Canvas Coffin (13 page)

“It gives me the shivers,” I said. “Everything’s mechanical.”

“Right,” Max said. “Everything but the fighters. Now if we could get a robot to fight Giani — ”

The dressing-rooms were too new to have any odor but damp plaster. They were underground, serviced by escalators, equipped with built-in infrared lamps and air-cushioned massage tables, with a medical center completely equipped for emergency surgery.

We went from the medical rooms to the plush offices behind the Moorpark ticket office. Paneled in etched plywood, furnished in splashy colors, carpeted in sea-green nylon frieze.

We went out into the lobby from the last office, and two men were standing there, talking. Sam Wald and Paul D’Amico.

They both looked up, and Sam smiled. “Ready to go, Luke?”

“I’ve never been readier,” I said. “Some place you’ve got.”

D’Amico said, “I’ve been trying to phone you, Luke. I’d like a word with you.” He looked at Max and back at me. “Alone.”

I grinned at him and shook my head.

“Scarpa talked to me,” he said. “He told me you wanted to talk to me.”

“Not
before
the fight, Paul. This one I want. I hope you haven’t bet more than you can afford to lose.”

A door marked
Gentlemen
which led to the lobby, now opened, and Johnny came out. His eyes moved over all of us, sizing up the tableau. It would take labeling, I thought, to identify Johnny as a gentleman.

Sam Wald’s smile was gone. Next to me, Max was silent. D’Amico said, “Don’t make any serious mistakes, Luke.”

I shook my head. “Be seeing you, boys.”

Outside, Max said, “You fool, you damned fool. Do you have to antagonize him?”

I turned to face the glass and shining steel, the glittering arena that should have been a monument to the game, but was only a symbol of the racket. Triangular was the right shape for it; it had been built by angles.

“Take a good look at it,” Max said, “and think of the money
you’re
trying to buck.”

“Guys like us built the damned thing, Max. Without us, and the other athletes, there’d be no stadiums, no sport pages; half the colleges in the country would fold up. And Paul D’Amico would be selling bananas.”

“And what would Johnny be doing?”

“Pimping, I suppose. Or peddling dirty postcards.”

“I wish I could be as dumb as you are,” Max said sadly. “I don’t remember ever being that dumb. Is it because Johnny’s
small
that you’re not scared of him?”

“I’m scared of him, but he’ll be in the clink before the night’s over, Max. Let’s talk about something else.”

We didn’t talk. We went back to the hotel and picked up Tony and Charley, and Max and I went with them while they ate. Then we picked up Jest and went back to the arena.

The place was starting to fill up and it was a half hour to the first prelim.

“Some house we’ll have, Max,” I consoled him.

“Taxes will eat it up,” he said. “Who can make money, today?”

In the dressing-room, a couple scribes were already waiting. One of them asked, “Got an opinion on it, Champ?”

“I’ll win,” I said. “Probably by a TKO.” He smiled. “One of those, huh?”

“If he starts it. It’ll be clean as long as he keeps it clean.”

“You wouldn’t want us to quote that.”

“No. No, just say he is a clean and red-blooded young American and he has earned his chance at the highest award his field offers. Say that it will be a clean and honest affair and I sincerely hope the better man wins.” I sat on the rubbing-table. “Personally, I intend to murder the son-of-a-bitch.”

“He likes you, too,” the other reporter said. “He’s really been aching for this one, hasn’t he?”

“That’s what I hear. I don’t know the man socially.”

There were other reporters, after that, as the prelims went on. I undressed, and Max brought over my trunks and shoes. And the supporter — with the cup in it.

“You’ll need the cup tonight,” Max said. “I should get a barbed one.”

Two could play that game, too. I got up onto the rubbing-table, and Jest began to dig at me, humming to himself in a low, melodious voice.

Max told Charley, “You’d better get on the door now. I don’t want to let in anybody but top brass. The semi’s on.

In a corner, Tony held up a pail. “Take a look at it; it’s worth seventy-five bucks. That’s what ringside’s bringing.”

I looked at Max. “That’s not true?”

“First three rows,” Max said. “We can keep the whole administration in mink coats.”

A title fight, in a sports-hungry town, in a town that really promotes. Jest worked me over and then I sat up, and Max wrapped my hands, taking his time, careful and slow and snug.

Jest was digging the back of my neck, humming, and Max was lacing my shoes, when the door opened, and Sergeant Nolan came in.

He looked at Max and Tony and inclined his head toward the door. “Outside.”

Max looked at him blankly, as Tony headed for the door. Max said, “You’re out of line, Sergeant. There aren’t enough cops on the force to separate me from this boy right now.”

“Please, Max,” I said. “It’s okay. The sergeant is just rough by training. He means well.”

“I’ll give him a minute,” Max said, “and then I’ll have the chief in here. He’s out in that crowd.” He went out.

Nolan said, “What the hell are you cooking up? If you know who the killer is, tell us. The department doesn’t go in for amateur theatricals.”

“I don’t know who the killer is,” I told him. “I’ve got a big hunch, and if we work like Scarpa told you we wanted to, maybe we’ll nail him. It’s nothing to me, either way. Suit yourself.”

“You mean you’re not naming any names? What if something happens to you?”

“All right. I’ll name a name, in return for your promise we work it like it was outlined to you. You see, I want somebody besides Brenda Vane’s killer. I want Johnny, and I think D’Amico will give him to us.”

“D’Amico give us Johnny? Are you crazy?”

“Maybe. How far have you guys got with D’Amico or Bevilaqua? I guarantee you I’ll get further with Bevilaqua.”

The door opened, and Max said, “Do I get the chief?”

Nolan looked at me, and I leaned over to whisper a name in his ear. He stared at me, frowning, and then took a deep breath. “Okay, Pilgrim. Okay. Sands is sold on you, anyway. This was my idea.”

He went out, and Max and Charley and Tony came in. Max locked the door. “I wonder how that lame-brain’s going to like his beat in Venice.”

Jest went back to rubbing my neck and humming. Tony and Charley picked up pails. Max brought the robe over.

His face was sad, and his voice. “Okay, baby, it’s time. That flat-footed bastard, screaming in at a time like this.”

Jest said, “We don’t worry, do we, Champ? This one we got. Every dime I own in the world is riding on this one.”

I smiled at him. “You’re the only man in the room betting on me, Jest.”

“I’m the only man in the room that knows,” he said. “We go. Now, we go.”

Now, we go. Out into the deserted hallway and over to the moving escalator, and up, Max and Jest and I and the two free-loaders.

Slowly upward into the rear apex of the big triangle, and the long aisle stretching down to the ring. The joint was jammed.

Patsy was already in the ring, his taped hands showing whitely even from here, his sloping, muscle-ridged back leaning forward on the stool.

The murmur and then the clap of hands and then the applause came down, and I loved it. They were only stringing with the champ until he was licked, but I loved it.

Through the ropes, and over to say hello to Patsy, and he just looked up and smiled his ring smile.

His handler was Pete Worden, and Pete came over to inspect the wrappings with Max. Then they went over to Patsy’s corner together.

Charley said, “Luck, Luke,” and Tony patted my shoulder and they went down below the apron.

I thought of Sally, back at the hotel. I wondered if she was worrying. Noodles had wanted to be here to see Patsy beat my brains out, but this one Noodles was missing. Or maybe not. Title fight and all, maybe They’d give him a three-day pass.

Across the ring, Patsy stared at me, smiling the fixed smile. Then Max blocked the image, as he kneaded the gloves and slipped them on. Max’s sweat shirt was sour with sweat, and it was beaded on his forehead. A dead cigar rolled in the corner of his mouth.

“Careful,” he said hoarsely, “the early rounds. He’s got the punch; he could be looking for a quickie. That low left he’s going to show, that’s a trap. Don’t bite. You throw a right over it, he’ll counterpunch you blind. Keep him in the open, this first round.”

“Sure, sure, Max,” I said. “We’ve talked it over a hundred times.”

Jest rubbed the back of my neck, humming soothingly.

The introductions then, and going out for the instructions, and Gene Boyce was the third man. He said, “Title fight. You boys have had some dirty ones in your time, but you’d better keep this one clean, or I’ll — ”

Words, words, words, meaning nothing, but they like to sound important.

The house lights dimming; the arcs overhead coming into brilliant focus.
Now,
we go, we go, we go — The bell.

I turned from the ropes, and Patsy was halfway across the ring, the left low, his feet flat, trying to catch me in a corner early.

Half-crouch, his big shoulders part of his armor, a hitter. I feinted a right — and landed a clean, straight left alongside his nose. It rained leather.

I hadn’t fought a young man for a long time; I’d forgotten how fast and how hard they could hit. Patsy’s hook came pounding in as he moved under my right hand. Three times it pounded me, twice in the midriff — and the third time in the groin.

I was backing toward the corner, and I could hear Max screaming “Foul” through the thunder of the fans. I brought my hands in and caught Patsy’s nose with the laces and ripped.

He wanted it dirty; at my age, it would be better for me, but he wanted it dirty.

There was a throbbing in my groin, but it was a well-padded cup of ridged magnesium, and there’d been no permanent damage, yet.

Patsy was pounding at my kidney in the clinch and I managed a rabbit punch before Gene broke us.

Clean, Patsy broke, hands as high as any amateur’s, putting on the red-blooded-American-boy act for the fans. They applauded his obvious sportsmanship.

I took one sideward step, and came in with the hook, bringing the swing of the body in with it. I tied him up and said, “I can play it either way, Patsy.”

“Screw you, grandpa,” he said.

I broke, missed him with a right, and caught him with the elbow, coming back. His mouthpiece went flying, and he stormed in.

Strong and young and dirty, fast and fit, he could punish. I rode with him, blocking what I could, draping my weight, keeping my hands and forearms in, watching his head. Downstairs, his hook tore at me, a big gun.

I tied him up, watching his head, his hard head. It could split a nose wide open, the way he’d learned to use it.

Blood dribbled down from his lower lip: I felt the sticky warmth of it on my shoulder.

Over Patsy’s shoulder, I saw Max, and he was holding both hands aloft. Gene’s hand smarted on my back.

Clean break, and I retreated. Patsy followed slowly, the heavy right cocked, the left higher now. I made our corner at the bell.

Gene was there when I flopped, and his face was flushed. “I told you guys
clean, clean, clean.
Stinking alley fighters.”

“He started it, Gene,” I said. “You saw the punch. I’ll fight any way a man wants to fight. Don’t try and tell me my business.”

Max had his back to Gene, Jest had his eyes averted as he bathed my face. Max pulled my trunks out, felt for the cup, said over his shoulder, “We’re busy, Gene.”

Gene spun and went over to Patsy’s corner.

Jest hummed. Max said, “You got the best of that. But watch that wop, watch him. You threw that hook off the step nice, nice.”

“We go, we go,” Jest said.

The buzzer, Max’s “Careful,” as they scrambled through the ropes. The bell.

Patsy came out slower than he had in the first round, and we met in ring center. He must have had some new advice; he circled away from my right hand, taking his time, his left shoulder guarding his chin. Somebody had told Patsy to be careful, too.

A quarter minute of that and some clown started to sing
The Blue Danube.
Someone shouted, “Your slip’s showing.”

Patsy came in.

He came into the straight left hand again, paused, and I tried a right for size.

It never landed. His own short and heavy right bounced off my chin, flashing from nowhere, and then his left pounded into my Adam’s apple. For a moment I gagged and then moved in to clinch.

He stepped back and the first of three finishers caught me on the side of the face. It twisted my neck; the shock of it stopped my reason for a split second.

The second one was just above the button. The third one was the bull’s-eye.

The arcs went shooting toward the stars and then erupted. For the first time in my career, I was headed for the canvas.

T
HE WIND ROARED
, and the waves came pounding in at me on the rough, dry beach. Then the roar was a pulsation and the pulsation was a voice. And the voice said, “Eight!”

New, rough canvas under my hands, and I scrambled desperately to get up. I was up at “nine,” but Gene didn’t come in to wipe the resin from my gloves; this ring was too new for resin.

I saw Patsy coming across toward me, and he seemed small, like the image in a reversed telescope. I retreated, and he moved faster. I saw the flash of his arm and pain screamed up from my groin.

I put my hands out and my right went around his neck. I lay on him, while he pounded the kidney with his right, while he tried to shove me off with the left.

I hung on, shaking the shadows from my brain, hoping some starch would come back to my legs. The ropes burned my back, the top of his head crashed my mouth, and then he had torn from my grasp.

The right I threw was blind, a desperation punch, knowing he was breaking so he could finish me. It was the luckiest right of my life. It caught him off balance.

Gene called it a knockdown, though it had been partly caused by Patsy’s tangled feet. Gene picked up the count at “three” though Patsy was already up. At “eight,” he waved him in.

I’d had those seconds, and I had the few more it took Patsy to get to my corner.

He came in slowly. He knew it had been a freak knockdown, but another freak poke could keep him from the title he’d cherished for years. He moved around me in a half-crouch.

The bell rang.

Ice at the back of the neck, smelling-salts, the wet, cold towel, Max’s blunt fingers digging my legs into life. All this before a word.

And then the word was “Fool.”

“I’ll make it,” I said. “I made that round. I’ll make it.”

“The first of the three,” Max said, “an overhand right. What the hell is it, stigmatism?”

“I guess. Maybe a mental block. I’m all right, Max.”

The buzzer, and Jest’s massaging fingers left my neck, and Max sighed. I rose as the bell clanged, as Max shouted,
“Careful, now!”

Patsy got to me before I made the center of the ring. I shoved the left out, as I had twice before and he automatically moved his head to his left.

As I brought over the right from the bleachers.

It caught him high, next to the eye, and he took a single, stumbling sideward, and I swarmed him.

But he was young, and he was strong. We traded hooks, and his had the steam. I tried a short right, and his was faster. I got on my bike.

The side of his face was red where I’d landed that round-opener; he had a puffed lower lip. But his eyes were bright and he hadn’t lost an ounce of his moxie.

I kept the left in his eye, and had him missing for a full two minutes. Then he slid in under the left, bringing his hook with him.

Out of the three punches, two of them were low. I wrestled him around until he tried to break — and then threw the top of my head into his nose.

The fans’ screams were hysterical as he came back in, heeling me from mouth to forehead. I got in one solid blow under the heart before the bell.

Jest grinned. Max frowned. Max rinsed the mouthpiece, pulled out my trunks, sloshed me with water.

Max said, “Damned alley brawl.”

Jest said, “We go, we go.”

“To the nuthouse, we go,” Max said. “To Queer Street.”

“No more,” Jest said. “This is the champ’s, from here in. From this round on, it’s going to be known as Mr. Pilgrim’s progress. You’ll see. We go.”

How did he know? I knew, but I couldn’t figure how he knew. That second round could happen to anybody, though it had never happened to me before. There’d be no more second rounds.

It got cleaner. Patsy slapped some, and tried a thumb a couple times, but the general tone of it was cleaner. He kept pounding me under the heart, every chance he got.
I
worked on the side of his face.

He was young and strong, but he was standard. There was no imagination in his strategy. I got the pattern of him, and began to score.

The left side of his face was beet-red now, from the right hands I’d parked there. The eye was puffing. I put more steam into my left hands to the face.

Max said, “You got him figured now.”

“Right.”

“Well, dump him.”

“In time.”

“Luke, that’s not you talking.”

“Some people are dead, Max.” The buzzer.

“This won’t bring ‘em back.”

“I’m quitting, after this one, Max. I don’t want him in the business after I quit. That much I owe the boys.”

“Luke, that’s-” The bell.

A real stiff one I parked under the heart, and his chin went back and his Adam’s apple was a target I could reach.

His eyes watered; he gasped, clawing for breath. I smashed his open mouth, and retreated.

“Now, now, now — ” the fans chanted. “Now, now, now — ”

Not now.

On my stool, and Max said nothing to me. From below, Tony said, “You’re looking better, Champ,” and I nodded.

To the left of Patsy’s feet, Paul D’Amico’s bald head glistened and Paul D’Amico’s cold eyes glared. I smiled at him.

He went down three times in the eighth round, twice more in the ninth. If Dutch had been in his corner, the towel would be in the ring now. But D’Amico could hope for a miracle.

And why didn’t Gene stop it? Maybe Gene wanted to clean up the business a little, too.

Max said, “This Luke Pilgrim I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.”

“He knows what he’s doing,” Jest said. “Leave the champ alone, Max.”

In Patsy’s corner, the doc said he was able to continue. He looked at D’Amico as he said it.

The bell.

“Now, now, now,” the fans chanted, and they were right.

I hit him under the heart three times, and he stood wavering on his rubber legs.

I threw the hardest right hand I’d ever thrown in my life and caught him dead center.

There wasn’t any need to count. Gene picked it up at “three” and went through the arm-swinging ritual, came over to lift my hand high and make the announcement, and Patsy was still out.

They were quiet, in the dressing-room, the reporters. They asked their questions and left. Some friends came in, the ones who may have guessed what I’d been trying to do, but even they didn’t have many words.

Jest smiled and hummed, and Max changed his clothes.

“Maybe it’ll be all right tomorrow,” Max said. “Maybe I’ll understand. Tonight, I’m going to get drunk.” He left.

Tony said, “Charley and I got a couple broads lined up, Luke. See you later.”

Only Jest was left. He asked, “You going home, Champ, or you going to celebrate?”

“I’ve got a date with some people. Business, Jest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Right. You looked good. You looked awful good tonight.”

“Not to Max.”

“Max is soft. But he’ll understand.”

“I hope. Good night, Jest.”

“Night, Champ.”

The door closed behind him, and I was alone. I heard his leather heels clacking on the concrete of the corridor, outside, getting dimmer and dimmer.

I heard the thump, thump, thump of my heart and watched the drop of sweat rolling off my hand. I was showered and dressed, I was ready to go, but I stood there for seconds.

I went over the words in my mind, the kind of words a man like D’Amico might listen to after the financial licking he must have taken.

Then I went out into the clear, cold night, the keys to the rented car jangling in my hand. I was colder than the night should make me; I guess I was scared.

I took Sepulveda down, the winding road through the hills, like open country, like there wasn’t a city for miles. I took it all the way to Venice Boulevard and then cut toward the ocean.

I was still the middleweight champion of the world; no gun with any brains was going to get involved in a murder that headline-worthy. The crown was my shield. Unless D’Amico had gone off his nut. I remembered the way he’d glared at me from ringside.

Here was Lincoln Boulevard and I turned and drove a couple blocks, and here was
Harry’s Hoot Owl Club.

There was a Caddy in the parking-lot and a Buick Special. There was a bleached and battered station wagon. Tony Scarpa sat behind the wheel, smoking a cigarette.

“Call Sally,” I told him. “Tell her I’m all right. Tell her I won and I’m retiring. And tell her I love her.”

“Or
loved
her,” Tony said nervously. “Do you know what you’re doing, Luke?” His cigarette was a small meteor, arching toward the driveway.

“I think I do. They don’t kill guys my size.”

“You’d like to believe. Want me along?”

“No. It’s not your baby, Tony. Thanks a lot. I’ll look you up tomorrow.”

The station wagon went away, and I went up the dark steps to the dark doorway. A man stood there.

Charley Retzer.

“You remembered, huh, Luke? Your memory came back. She talked about me, huh?”

“I don’t remember any of it, Charley.”

“Well, how do you know, then? How did you learn I killed her? D’Amico? He didn’t
know.
Noodles, but he — ”

“Let’s go in, Charley,” I said.

There was a
Closed
sign on the door, but a light showed through the Venetian blinds of the window. I turned the knob, and the door was open, and we went in.

Harry was behind the bar; D’Amico and Johnny were on stools in front of the bar.

Harry said, “Lock the door, Charley.”

I heard the door click behind me. I went over and took one of the stools. I said, “Whisky, Harry. I won’t need to train any more.”

“You quitting, Champ?”

“I don’t know. But I won’t need to train.”

D’Amico said, “You’ve got a lot of guts, Pilgrim.”

“I need them in my business,” I said. “Drop much, Paul?”

“I probably dropped more than you ever made, Pilgrim.”

“Did I promise to dive? Did you have any reason to make that kind of an investment without preliminary planning?”

Silence from him. Then, finally: “What’s on your mind?”

“Murder, and using me for a stooge. Manipulating me. I’m probably not very important, but the title is, and the title-holder shouldn’t have to be anybody’s stooge.”

“A lot of ‘em have been.”

“Not this one.”

Charley said, “When are you going to get to me? What about me?”

I said, “Ask Harry.”

He turned to Harry. “You squealed?”

The big man shook his head. “Luke just guessed. He found out Bevilaqua means ‘drink water’ and he added it up from there. Right, Champ?”

“Right. That was the name of the doctor who ran that small hospital. Your brother, Harry?”

“Cousin.”

“So what,” Charley asked. “That’s a case?”

“I haven’t a case. I’m not a cop. But everything else adds. The doctor had to mention the time when he called us, in order to establish your alibi. He had to mention you were picked up at eleven, when Brenda had died after midnight. You were looking for me. Why? Because you were afraid of what she might have told me about you being her boy friend. You were the missing guy at Sam Wald’s party, one of the principals in the fight. Sulking, Charley? And then after the trimming I gave you, you see me leave her apartment. Is that the way it was?”

“It’s a good guess, I suppose. It makes a good story.”

Behind me, Harry coughed. On his stool, D’Amico watched me. Johnny stared at the floor. I downed the whisky.

I said, “When we saw you in the hospital, even your hands were under the blankets. It was too hot a day for that. But you left some flesh from one hand on Brenda’s teeth. The cops have the scrapings, Charley.”

“You’re still guessing.”

“I am. There was a windmill sign near that hospital and another near Brenda’s apartment. So my unconscious mind knows and it’s trying to tell me. Some day it will cough it up. But I still won’t be a cop, Charley.”

“Windmill signs? What kind of sense does that make?”

“None to you, Charley.” I turned to Harry. “You worry about Noodles.
You
killed Noodles.”

On his stool, Johnny stirred.

Harry said, “Easy, Champ. I got a lot of bottles here.”

“You didn’t poison him,” I went on, “but you killed him. You knew Charley had killed Brenda. If you’d gone to the law with it, Noodles would never have died.”

“Charley’s my friend,” he said, “and I don’t know that he killed anybody.” His voice shook slightly.

“You know. You’re damned sure in your own mind. Did he phone here, after he killed her? Did Noodles pick him up, too, and take him to that sanitarium or hospital, or what the hell it was?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry said.

“All right. Charley doesn’t, either.” I took a flyer. “But I already remember the maroon silk sheets. Maybe the rest will come.”

“You son-of-a-bitch,” Charley said. “You-”

D’Amico said, “Easy, Charley.”

Charley turned to Harry. “Whisky.”

“Have they had you scared since you fought Giani? Have they had you scared all that time, Charley?” I asked him.

D’Amico said, “You’ve used a lot of words but none of them mean much to me. Scarpa said you were willing to talk business.”

Behind me Harry said, “What the hell?”

“Maybe I do want to talk business,” I told D’Amico. “But not as a stooge, Paul. Maybe a partner, but no stooge.”

“A partner? What are you bringing into the partnership?”

“The title. That’s why Max isn’t here.”

“You mean you’re looking for new management?”

“No. Another fight with Patsy. This time, I bet along with you. My money rides with yours. That safe enough?”

He took a deep breath. “It would take a long time to get back the money I lost tonight. What else did you have in mind? Why all this business about Charley?”

“Because we want a killer,” I said. “We want somebody for the law.”

“We? Who’s Ve’?”

“Harry and I. Tell him who we want, Harry. And pour me another drink.”

Harry poured the drink, then looked up, and over at Johnny.

D’Amico’s eyes followed the gaze. D’Amico looked at Johnny, back at Harry, then at me. “Are you crazy?”