, for me a job isn't the least. It's the most.”

The End