Strictly for Cash Page 2

  would like to have you.”

  I stared at him, scarcely believing I had heard aright.

  “Why, you’re crazy!” I exclaimed, sitting up. “You don’t know a thing about me. You can’t

  go offering me a third of your business just because I punched a fella in the jaw. What’s the

  matter with you?”

  Roche sat on the edge of the bed.

  “We need help, Johnny. We need a guy like you. You know the trade, for one thing. Then

  you’re big and can scrap -I can’t. We get some tough characters in here, and there’s not a lot I

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  can do about it. We like you. We reckon you’d be worth every nickel you take out of the

  business.”

  He was probably right, but the job was no good to me. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but

  I had to tell him.

  “Look, Tom, let’s get this straightened out,” I said. “Don’t think I’m not grateful for the

  offer. I am, but it can’t be done. Don’t get me wrong about this, but frankly I’ve been in

  smalltime too long. All my life I’ve wanted money: not a few paltry dollars - my old man had

  that and they got him nowhere - but a roll of money you could choke a horse with. Maybe it’s

  because my old man kept me so short when I was a kid. The only thing he ever paid for was

  my food. My clothes, movies, candy and all the other things kids spend dimes on I had to

  earn, and it meant earning them the hard way: working after school, running errands,

  delivering newspapers, cleaning windows, and never having any time to play. My old man

  reckoned it would make me value money, but he was wrong. It made me determined to get a

  pile somehow and have a glorious blow with it. I’ve got to make money. It’s become a thing

  with me, and when I’ve got it I’m going on the biggest bender ever. I thought my chance had

  come when my old man died. I figured I’d be able to sell the caf6 and go a bust on the

  proceeds, but there were debts and there weren’t any proceeds. Right now all I’ve got are the

  clothes I stand up in and forty dollars from my army gratuity. So I’m going to Miami where

  the dough is, and some of it’s going to stick to me. Big dough, Tom, not little stuff. I have a

  feeling in my bones if I can get to Miami I’ll hit the jackpot.”

  Roche sat listening, his face expressionless.

  “Why Miami, Johnny? Why not New York or any big city?”

  “Something I heard,” I said. “I know it sounds cockeyed, but I met a guy who’s been to

  Miami. He reckoned there was no place like it on earth. He said there were more millionaires

  to the square inch out there than any other place in the world, and they go there for a

  vacation, and they throw their money around like drunken sailors. If you’re smart you can

  catch some of it. But don’t get me wrong. I don’t intend to work any racket or get into

  trouble. I’m going to collect this pile legitimate. There’re all kinds of jobs going in Miami

  where you can pick up big dough. Know what this guy told me? He said lifeguards make up

  to two hundred bucks a week. He knew one of them who saved the life of a movie star, and

  they gave him a thousand bucks and a job in Hollywood. This guy himself was a chauffeur,

  and his boss kicked off and left him five grand. He’d only worked for him for three years.

  Think of that! I don’t see why I shouldn’t muscle in on that kind of luck. That’s all it is. The

  money’s there. It’s just a matter of being on the spot when these guys throw it around.”

  12

  Roche rubbed his knee while he looked thoughtfully at me.

  “Your pal didn’t tell you about the con men, the gamblers, the grafters, the whores and the

  mobsters who are all in there like a wolf-pack trying to separate your millionaires from their

  rolls, did he?” he asked quietly. “He didn’t mention the cops who hound a guy unless he’s

  well dressed and keep him on the move? I’ve been to Miami, Johnny. Before I bust my leg I

  used to drive a truck from Pelotta to Miami every week. It’s a fine town for millionaires, but

  if you’re short of dough, it’s tougher than a jungle full of wild animals. Take my tip and

  forget Miami. You’re living in a pipe-dream. Stay with us and you have a chance to make a

  reasonable living and you’ll keep out of trouble. When a guy goes after the kind of dough

  you’re talking about, sooner or later he’s going to get into trouble. Use your head, Johnny.

  The only way you could break into big money is by fighting. I don’t know how good you are,

  but if that punch is a sample, then I’d say …”

  “Don’t say it,” I broke in. “I’ve quit fighting. I’m not finishing up half blind and my brains

  leaking blood. That’s out. You say Miami is tough. This guy says it’s a soft touch. I guess I’ll

  go and find out for myself. Maybe I’m crazy, but I’m going. Sorry, Tom, but that’s the way it

  is. And don’t think I’m ungrateful.” Roche lifted his thin shoulders.

  “Okay, if that’s how you feel about it, then go to Miami. Have a look around. Then come

  back here. I can do with you. I’ll give you three months before I look for someone else. Think

  about it, Johnny. A third share and a free hand, and only Alice and me to bother you. Think

  about it.”

  I didn’t have to think about it.

  “Don’t wait for me, Tom,” I said. “You fix yourself up. I won’t be coming back.”

  III

  I had just finished breakfast when Roche put his head round the door.

  “Solly Brant’s outside. He’s asking for you. Want to see him?”

  “Why not, or shouldn’t I?”

  Roche shrugged.

  “Please yourself. He wouldn’t say what he wants.”

  “Well, shoot him in.”

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  I pushed back my plate, and, as I reached for a cigarette, Brant came in. His panama hat

  was pushed to the back of his head. There were dark rings under his eyes, and he looked as if

  he hadn’t slept for days.

  “I’m sorry your boy can’t fight,” I said before he could open his mouth, “but he got what he

  deserved. It’s no use coming moaning to me. It’s something I can’t do anything about.”

  “Yeah, don’t tell me, I know,” Brant said, and pulled up a chair. He sat down. “He’s a bum,

  always was; always will be.” He rubbed his face with his hand and groaned. “That punk’s put

  years on my life. The trouble I’ve had with him.” He leaned forward and poked a fat ringer at

  me. “Where did you learn to punch like that?”

  “I’ve done a little fighting. If I’d known he had a glass jaw I’d have hit him some other

  place.”

  “He ain’t got a glass jaw. Guys have been hanging punches on his jaw for years, and up to

  now he’s liked it. I’ve never seen a punch like that. It would have dented a tank.” He absently

  picked up a piece of toast and began to nibble at it. “But never mind him. If I’d some other

  boy to fight the Kid I’d be waving flags to be rid of him. But I haven’t another boy, and this

  is the first major fight I’ve collared in years. The take’s seven-fifty, and that’s a lot of beer to

  a guy like me.” He gnawed at the toast, then asked, “Who have you fought?”

  “Oh, no, not me,” I said. “Never mind who I’ve fought. You’re not getting me to fight for

  you. I quit the game years ago, and I’m not going back to it.”

  The small brown e
yes roved hungrily over me.

  “With that build and that hook you’re a natural. How long have you been out of the game?”

  “Too long. I’m not interested. If that’s all you’ve got to talk about let’s part while we’re

  still friends.”

  “Now wait a minute. Roche tells me you put Weiner away in the second. Is that right?”

  “It’s no dollars in your pocket if I did.”

  “Heading for Miami, aren’t you?” He put down the toast and hitched forward his chair.

  “Now, listen, soon as I saw you I knew you were a killer. Use your head, Farrar. What do you

  think you’re going to do in Miami dressed like that? How far do you think you’ll get before

  some bull tosses you in the can? Even if you keep to the back streets you won’t last ten

  minutes. If you haven’t a good front, you’re out in Miami.”

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  “That’s my funeral: not yours.”

  “I know.” He took off his hat and peered inside it as if looking for something he had lost.

  “But I’m not talking because I like the sound of my voice. How would you like to arrive in

  Miami in a tropical suit and all the trimmings and driving your own car? Okay, it’s not much

  of a car, but it goes. And how would you like to have five hundred bucks in your pocket to

  give you a start?”

  He was dangling a nice fat worm on a sharp hook before me, and I knew it, but I listened

  just the same. I knew I shouldn’t make much of a showing in Miami in the clothes I had on,

  and this had been worrying me. A tropical suit, five hundred bucks and a car sounded about

  right to me.

  “Go on talking,” I said. “It won’t hurt me to listen.”

  “That’s a fact,” he said, and grinned, showing six gold-capped teeth. “That’s my

  proposition. Deputize for MacCready, and that’s what you’ll get. How does it strike you?”

  “Not bad. What makes you think I rate that high?”

  “I don’t know you do. If you’ve got anything beside that hook, then you can’t be so bad.

  Suppose you come down to the gym and show me just what you can do?”

  I hesitated. In a couple of hours Josh Bates would be pulling out of Pelotta for Miami. I

  could either go with him and travel as a bum or stick around here for four more days and then

  travel in my own car with money in my pocket. But before I got the car and the money I had

  to fight a heavyweight I’d never seen or heard of, and I wasn’t in anything like strict training.

  I might even land up with a broken jaw myself.

  “Just how useful is this guy you want me to fight?”

  “Not bad,” Brant said. “He’s fast and pins his faith on a right cross.” He stood up. “But you

  don’t have to worry about him. I don’t expect you to beat him. All I want you to do is to stay

  with him for a few rounds and make a show. The dough’s all on him. But if he gets too hot

  for you you can always do an el foldo”

  “That’s something I’ve never done, and don’t intend to do.”

  “Just a suggestion,” he said blandly. “Suppose we go over to the gym. We can talk better

  after I’ve seen the way you shape.”

  We went over to the gym. It lay at the end of a dark, evil-smelling alley off Pelotta’s main

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  street. It wasn’t much of a place: one big room, equipped with two training rings, punching

  bags, some dirty mats scattered over the floor, a row of changing booths and a few shower

  cabinets, most of which didn’t work.

  The place was deserted when we got there.

  “Waller, Joe’s sparring partner, will be along any minute now,” Brant said. “He’s a good

  trial horse and you can hit him as hard as you like. If you don’t he’ll hit you. Let’s have three

  rounds with all the action you can cram into them.”

  He went over to a locker and handed out some kit. While I was changing Waller came in.

  He was a big, battered Negro with sullen, bloodshot eyes. He nodded briefly to Brant, gave

  me an indifferent glance and went into one of the booths to change.

  When I had stripped off. Brant looked me over critically, and whistled.

  “Well, you ain’t carrying any fat. You look in pretty good shape to me.”

  “I’m all right,” I said, and ducked under the ropes. “But if I’d known this was going to

  happen I’d have laid off smoking. It’s my wind I’ve got to watch.”

  Waller climbed into the ring. He was built like a gorilla, but in spite of his size I noticed he

  was eyeing me thoughtfully.

  “Listen, Henry,” Brant said to him, “let’s have a fight. I want to see how good this guy is.

  Don’t pull your punches and keep after him.”

  The Negro grunted.

  “And that goes for you, too, Farrar,” Brant went on. “Well, if you’re ready. Okay? Then

  come out fighting and make a meal of it.” He touched the bell.

  Waller came forward like a gigantic crab, his head hunched down into his heavy shoulders.

  We moved around the ring, feeling each other out. I got in a couple of quick jabs and swayed

  away from a vicious looping right he threw at me. I managed to pin him with another left.

  None of my punches had any steam in them. I wanted to test my timing. I knew it wasn’t

  sharp. Every now and then Waller caught me with a dig that hurt. He kept shuffling away

  from me, making me come to him, and countering every time I landed on him. Suddenly he

  stopped in his tracks and let fly a right that landed high up on the side of my head. I was

  rolling by the time it landed, but it was a good solid punch, and it shook me.

  As he rushed in I let go a left: the first punch I’d thrown with any steam in it. He went back

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  as if he had run into a brick wall. I could see the surprise on his face.

  We moved around. He was more cautious now. That left had startled him. I got in two jabs

  and collected a dig in the body that made me grunt.

  I was now having trouble with my breathing. You’ve got to be in strict training to take the

  heavy bangs I was taking and not worry about them. If I was going to keep out of trouble I’d

  have to stop him, and stop him quick.

  He saw my wind was going and began to pile on the pressure. He was a difficult target to

  hit, and for the moment all I could do was to jab away at his face and head and hope for an

  opening. I smothered most of the punches he was throwing, but some of them landed and

  they hurt. I was glad when the bell went and I could flop on the stool and take a breather.

  Brant sponged the blood from my nose, his fat face thoughtful.

  “You’ve been out of training too long,” he said. “You’re not timing your punches right.

  Better take it easy in the next round. Box him this time and keep away from him.”

  I didn’t say anything. I had my own ideas what to do. I’d have to finish him in this round or

  I wasn’t going to last.

  Waller hadn’t bothered to sit down. He lolled against the ropes, looking bored.

  “Okay?” Brant asked as he reached for the gong-string.

  “Yeah,” I said, and came out slowly.

  Waller moved in, set to nail me. He slung a left. I shifted so it slid over my shoulder and hit

  him three rimes to the body. I heard him gasp as he went into a clinch. His weight sagged on

  me. I tried to shove him off, but I couldn’t do it. He hung on desperately, and didn’t pay any

  attention to Brant’s yells to break. He was hurt and
worried. We wrestled around, and finally

  I got clear of his hugging arms. I caught him with a right upper-cut as we broke. Snarling, he

  fought back, and for a second or so we slung lefts and rights at each other. He was flustered

  now. I was timing them better, and they were sinking into him. A left prepared the way. His

  guard dropped, and I whipped over the right hook. It caught him flush on the jaw and down

  he went. I moved away, wiping the blood from my nose and breathing heavily. I wasn’t

  worried. He wasn’t going to get up in a hurry.

  Brant climbed into the ring, beaming from ear to ear. Together we dragged Waller to his

  corner and propped him up on his stool. We were working on him when a voice said, “I like

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  this boy. Where did you find him, Brant?”

  Brant started as if someone had goosed him with a red-hot poker.

  Three men had appeared from nowhere and were standing near the ring. The one who had

  spoken was short and square-shouldered. His face was as uncompromising as a hatchet and as

  thin, and his black eyes were deep-set, still and glittering. He had on a bottle-green linen suit,

  a white slouch hat, and his pencil-lined moustache looked starkly black against his olive skin.

  The other two were the kind of muscle-men you can see in a Hollywood movie any day of

  the week. Two Wops, pale imitations of their boss, tough, dangerous, and more at home with

  a gun or a knife than with their fists.

  I didn’t like the look of any of them.

  “Hello, Mr. Petelli,” Brant said, his grin fixed and his eyes scared. “I didn’t see you come

  in.”

  Petelli let his eyes slide over me. I had a feeling there wasn’t a muscle, mole or freckle

  missed in that one searching glance.

  “Where did you find him?”

  “He’s the guy who bust MacCready’s jaw,” Brant said, and nervously took out his

  handkerchief and mopped his face.

  “I heard about that. Is it your idea to match this boy against the Kid?”

  “I was coming to see you about it, Mr. Petelli. But first I wanted to find out how he

  shaped.”

  “The nigger seems to think he shapes all right,” Petelli said with a thin smile.

  “He’s a little out of training …” Brant began, but Petelli cut him short.

  “Come down to my office in an hour. We’ll go into it.” He looked at me. “What do you call