The Big Fix

DETECTIVE STEINER

Walt Steiner finished his tour of duty at four o'clock and was home watching an old movie on TV by a quarter to five. “Home” was an old-fashioned railroad flat of six rooms, three flights up, in a building which would have been condemned as an ancient tenement—if the area hadn't become a hangout for artists and writers, and young men with immature beards. The landlords found a mild boom on their hands and were quick to welcome the cafe espresso shops, happy the slum was now a second “Greenwich Village.”

Ruth had insisted upon taking the apartment. It didn't make a bit of sense to Walt. Between them they had an income of over ten thousand a year, why live in a roach-infested dump, not to mention the long hours he had put in painting and fixing up the place? Still, it was roomy. Ruth had her “den,” furnished with ugly white iron garden furniture, which pleased her for some unknown reason. (Actually it was most uncomfortable, but the wrought iron furniture was a good conversation “thing.” Friends would ask, “How can you possibly write on that table or sit in the hard chair?” Ruth would reply, the proper note of self-sacrifice in her voice, “Writing is an uncomfortable taskmaster.”) The walls of the apartment had conventional bull fight posters, several abstract oils, and framed photostats of checks from the New Yorker and Seventeen for the two stories Ruth had been paid for—in contrast to her yams in the little literary magazines where the “pay” was a few copies of the magazine.

The bedroom and living room were done in severe ebony modern and after a year or so, Walt almost liked the furniture. He also had his “den,” furnished with a battered bookcase and cracked leather couch which Ruth claimed his folks must have brought from Germany when they came over in 1908. On top of the bookcase were the cups and medals Walt had won as an amateur boxer. On the walls were pictures of Walt as a member of the Olympic boxing squad, of Captain Walt Steiner, coach of the 18th Air Force boxing team in Italy. Someplace around the room was a huge dusty scrapbook, the newspaper clippings already crumpling and yellow with age, full of pictures and stories about Walt when he was the Golden Gloves one hundred seventy-six-pound champion.

Although Walt still wore his white Olympic robe with the faded USA on its back—as a shower robe—he rarely opened his scrapbook, or looked at the pictures on the wall. Now and then, while watching TV fights, he would wonder if he'd been smart in turning down the money offers to turn pro—one manager had dangled a $3000 bonus. When reading of the large purses the champions made, Walt sometimes daydreamed of himself as the light heavyweight champ, perhaps fighting Archie Moore. And whenever he read about the money difficulties of Joe Louis and other greats, he was glad he had chosen to be a cop.

Walt did everything with a kind of Teutonic calm efficiency. He was steady but never spectacular. He had a mild sense of humor and an even milder imagination. In the ring he had fought a plodding dull fight, following the rules to the letter. You led with your left and crossed your right. Walt had been defeated in the finals of the National A.A.U. by a skinny Negro who did everything wrong. He clowned, dancing about the ring with his hands down, often led with his right, and told Walt jokes all during the bout. At the end of three puzzling rounds the colored fighter was puffing, obviously out of condition, while muscular Walt could have gone ten rounds, although badly outpointed.

Even now, when he was thirty-three years old and hadn't boxed in nine years, Walt was only seven pounds over his fighting weight, did stomach exercises every morning. He rarely ate sweets, didn't smoke, and drank only beer, except when Ruth gave a party and he'd take a few drinks to be sociable.

Watching the cowboy riding like crazy across the TV screen, Walt opened his shirt collar, rubbed his bull neck. He kept nervously glancing at his wrist watch. At five-twenty he began staring at the pink telephone. Ruth should be home about now, but he knew she wouldn't. She'd call and tell him about having to work late. Walt grinned bitterly. It was like the old gag in reserve, the cartoon of the boss with his secretary on his lap, phoning his wife and saying he was stuck in conference. Who was sitting in Ruth's lap this minute?

The trouble was, their whole life seemed to be in reverse these days. The other married men on the detective squad went home to have supper with their wives, talk about the funny or unusual things which had happened during the day, horse around with the kids. Walt came home to nothing. But most of the wives he'd met weren't as clever as Ruth, nor as pretty. They certainly couldn't edit a cosmetic trade magazine, write the moving little sketches Ruth was always starting—and never finishing. Some day, Walt was certain, if Ruth would only get with it, she would be a famous writer, at least a...

The doorbell rang. Walt jumped to his feet, relief in his big face. Ruth had stopped to shop, must have her hands full of packages, couldn't use her key. Walt opened the door to see a tall stooped man standing there. From the casual, expensive clothes, Walt thought he must be another of Ruth's “artistic” friends. The man asked, “Detective Walter Steiner?”

The deep, clear voice, vaguely jolted Walt's memory. The tall man's eyes raced to Walt's hip holster. Walt said, “That's me.”

“I hope you'll forgive my barging in like this. I'm Alvin Hammer, the television announcer. I missed you by minutes at the precinct house, couldn't find your number in the phone book. While I know this is suppertime, I'll only take a few minutes. I think you'll be interested in what I have to tell you.”

“We have an unlisted phone,” Walt told him, motioning for Hammer to come in. Depending on his tour, he always listened to Alvin describe the fights. He had imagined Alvin a huskier, older man.

Alvin took off his hat, opened his coat. He was impressed by the furniture, the oils and prints on the wall. Offering Walt a cigarette, he lit one himself, said, “I've come to you because I know of your interest in boxing. There's something, well, odd, going on. I don't quite know how to handle it. I may be sticking my nose into something. I mean, I'm not sure it's a police matter.”

Crossing the room to turn off the cowboy—now slugging another cowhand like crazy—on TV, Walt asked, “What's troubling you?”

“Do you know a fighter named Irish Tommy Cork?”

“Cork? Isn't he the old welter who came out with his eye badly cut, flattened the other guy?”

Alvin flushed, waved his thin hands in the air, took off his glasses and cleaned them with a paper handkerchief. “Lord, I'll never live that down. You must understand how it happened, Mr. Steiner. The worst thing possible in my business is dead air. Sure way of making a listener switch to another channel. By dead air, I mean a dead screen, nothing happening. The fights are timed to finish at ten-fifty-five, when we have five minutes of newscast and commercials. On that night everything went wrong. It was just one of those nights. First, I knew a would-be sponsor was watching the show. Then, if you recall, this Rocky Preston finished his opponent in the second round. Tommy and a youngster named Simpson were set for the stand-by bout. Simpson couldn't find his left boxing shoe, of all things, so I stalled by interviewing a ballplayer I saw sitting ringside. While there's no point in going into this now, suffice it to say we also had operating difficulties that night, too. I was out of phone contact with my studio for part of the time. It's hardly a secret in the business that I often become quite emotional during a fight. I feel things so damn strongly.”

Walt smiled. “Stronger than the guys in the ring?”

“Come now, that's unfair,” Alvin said, killing his cigarette in an ash tray, packing and lighting his pipe—all of it one continuous motion. “I'm hardly one of these 'he can't hurt us' characters. I'm sincere about my ring feelings. The point is, as you must remember, Tommy suffered a severe cut over his right eye when he was butted near the end of the third round. Well, there was one more round to go and they're holding a regular damn conference in Tommy's corner between rounds; the referee, the doctor... and, I motioned to the announcer that we had seven minutes air time left. Perhaps that was my mistake, for the others were also aware of the time on our hands, and for that very reason seemed afraid to stop the bout. You understand, it was up to the doctor or the ref to stop the bout, not me. It became downright ridiculous; Tommy sitting in his comer, bleeding badly while they argued. They weren't doing a dam thing to help Tommy, or even toward stopping the fight. They were simply talking. I motioned for the timekeeper to ring the bell, yelled for Tommy to come out. He did, and flattened Simpson with a left hook—certainly one of the most stirring moments in TV sport history.”

“No doubt. But another punch on the eye might have blinded him for life.”

“Oh for Godsake, they weren't doing a thing for his eye in his corner! The eye needed stitching. That's why I motioned for the bell, hoped it would force the referee to call a halt to the bout. When he kept yakking away with that doctor, I yelled for Tommy to get in there, thinking it would make them act. But Irish solved matters himself, with that sweet left hook. Matter of fact, that's one of the reasons I'm interested in Tommy. I admire courage, unashamedly admire it.”

“Irish Tommy Cork, a washed-up old man. Robinson once gave him a terrific beating,” Walt said, as if reciting a prepared lesson.

“Exactly why I'm here. He is washed-up. Unfortunately Tommy's had a bum deal most of his career. I try to do what I can for him, now. I lend him money. I've urged him to quit, but he won't. There's something... majestic... about his self-confidence which one simply must respect. Lately, I've tried to find him a job, but it's been difficult. All he knows is fighting. Perhaps you may also recall that after he won the cut-eye fight, I insisted my station foot his hospital bills. I also demanded he get a semifinal bout a month later. Tommy lost. It's such a lousy, vicious circle; he hasn't the money to train properly, thus he is not able to make the most of any opportunity coming his way.”

“What's on your mind? Do you want me to referee a benefit for him?”

“That would be an idea. Perhaps I can talk Bob Becker into working on it. But the reason I'm here, I suspect somebody is setting the old lad up for murder.”

“What?”

“I know it sounds fantastic, which is why I haven't been to the police—officially,” Alvin said. “In fact, I'm more or less working on a hunch.” He lit his pipe again, tossed a match into the glass ash try. “Say, this is a neat bit of glass work. From Venice?”

“Who knows. Now what's with this murder idea?”

“Did you see my show two weeks ago? Tommy was in the emergency four-rounder again and he was pitiful, completely out of shape.”

“Two weeks ago I was working a four to midnight shift, so I didn't see it.”

“Becker, the matchmaker, used to be Tommy's manager. He's the one who rushed him into the Robinson bout. And he gives the old boy these four-rounders, whether he's in shape or not, and takes a cut of the lousy sixty bucks. Greedy bastard. The point is, Tommy made a miserable showing. That's when I suggested he forget fighting, said I'd try to find him a job as a messenger. Well, that was two weeks ago. Have you ever been to the Between Rounds Bar?”

“I know where it is. Fight mob hangout.”

“I drop in there regularly, absorb background for my broadcasts. I saw Tommy there this afternoon, looking fine. He's dressed like ready money, even has a few bucks on him. He tells me this impossible yam about a man named Arno Brewer who not only took Tommy up to a country training camp for a week, advanced him money for clothes and pays his room and board at the Southside Hotel, but says he'll make Tommy a champ.”

“So what? A nutty rich fight buff.”

Alvin lit his pipe again. After a few puffs he said, “That's what I thought. I figured Tommy could live off the guy for a while, take it easy. Of course it did strike me as odd any man would take the old boy on after the utterly miserable showing he made that night—which was when this Brewer picked him up. Another odd bit, Brewer is not his manager of record. In fact, the whole thing is supposed to be quiet. I wouldn't have known about it except for something else which came up. I tell you it did my heart good to see Tommy looking well-fed, hear he was training daily at some small uptown gym. Now, do you recall an old-timer named Maxie Coney, a featherweight?”

Walt shook his head.

“Before my day, too. He's in the insurance business now. While I was talking to Tommy, Maxie walks over to our booth and asks Cork why he hadn't given him the business. Seems this rich character took out a policy on Tommy, told Tommy it was protection for both of them in case Tommy was hurt. It seems he has lent Tommy about three hundred and fifty dollars to date. Naturally Brewer is the beneficiary. But it's odd, if this fellow is so wealthy, to cover for a few hundred...”

“You mean it's only an accident policy?” Walt asked, glancing at his watch. It was five-forty-eight. If Ruth hadn't phoned by now, perhaps she was coming home after all.

“As Coney explained, it's an expensive policy covering accidents, most kinds of disability, and of course, death. I imagine the company was hesitant about insuring an old pug, even though Tommy passed the physical. They called in Coney to look at the policy, which is how he happened to know about it. Well... Please don't look at your watch again, Mr. Steiner. I won't take up much more of your time, and it drives me nervous.”

“Sorry. I'm... eh... expecting a call from my wife. Did Coney okay the policy?”

“Yes, with some changes in the disability payments. But that's not important. When Maxie asked Tommy, again, why he hadn't come to him with the business, Tommy said this Brewer had arranged things, and besides, it was only a small policy—twenty-five hundred dollars. This is where my suspicions went into orbit. Coney told him, 'No, you're wrong, it's for twenty-five thousand dollars.' Tommy said Maxie must be mistaken, but Irish admitted he hadn't ever actually read the policy, merely signed where Brewer told him. Since this is Coney's job, and he was positive, the policy must be for twenty-five grand. That didn't upset Tommy. He said it only proved how rich Brewer was. Irish was more upset over our knowing about the deal, swore us to secrecy. I talked to Coney later and he told me there's also a double indemnity clause in the policy!”

“I thought they didn't have double indemnity any more?”

“Not in the average policy, but Coney said you can have it, if you pay. Do I have to draw a blueprint? After putting on the worst fight of his career, Tommy is signed by Brewer. And now it turns out the old boy is worth fifty grand to Brewer—dead!”

Walt rubbed his shoulder muscles, for the first time taking some interest in Alvin's chatter. “You think there's going to be some sort of car accident to Cork?”

Alvin stood up, and for a moment it was a jack-in-the-box movement, and it seemed his head might hit the ceiling. He paced the room nervously, sucking on his dead pipe. “Perhaps. Brewer has a sport car he lets Tommy use. Also he's a food nut and always having Irish try strange dishes. But I think there's even a better gimmick here. When I voiced some of my... doubts, to Tommy, he let me in on the rest of the supposed secret. Brewer has another fighter, a welter named Jake Watson. Now Tommy's had over a hundred bouts, has fought and/or sparred with thousands of fighters. Irish claims Jake is absolutely sensational, the best he's ever seen. Not only as good as Robinson, Olson, and LaMotta, but a combination of all three. Tommy actually raved about Jake, said he was strong as a bull, a fast, flashy boxer, and packs the wallop of a heavyweight. Why Tommy told me in their first sparring session, Jake knocked him cold. He was out for ten minutes, despite using heavy gloves and a headguard.” Alvin turned abruptly, facing Walt, his intense thin face waiting for a reply.

Walt looked blank. “You lost me on one of the turns. What's all this add up to?”

“Don't you see their plan? Here's Tommy, an alcoholic shell of his old self, a pug on the verge of having his license revoked because he's physically unfit. Now, assuming Jake is the belter Tommy claims—and I've never heard Irish rave so about a fighter—what's to stop Tommy being killed in the ring? Being beaten to death in a sparring session?”

Walt shook his head slowly. “That's too difficult to count on, too far-fetched.”

“Is it? There have been plenty of ring deaths.”

“Not recently.”

“Only because there aren't many clubs operating, fewer fights. Also the automatic eight count, and the three knockdown rule has helped. But they don't go in a sparring session. If Jake can really hit, and Irish has no reason to yeast it up, what's to stop Jake from beating a has-been like Tommy to death?”

“Come on now, a fist isn't a gun. You can belt a guy hard as you can and still not be sure you'll drop him, much less kill him. Also, as you said, Tommy isn't a novice. He probably isn't easy to hit.”

“I told you he's already been knocked cold in a sparring session.”

“I've heard that even champs like Patterson are sometimes floored by a sparring partner.”

“Of course. So if Tommy is killed while sparring, it will look an accident! And what have they to lose? If a punch doesn't do it, they try again. Or resort to an auto accident, a fall, drowning, many other ways.”

“And get themselves collared. Arranging a fatal accident isn't as simple as it may sound.”

“Exactly!” Alvin boomed, his deep voice rattling the pictures on the wall. “Suppose, after they soften him up in these sparring sessions, they kill him in the ring! The perfect crime, with hundreds of witnesses saying it was an accident! Far as I know, there's never been a murder, or even a manslaughter conviction against a pug for killing a man in the squared circle. Think of the flexibility of it all, the way they have their victim in their pocket. They can take their time, do it in a month, or six months. They receive fifty grand, wait a year or two, start all over on some other rundown pug!”

“Hammer, you're not writing a mystery story. A killer has to make it a sure thing, in real life.”

Alvin shrugged. “Here's something else. I checked with the commission. There isn't any record of an Arno Brewer as a manager. Why isn't he down as manager of Tommy, or the other pug?”

“There can be a dozen reasons. Perhaps he's ducking taxes.”

“Well, I think it's certainly worth looking into. Jake Watson took out a license. I asked if they had checked on his fingerprints for any possible criminal record. But you know how easy-going they are in the commission's office. They said they were working on...”

The phone rang. Walt jumped, picked up the pink receiver. “Hello?”

Ruth Steiner said, “Walt, I won't be home for dinner tonight. I'm tied up at the printers. They messed up an article and I'll have to hang around to correct the new...”

“Okay,” Walt said. He could hear music in the background.

“I may be home late. I also have to check with a photographer on some last minute...”

“Yes. Thanks for calling,” he said dully.

There was a moment of surprised silence at her end of the phone. Then she said, “There isn't much in the refrigerator. I expected to shop on my way home. Best you eat out.”

“I'll manage.” Walt hung up, full of hurt anger. As he sat down, Alvin resumed his pacing of the room. Walt thought, For the last three months she's been at me, digging me, torturing me. You'd think she'd found me with another woman. What the devil has changed? What's happening to us? I don't know how much more I can take. Suppose I had agreed to go to Paris with her, then what? Ruth must have understood I couldn't get a year's leave from the department. She... Hell, why doesn't she do that book and get it out of her system? She doesn't have to work on this trade magazine. She can sit home and write all day. I swear, if she was older, I'd say Ruth was going through the change of life or...

Alvin stopped in front of Walt, asked, “What will you do about this, detective?”

“Do? Do? I wish I knew what...” Walt rubbed his big jaw. “About Tommy Cork—what do you expect me to do? I certainly can't arrest this Arno Brewer; we have nothing working for us. Even your suspicions are full of holes. You said Tommy is looking fine, eating regularly. That contradicts your murder idea—they wouldn't be building him up, physically. Then, if this other fighter, Jake, is really such a hot pug, why monkey with an insurance swindle when Jake can make a dozen times fifty thousand in the ring?”

“I admit I haven't absolute proof of anything definite. As to Tommy's looking good, so what? In a couple of weeks the body can't compensate for all the wine, the hunger, the beatings, it has absorbed over the years. The main question is, why should anybody want to manage a washed-up pug like Cork?”

“You know Tommy's story could be true. There are such types as rich boxing buffs. Also, he may have taken out the policy, as he said, only to protect Tommy and himself. A well known novelist once supported a pug for years, managing him to obscurity. Some people like to keep a boxer around like a... a pet. When I was in the amateurs I had a few offers like that from wealthy jerks—a cash bonus if I attended a certain college, use of a sport car for joining a downtown athletic club.”

“Why should Brewer pay extra for a double indemnity policy?”

Walt shrugged his heavy shoulders. “I admit that sounds fishy. You said they'd been up at this training camp for two weeks. Did Tommy continue to spar with Jake after he was flattened?”

“I don't know. Steiner, I didn't expect you to rush out and make an arrest. If I had, I would have gone directly to the police. Officially, I mean. But I can't stand by and see the little game cock killed. No point in doing something when it's too late. Knowing your interest in the sport, I thought you might look into things.”

“Okay, I'll get a copy of this Jake Watson's prints from the commission tomorrow, see what they tell us. Of course there's a simple answer to all this. Have Tommy cancel the policy. That would prove how interested this Arno really is. Matter of fact, if you raised your suspicions to the insurance company, or had Coney do it, the company would cancel.”

Alvin's long face became one big grin. “That's our answer! I'll get Tommy to cancel out. I couldn't, publicly, put in my two cents. I might be sued. Mr. Steiner, while...”

“Call me, Walt, Al.”

“Walt, as I said when I first came in, I realize this is an awkward hour to talk business. But don't you think you might get a clearer picture by speaking to Tommy himself?”

“That would help. When can I see him?”

“He's meeting me at the Between Rounds for supper. Of course, you're probably waiting for your wife, but perhaps tomorrow night we can...”

“It just happens my wife is stuck in the office,” Walt said slowly. “Let me wash up and we'll get cracking. I'm hungry.”

An hour later, sitting across the table from Tommy and Alvin in a steak house, Walt wished he hadn't come. Tommy Cork was telling Alvin, anger making his voice tremble, “What you doing, spoiling things for me? I let you in on a big secret, about how we're going to spring Jake as a surprise on the fight boys, and you swear you'll keep it to yourself. Now he's in on it. I told you, if it gets known, it's nothing, and then where am I?”

“Tommy, Tommy, I'm not broadcasting it to the world. I had to tell Walt, so he could be filled in on all the details.”

Walt wasn't listening. He was wondering what he was going to do about Ruth. Although they shared the same bed, they hadn't “slept” together for nearly two months. But what frightened Walt most was that he know they were heading smack for an open break. Aside from the fact Ruth was the first and only woman he'd ever been truly fond of, Walt also felt a marriage was unbreakable. It had nothing to do with his religious beliefs; he was simply a man who only expected to marry once. If things didn't come to a boil, Walt was sure, in time, whatever was biting Ruth would calm down. If she'd only tell him what was wrong, discuss things. Because he'd said he couldn't spend a year in Paris, she acted as if he was doing it all to spite...

“Walt,” Alvin said, “explain to Tommy about canceling the policy.”

“What?” Tommy cut in. “You guys are talking like you got paper brains. If I cancel the policy, Arno will get sore, wash his hands of me. Why if I even hinted about this crazy notion Al has, he'd be insulted. No!”

Walt said, “Tommy, you don't have to do anything, if you want it that way. I can... suggest what Alvin thinks to the insurance company and they will cancel before the policy goes into effect. If that happened, and you'd be in the clear, and Arno gave you the brush, wouldn't that prove Alvin is right? If Arno still backed you, it would show we're wrong.”

“No, it wouldn't show anything except I ought to have my head examined. This is my break, my Irish luck, and you guys want me to louse it up because Al has a wild hair tickling his mind. Lay off me. What if Arno is so rich he took out a twenty-five grand policy on me? Could be that's what he told me, and I didn't hear right, thought he said twenty* five hundred. What's the big diff if he took out a million dollar policy? It's his dough. Look, Walt, I appreciate you and Al thinking you're doing this to protect me, but you don't understand the deal. The day before my last bout I was so hungry I sold a pint of blood to eat. Now sixteen days...”

“You sold your blood before that fight?” Alvin asked shocked, his face actually going pale.

“Now, sixteen days later, I'm eating three times a day, living in a fine hotel. I have pocket money and fit into a rich cat's plans. I'm a guy with a future, suddenly. I can't risk all that. Sure, if Arno asked me to do something unreasonable, I could buck it. But when a guy is breaking his hump to help me, how would I sound saying I don't like this and that?”

“Your life may be at stake!” Alvin thundered.

An annoyed look crossed Tommy's small face. “Easy, AL you ain't on the air. Keep your pear-shaped tone down. Nobody says I'm in danger but you. Hell, before I was more in danger—of not eating! You think guys are falling over themselves, standing in line waiting to manage me?”

Al said, “Can't you see?”

“Tommy's right,” Walt cut in, wondering if he would have ended up like this if he'd turned pro. “We don't have any stand-up proof to go with, as of now. Let me nose around. Tommy, you keep your ears open, try to find out more about them. Like who Jake has battled and where. How Arno made his bankroll. Be careful, don't be obvious about things. I think we have time on this. If we come up with something, we'll act. If we draw blanks we won't have spoiled Tommy's soft touch.”

“That talk I'll buy,” Tommy said, finishing his ice cream. Alvin stirred his coffee, as if whipping it. “You still spar every day with Jake?”

“Most days. Beginning tomorrow I'm going to start working out by myself at the Crosstown Gym, start getting some bouts. I'm feeling great and don't have “to worry about taking quickie bouts.”

“Does Jake bang away at you?” Walt asked. “Has he ever flattened you again?”

“Naw. Like I told Al, that first time he belted me he was lucky. I was hungover and showing off, coming in southpaw. Sure he hits like a hammer, tries to clout me, but I'm not a slob when it comes to defense. The 'Bobbing Cork' they used to call me. I don't let Jake get lucky no more.”

“You have my phone number. If anything unusual comes up, or if you learn anything about either of them, call me. At the precinct or home,” Walt said.

“Sure. Listen, if I thought there was anything phony, I'd be the first to blow the whistle. I don't aim to get myself killed.”

“Be careful,” Walt said. “Stay out of their car. Don't eat nothing you're doubtful about.”

“You trying to give me a nervous breakdown?” Tommy asked, with a tight smile. “Arno lets me use his car any time I want, and he's always taking me to dizzy restaurants. Hey, you guys ever eat raw fish? Or rattlesnake meat? Don't make a face, I was surprised too. Never know what you're eating— if nobody told you.”

There was a moment of silence. The waiter left the check and Alvin didn't have any trouble taking it. Walt was busy thinking if he should chance going to Ruth's office—or would that end in a showdown? Beside, she said she was at the printer's, wherever that was. Tommy didn't expect to pay, of course.

Outside, they stood around awkwardly for a moment. Alvin had a premiere of a new TV quiz show one of his sponsors was starting. Did they want to tag along?

Tommy said he'd like to but wanted to see his wife, hadn't had a chance to tell her of his good luck since he'd come back from the country.

Walt didn't know what he wanted to do, although he didn't feel like sitting around the empty apartment. As Tommy waved, walking down the block, limping slightly but a swagger to his walk, Alvin told Walt, “He's not punchy, the limp comes from an old broken toe. It galls me, a sweet guy like Tommy having to sell blood. What a fighting heart! They don't make them from his mold any more. Think of it, he's answered the bell over a hundred times, a hundred tests of pure courage and...”

“Well, I have to be on my horse,” Walt cut in, knowing he wasn't in the mood for any hot air either. He had few illusions about the fight racket. He knew it was a lousy and brutal buck. But still, if a fellow got the breaks and could get in and out fast, there was big money. The cut from a decent bout would keep him and Ruth in Paris for years.

Alvin said, “I'll keep in touch, Walt. Look, any time you want rickets for the fights, or TV shows, let me know.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

They parted at the corner. Walt walked around the block, restlessly reading the movie marquees. Finally, he bought a paper and headed for the apartment.

Passing a bar, he saw Tommy inside, having a few quick shots.