Canvas Coffin (10 page)

“All right. I’m ready for it. Luke, what do you mean about Giani? You were never a spoiler, Luke. Isn’t that the word, ‘spoiler’?”

“That’s the word. And don’t talk about my streak. And don’t argue about it, and think what you damned please. Giani I mean to fix, good. For reasons of my own and reasons of my trade.”

“If you can. Nobody thinks you can.”

“Nobody thought Dempsey could take Willard. But he knocked him down seven times in the first round. Don’t worry about what people think.”

“All right. You’re my gospel.”

She kissed my neck and the silver of her hair was like a mist in my vision.

“Let’s go back,” I said. “I want to hit the hay early.”

Only one more think did she have to say, and that about halfway back to the house.

“The canvas coffin,” she said.

A dreamless night on a good hard bed, and Max shaking me awake at eight o’clock. He had a sweat shirt on and corduroy trousers and tennis shoes.

“C’mon,” he said, “that beach is just right for road work.”

“Before breakfast?”

“Right. Let’s go.”

Max looks like a little fat man until you trot along beside him for a while. Then he looks like a little stocky man. I was blowing, and he was still breathing free and easy by the time we got back to the house.

Sally had breakfast ready, and the table set in that big kitchen. I didn’t have time to dawdle over it. Max had me out splitting firewood the minute I was through eating.

Tony Scarpa came out around ten-thirty in a weathered station wagon. He parked not far from where I was working and grinned out at me.

“For this one, you’ll work. Luke, baby, you went over the edge?”

“Make sense,” I said.

“Giani,” he explained. “Muggsy Ellis or Art Cary, sure. Or another battle of the century with Charley Retzer. But Giani. Did you get a piece of him, or something?”

“Blow it,” I said. “Wait’ll I get you in a ring.”

He came out of the station wagon. “Oh, me, a lousy welter, sure.”

“You don’t look like a welter to me,” I said. “What do you go now, Tony?”

He shrugged. “Hundred and fifty, sixty. Depends on how I eat.” He held out a hand. “I hope you do it, Champ.”

A different tone, that last sentence. I shook his hand. “Good to see you, Tony. Think I’m out of my class?”

“I haven’t seen you go for two years,” he said. “Four years ago, nobody was good enough for you.” He looked past me. “Hey!”

Sally stood there in shorts and one of the new sweaters.

“My girl, Tony,” I said. “Sally, I’d like to present Tony Scarpa, Sally Forester.”

“A distinct pleasure,” Tony said. “Your house, Miss Forester?”

She shook her head. “One of Max’s many friends. Luke, Charley Retzer phoned. He’s coming out, too.”

“Fine,” I said.

“I told him to leave Vera and Vickie behind, though.”

Tony grinned. “I had a date with Vera, couple nights ago. Don’t we need a cook?”

Sally looked at him wonderingly. “Two nights ago, or three?”

Tony frowned. “Let’s see — three. I fixed Charley up with Vickie, and — ”

But Sally wasn’t listening. Sally came over to kiss me on the nose. “I misjudged you, honey.”

“What goes on?” Tony asked. Over Sally’s shoulder, he winked at me, and gave me the nod.

“Nothing you’d understand,” Sally said.

Then Max was out there, and Max said, “Hello, Tony. I’ll show you where you’re bedding down.” He looked at the wood I’d split. “We’ll need more than that.”

Tony went to get his luggage. Sally said, “See you later, Champ,” and went into the house.

I was left with the wood and the ax.

The men came out to repair the ring. Charley Retzer came, a colored handler named Jest came. I stayed with the wood.

Until Max came out to say lunch was ready. “I had a cook coming,” he said, “but Sally wants to handle it. Don’t ask me why. It’ll be a lot of work.”

“Work never bothered Sally. It does me, though. My back aches, Max. Maybe I sprained something.”

“Sure. Let’s go.”

Steak for lunch, broiled over charcoal on the big grille in the big kitchen. Salad with garlic dressing and milk, milk, milk.

Tony Scarpa said, “I thought only wops liked garlic.”

“Italians,” Sally corrected him, and wondered why we laughed.

The big bag, that afternoon, boom-boom-boom. The little bag, tat-a-tat-tat. The rope. And then a couple fast ones with Tony Scarpa. Max had taped my bad hand with Piastora.

He hit me with everything he threw, damned near. He looked fat and out of shape, but Tony could always move. He moved around me, sliding in, sliding out, smooth as only an old-timer can be, scoring, splat, splat, splat.

“Jesus Christ, Luke,” he said, when it was over.

“Max has got me muscle-bound,” I complained. “He’s working me too hard, too early. And that bum right hand slowed me.”

“Maybe,” he said.

It wasn’t true, but I didn’t want to bring Sally into it. It would come back. Milk and eggs and steak and the fresh air; it would come back.

Max had some movies for us, after that. Giani’s fights with Art Gary, with Graziano, with Charley Retzer.

In the Retzer fight, in the fifth round, there was a fine camera angle on the right hand Charley hit him with. For almost two seconds, Giani was motionless, his hands low, his eyes blank. Charley was flat on his feet, the right cocked, and Charley, too, remained motionless. Then Giani started to retreat, his hands up.

Tony Scarpa’s laugh was edged in the dim room. “Could we have that one over? Oh, Charley!”

“Wise guy,” Charles said. “Anybody can make a mistake.”

“And how,” Tony said. “The Commission made the big mistake on that one.”

“Wise guy,” Charley said again. “Shut up, you two,” Max said.

There wasn’t much I learned from the pictures that I didn’t already know. Patsy was hit often enough, but only Charley had slowed him. Patsy bulled in, working close to his man, one big shoulder protecting his chin, doing all the legal and illegal damage he could get away with in the clinch.

Three times the camera showed him hitting on the break, a dozen blows looked low. The laces and the elbows and the top of his thick head were additional Giani weapons.

But Charley knew all those tricks and more; Charley had invented a couple new ones. And he’d be working out with me.

When the room grew bright again, Tony said, “You’ve been fighting right along, Champ. Why all the trappings?”

“Los Angeles,” I said. “And a dead sports time for the papers. This fight is going to be milked. Wait’ll you see the ticket scale.”

Max and Charley and Jest and Tony played pinochle; I took a hot bath, soaking in the big tub, stretching the soreness out, feeling the tenseness leave and my mind quieting down.

Clean slacks and flannel sport shirt, at peace and spotless. In the car-barn living-room the boys were still at the pinochle, shrouded in the smoke of Max’s cigar.

In the kitchen, Sally sat near the fireplace reading a fashion magazine. “Come to help?” she asked me.

“If you want. Why do you want to do the cooking? Jest’s a good cook.”

“And I’m not?”

“You’re tops, but it’s going to be work. There’ll be writers here and other guests from time to time.”

“I want to keep busy,” she said. “That Tony Scarpa’s kind of a smart aleck, isn’t he?”

“Big-city boy,” I said. “You’ll get to like him. He sure made a fool out of me in that ring today.”

“He
did?”

“Yup. He’s fast, upstairs and down, thinks fast, moves fast. He could have had the welter title for years if he’d ever taken the game seriously.”

I was standing near the sink and through the window above it, I saw the car come in the driveway and park, and Sergeant Sands get out of it.

I had the front door open by the time he got there and I brought him along with me back to the kitchen.

“Cup of coffee, Sergeant?” Sally asked him. “You look tired.”

“I’ll have a cup, thanks. I am tired.” He nodded toward the living-room, and looked at me. “You’ve got some high-priced help in there.”

“Nothing but the best for this one,” I said. “Learn anything from that cabbie’s girl friend, Sergeant?”

“Nothing. He didn’t confide in her, it seems. And Bevilaqua’s playing dumber than even he can be. That’s where this thing revolves, back there in the
Hoot Owl Club;
that’s the hub of this mess. But they’ll give me nothing to go on. They’re covering for somebody.”

Sally brought him a cup of coffee, and he said, “Thanks.” He smiled at her. Then he inspected the coffee cup as though there was something to see on it. There wasn’t; it was a very ordinary cup.

I can’t believe that he was embarrassed, but that’s the way he looked. “So,” he went on, “the only substantial suspect I have to go on, right now, is you. The chief’s kind of annoyed about the way I‘ve been riding with you. He wants me to crack down.”

S
ALLY TOOK
a deep breath. I took one, myself. I said, “It makes sense. If I was wearing your badge, I’d think just like the chief does.”

“Except for the flesh on her teeth,” he said. “Except for this — who was her boy friend at the party? Who brought her?”

“Wald would know that.”

“He doesn’t. He claims she wasn’t even invited, by him. He doesn’t even remember her coming in.”

“You’ve questioned the other guests?”

“Hell, yes. The ones that didn’t play dumb were dumb. Do you remember seeing her with anybody when you came in?”

“I don’t remember anything but the windmill, Sergeant,” I said.

“So.” He shook his head. “Everybody trying to cover, Wald, Ruth Gonzales, Bevilaqua. I can’t see Wald covering if he thought you were the killer. Because if he could prove that, you’d be vacating the title the hard way, and Giani’s the logical successor. Or the logical winner in an elimination tournament. Wald would only cover if he knew you were innocent. And Wald’s covering.”

“And why would Harry Bevilaqua cover?”

“Not why, but
who.
Harry likes you, but he likes somebody else more. Who but the killer?”

“Harry liked Noodles, too.”

“Sure. But that’s a different kill. That’s a professional kill. That’s one may never get solved.”

The picture of Johnny came to my mind, silent Johnny.

Sands said musingly, “Great stuff, conine. Soluble in alcohol. One of those Florida cops died the same way. Drinking man.”

I saw Johnny standing in front of the door, and Sally waiting to get out. I said, “I can’t seem to work up any sympathy for a Florida cop, but Noodles was kind of a nice little guy, despite the knife he pulled on me.”

“Guys his size in his kind of company,” Sands said, “almost have to carry a knife. That Gonzales woman is still crying.”

Sally replenished the sergeant’s cup. He looked at it again as he said, “Rumors are going around town. The wise guys seem to think this fight is in the bag.” He sipped the coffee.

“That’s logical enough, the terms we got out of them. It would look like we were selling the title. Only Max could keep them from the crown forever, and they know it. And they have to take our terms. They figure the title’s worth it, I guess.”

“It would be, to them. There’s not much Pilgrim money around.”

“There’s my end of the purse, if anybody wants to cover it,” I said.

The sergeant smiled, and stood up. “You sure are a confident man, Pilgrim. I’ll ride with you awhile. Best thing about a job like mine, I don’t mind losing it. Which the chief knows.” He finished his coffee standing up. “You’ll see a lot of me. I can find the door without help.”

Seconds of silence, and Sally said, “I like him. He doesn’t seem like a policeman at all.”

“He does to me. I wonder if Harry Bevilaqua would tell me anything he wouldn’t tell the sergeant.”

“He already has. I don’t think he’d tell you any more, not after you blabbed to the law.” She stood up. “You can help with dinner. There are some potatoes to peel.”

I peeled spuds, and set the table and broke out the ice cubes for the drinking-water. Sound, muscle-building labor to ready me for my imminent and important defense of the title.

After dinner, the pinochle hounds went back to their battle, and I helped Sally with the dishes. It was eight o’clock when we finished, and it had been too much of a day for me. I couldn’t keep my eyes open.

I fell asleep a few seconds after my head met the pillow and slept a dreamless sleep right through to dawn. And then came fully awake with the opening of my eyes.

Nobody was up, but I knew it wouldn’t do me any good to stay in bed; I was as rested as it was possible to get. I got up quietly and put on the sweat pants and shirt and sneakers.

It was some day. The Pacific smooth as a blue lawn, the low clouds on its far rim pink in the morning sun. From the wet beach a sea gull looked at me curiously.

Easy, now, trotting the morning stiffness out of the leg muscles, sweating the sore edge of yesterday’s labor out of my misused body, drinking in the salt air, blanking the mind.

Yesterday had taught me how far I was from my peak. Still, I’d been fighting right along, and better men than Tony Scarpa. The answer seemed to be I’d been fighting the same men over and over, men I’d watched in other bouts, men I knew. It was almost automatic, fighting men I knew as well as I knew Art Cary, Muggsy Ellis, and Charley Retzer.

And another thought came to me. I’d heard about fighters whose opponents had splashed without their knowing it; deals made by managers and one of the fighters, leaving the winner in the dark.

Had Max, I wondered, ever done that? No, not Max. But still, the way that Scarpa had scored on me —

Max and Sally were in the kitchen when I got back. Max was setting the table, and Sally was pouring popover batter into a muffin tin.

I had a small drink of water and sat near the biggest window. “That Scarpa sure got to me yesterday, Max,” I said.

“Mmmmm-hmmm. He’s got to plenty of them, in his time.”

“I’m surprised I lasted this long,” I said.

“Me, too,” Max agreed. “Keep going; this fight isn’t bad enough, you’ve got to work yourself into a mental lather. You want
me
to fight Giani for you?”

“If it would draw, I would. What are you nervous about?”

“Me — nervous? Why should I be nervous? You’ve got to fight him. How’s that hand?”

“A little tender, that’s all. Do you think that doctor knew his stuff?”

“No, he’s a converted veterinary. He — ”

“Stop quibbling, you two,” Sally said sharply. “You haven’t acted like this since the Robinson fight.”

The last big one; the last one I’d worried about. I went over and kissed the back of her neck. She was wearing shorts and a halter and her perfume was light on the morning air.

“Easy, sailor,” she said. “Max is watching.”

“Jealous, that’s Max,” I said. “I trotted almost all the way to the seals. Aren’t those seals screwy, Max?”

“Anti-Semitic bastards,” he said. “They just looked right through me.”

Charley Retzer came into the kitchen then, huddled into a big sweater. “Isn’t there any heat over that garage? Tony and I damned near froze last night.”

Max smiled. “Go easy on Luke, and I’ll show you how to turn on the furnace. Tony almost put him away with the big gloves yesterday.”

“That’s what I hear,” Charley said. “Tony should have fought middleweight, huh?”

Annoyance in me. Ridiculous, of course, but there. I smiled.

“Or I should have had somebody in my corner besides that meat-head, Doc Heinrich, in Jersey City,” Charley went on. “You’ve had some lucky nights, Champ.”

I smiled, the burn growing in me.

“For instance,” he continued, “you could have been fighting when Walker and Greb and Tiger Flowers were going. You’d have been fighting prelims for the Elks Club.”

“Sure,” I said.

“Or you could have had any other manager in the world but Max Freeman, and you’d be lucky to even — ”

“Shut up!” Sally said.

We all looked at Sally. Her face was white, her blue eyes were blazing. She had a big mixing-bowl in one upraised hand, and it was ready for Charley.

“Lay off Luke,” she said. “You fools don’t know what you’re doing.”

Charley grinned. “Ahh, baby, the hell we don’t. We’re trying to bring out the old tiger in him. We’re needling him for a purpose, kid.”

“He doesn’t need it. He’s got pride, pride,
pride
. That’s all he needs, and all he ever had.”

Charley’s voice was quiet. “As far as you know. You didn’t know him when he had something else. The first time I fought him, I wanted to run and hide after the third round. That was before he got civilized.”

“That’s the way I like him,” she said.

“You and Giani,” Charley agreed. “Relax, Sal.”

The hand holding the bowl trembled, and then the bowl fell to the floor and bounced along the tile. Sally put both hands to her face and her shoulders shook as she took a deep and noisy breath.

I put an arm around her. “Easy, kid. They’re my friends, honey. It was all in fun.”

“It wasn’t fun for you. You know it wasn’t. I was watching your face, and I knew it, too.”

Charley looked at her coldly; Max snorted something and went out of the room. The side door opened, and Tony Scarpa came in.

“I smell something good,” he said genially. His quick eyes moved from Charley to me and Sally. “And something bad,” he added. “Lovers’ quarrel?”

“The boys were needling me,” I said. “Charley claims I’m Mr. Horseshoes.”

“You’ve had a lot of breaks,” Tony said easily, “but now you’ve got Giani. Into each life some rain must fall. When do we feed?”

Sally’s composure was back. “In ten minutes.”

It was a quiet meal, except for Tony. He voiced his opinions on this and that; he wasn’t a man who needed any help to keep a conversation going.

Charley looked owly; Max’s face was carefully blank. Jest ate quietly, in a world of his own. Luke Pilgrim, the cheese champ, said nothing, burning slowly.

I took on Charley that afternoon. I watched his feet and watched his eyes and seemed to know every punch he was going to throw before he threw it. Against Charley I looked good.

And he was trying. He had the memory of those last couple rounds of our bout and annoyance at Sally’s interference this morning. He knew all my tricks and tip-offs; he knew me like a son.

But he couldn’t score consistently. In the clinches, my hands were always inside; in the corners, his back was always to the ropes. I kept him off balance. I kept on top of him and the pace of the sparring was my pace. I had him blowing at the final bell.

“I didn’t earn my dough,” he said. “I’m not in shape.”

“You’ll earn it before we’re through,” I told him.

He looked at me strangely. “Tough guy? Luke, I know you. Don’t talk out of character.”

Max said, “Want to try a round or two with Tony?”

“Hell, yes,” I said.

Splat, splat, splat again. But not always scores. Some on my forearms, some on my gloves, some on the high shoulder. Moving in and moving out, hydraulic Tony Scarpa, smooth as new oil. But I didn’t look like the complete bum, this time.

The bell, and I was conscious of spectators. Harry Bevilaqua was leaning against the trunk of the eucalyptus tree, missing nothing. Ruth Gonzales was with him.

Max took off the gloves, and Jest gave me a robe, and I went over to talk to Harry and the dead-eyed Ruth.

“Afternoon, Champ,” Harry said. “That Tony can move, can’t he?”

“He sure can. Good afternoon, Ruth.”

She nodded, and looked away, staying close to Harry.

“You didn’t look so good.” Harry said.

“I looked worse yesterday against Tony. Remember, he’s a welter, and fast.”

“He’s no welter no more, nor fast,” Harry said. “You just didn’t look good, Champ.”

“Lay off, Harry,” I said. “Did you come out here to heckle me?”

“No, just wanted to see you go. Want to know how to bet.”

“Bet on Giani,” I said. “You like him.”

“I hear that’s the bet,” Harry said. Even voice, quiet.

I studied him a good five seconds. “What’s on your mind, Harry?”

“What should be? Brenda dead, Noodles dead. You fighting Giani, and the word around it’s in the bag. I’m just seeing for myself. Noodles was my friend.”

“And Brenda wasn’t?”

“Not like Noodles.”

I said easily, “You know more about both murders than I do, Harry. Maybe I should be watching you.”

“My place is open to the public.”

“This isn’t,” I said. “Not today. Get out of here, Harry.” His big face puzzled, then set. “You mean that, Luke?”

“I mean it. If you want to play cop, get a badge, get a gun.”

“I’ve got a gun,” he said. “I don’t need no badge, I’ll go, if that’s orders.”

Then Max was there, and Max said, “What the hell’s going on? What’s the matter here?”

“The big meatball’s threatening me,” I said. “He’s throwing his acreage around.”

Tony Scarpa came over, and he talked rapid Italian to Harry, nothing I understood. Charley Retzer came, and Jest, and Ruth Gonzales began to cry.

I said, “I’m sorry, Ruth. I wasn’t including you. You can stay as long as you want.”

“I’ll go,” she said, and she had Harry’s arm. “Come. We go.”

Harry’s smile was scornful. “I’ll be ringside, Luke.”

“I’ll dump him in your lap,” I said. “Beat it.”

Max was in front of me. Tony said quietly, “Relax, Champ. Take it easy.” Jest flanked Max, saying nothing.

Harry turned his huge back on us, and walked off with Ruth.

“Noodles,” Tony said. “Noodles was his best friend. Noodles was always in his corner, in the old days.”

I was trembling and there was a touch of nausea in my tight stomach. Jest put a limber black hand up and began to massage the back of my neck.

“Save it,” Jest said quietly. “Save it for Giani, for when you get paid.” His voice soft as his hands, his sleepy poise soothing.

“What the hell got into that big wop?” Max said. “I never knew he was that punchy.”

“Noodles,” Tony said again. “When do we eat?”

“What’s Noodles got to do with Luke?” Max asked him. “And what do you know about that, anyway?”

Tony winked at me. “We
Italians
confide in each other. What’s for supper, Max?”

“Noodles,” Max said, “for you.”

Sally was waiting on the drive in front of the house when we came back. Her eyes searched mine, asking questions.

“I’m better,” I said. “I’m beginning to shape up.”

“What was Harry here for? What was the ruckus down there?”

“Nothing, honey. I don’t want to talk about it now.”

“All right.” Her bright eyes moving over my face.
“One
more question — was that Ruth Gonzales with him?”

“Yes.”

She took a deep breath. “I don’t feel like cooking, tonight Couldn’t we all go to a restaurant? Couldn’t you and I go to a movie or something, Luke? Wouldn’t that be all right, Max?”

“I’ll cook,” Jest said. “I like to cook. There’s plenty of stuff to work with. We can eat here in a jiffy.”