Canvas Coffin (7 page)

“I’m not getting any younger, Max. Or richer.”

Max said quietly, “If you’re saying what I think you’re saying, this is the end of us, Luke. And I’ll go to the Association with it.”

Johnny’s gaze came back from the middle of nowhere to fasten on Max. Wald and D’Amico looked at Max.

“Sure you could, Max,” I said. “And I might wind up in the gas chamber. Is that right, gentlemen?”

Wald said nothing. D’Amico’s big shoulders shrugged. “Who knows? I didn’t say it.”

“No. Nobody said it. But it’s been in the room. You didn’t really need Johnny, not for this trip, did you?”

D’Amico shrugged again. “I don’t like rough talk. That’s mug stuff. We don’t need it at this level.”

“That’s right. And I don’t like to do anything without Max. I never have. We can talk again, can’t we?”

Both of them glanced at Max, and back at me. “Sure,” D’Amico said, and stood up. “You call us, or we’ll drop in. Whatever you want.”

“I’ll let you know,” I said, and smiled.

Wald stood up. Johnny stood up. Max still sat. I walked to the door with them.

I asked, “How about Johnny? Doesn’t he ever talk?”

D’Amico smiled at him. “Great little guy. One of the very best. Hell, yes, he can talk loud when he wants to. Got a great big voice when he needs it. Just doesn’t use words.”

Silence in the room when they left. Max sat on the davenport, staring into space, when I turned from the door.

I went over to the phone and called Sally’s room. I said, “They’re gone. Let’s go out and eat. It’s about that time.”

“I’ll be over,” she said.

I put the phone back into the cradle and turned to face Max. He still wouldn’t look at me.

“They don’t scare me,” I said. “Giani doesn’t scare me.”

“Who said they did? You gave them the idea you’d sell out. You weren’t planning to cross them, were you?”

“Sure. That’s what I meant when I said they don’t scare me. I’d cross them, tomorrow, and spit in their eyes when they came to moan about it.”

“Came to moan? You lard-head, you mean come to
mourn,
don’t you? You wouldn’t live long enough to spit.”

“Nuts,” I said. “I know the type.”

“You
know the type? From where? From the choir? From high school? Look, Luke, I grew up with the type. I’ve seen them operate, from twelve on. Don’t get any nice ideas about what they’d do. Don’t ever get the idea you could cross them and get away with it.” His face softened. “Though I’d rather see you dead, at that, than what I thought you were, for a while, there.”

I said, “I’m sorry, Max. You could be right, but I just can’t get scared about those — freaks.”

Again the chimes sounded. Grand Central Station.

Max said, “It’s about time that reporter showed.” He went to the door.

Sergeant Sands — and Sally. The sergeant said, “Nolan told me you phoned.”

“Come in, Sergeant,” I said. “There’s more, now.”

Max and Sally turned to look at me questioningly. I said, “I’ve just had a talk with Paul D’Amico.”

The sergeant didn’t blink an eye. He came over to sit in one of the twin chairs. “I know it. What did he want?”

“A title fight for Patsy Giani. D’Amico’s got the idea he knows more about the murder than you do, and he was using the threat as a lever to get me to sign.”

“Threat?”

“He seems to think I went home with Brenda Vane.”

“So does the room clerk. What happened to your hand?”

“I don’t know. You could ask the doctor that treated it. It was a little sore, right after the fight, but nothing like this.”

“What’s the doctor’s name?”

Max gave it to him, and Sands wrote it down. Then he sat there quietly a moment, looking at his thumbnail. “The fight was all D’Amico wanted?”

“He wasn’t too clear, but I think he wanted a dive to go with it.”

“Giani — diving?”

“No. Me.”

The sergeant was frowning. “You? It doesn’t add.”

“Why not?”

He looked at the thumbnail again. “I hope you’re not sensitive, but I told you I was a fight fan. Honestly, now, you wouldn’t have a ghost of a chance with Giani in a straight fight, would you?”

“That’s right,” Max said. “He wouldn’t.”

The redness. The image of Sands wavered, then came into focus.

Sally said, “Easy, Luke, baby.”

“I guess,” I said, “I’m the only guy in the world who thinks I can lick Giani. Maybe my judgment’s off. I meant to give D’Amico the idea I would bet on Giani. I meant to give Giani his licking, and D’Amico one hell of a financial licking. I had it all figured out, real cute.”

“You were going to cross Paul D’Amico?”

“Mmmm-hmmm.”

“God,” Sands said. “Good Lord.” It wasn’t blasphemy. It was a prayer.

Max said, “That ain’t all, Sergeant. He was going to pop that little torpedo of D’Amico’s. He called him a pimp and offered to rip his spine out.”

“Johnny?”

“That’s right. The wordless wonder. The guy who never talks.”

“He can’t talk,” Sands said. “He’s a mute. If D’Amico told Johnny to cut off his hand above the wrist with an old tin can, Johnny would do it. Florida cops made Johnny a mute, ruined his vocal cords. All the cops involved died, eventually, one way or another. Johnny is a part of D’Amico.”

Max said, “And Golden Boy, here, thinks he understands people like that. He’s seen a lot of gangster pictures, so he knows all about them.”

Sands shook his head, studying me.

Max said, “No offense, Sergeant, but would
you
cross Paul D’Amico?”

Sands’s head turned slowly, as he looked at Max. “No,” he said.

Sally said, “What difference does it make? Luke would. There aren’t many people in the world like Luke. You should know that by now, Max.”

“The world’s full of them,” Max said. “Some of ‘em are even dumber.”

The sergeant almost smiled. He looked at me wearily. “You’ve been champ a long time. Certain attitudes that title gives you have hardened your conceit to a point where you think you’re invulnerable. No man is. No nation is, no idea is, no form of matter is. You’re a little better in your trade than the average, but D’Amico isn’t in your trade. You say he doesn’t scare you? You don’t even
register
on him, not as a threat. He could have you destroyed tomorrow and not even use people he knew. The price would be a little higher, because of your prominence, but it wouldn’t be much higher than he earns in say, oh — less than a week. What difference does it make if he scares you or not? You’d be just as dead.”

Silence. Nobody said anything for seconds. Then the sergeant said, “I’ll be getting along. Still got a lot of hours ahead of me. We’ll get the statements about the clerk when we need them. Might never need them. I’ll drop in and throw the fear of God into him tonight. No record, and we don’t want to start him with one unless we have to.” He stood up. “Stick to things you understand, Pilgrim, and let me know about any and all of the things that happen to you.”

He stared at me, looking tired and puzzled. “Isn’t there something psychologists call ‘the death wish’? Maybe that’s what’s wrong with you.”

“There’s nothing wrong with him,” Sally said, “except he’s not afraid of a physical threat. And he’s not too bright.”

Another of the near smiles came to the sergeant’s face. “He doesn’t need to be bright, with a girl like you. Keep him out of trouble. We might need him one of these days.”

He left, and Max went in to shave. I sat near the window, watching the solid stream of home-bound traffic. Sally turned on the radio.

Again, the chimes sounded.

From the bathroom, Max called, “Whoever it is, tell them to go to hell. I’ve had enough visitors today.”

Sally went to the door, and opened it. The man there showed her something he held in his hand and said something to her too low for me to hear.

Then Sally called, “It’s a reporter, Max, and he claims you promised him an interview this afternoon.”

M
AX STAYED IN THE BATHROOM
while I talked to the reporter. He wanted to know, first, about Giani.

I gave it some thought, and said, “I think he’s earned his chance at the title. There’s a definite possibility we’ll meet this year. Maybe this spring.”

“You’re kidding,” he said.

“Why should I be kidding?”

“I mean — well, everyone’s had the feeling you were never going to fight him.”

“That’s silly,” I said. “He just hasn’t been a match until now. He hasn’t been enough to make the fight profitable.”

Skepticism was plain on the reporter’s face. He smiled at me, saying nothing.

I said, “Look at the trouble Patsy had with Charley Retzer. And look what I did to Charley the other night.”

“Retzer was younger when Giani fought him. Younger and a hell of a lot better. Or am I wrong?”

“Retzer was younger,” I agreed. “Next question?”

“Champ, you’ve given me a beat. Now, this makes a story, this Giani bout. It’s solid, it’s for the record?”

“Nothing’s been signed,” I said, “but I’m willing, if we can make the right terms. That you can print.”

“That we will,” he said. “To hell with the feature story; this I’ve got to write.” He stood up. “Thanks a lot.”

“It will probably be out here,” I said, “opening that new sport bowl in the Valley.”

“Oh,” he said, “a Sam Wald promotion.”

“I guess.”

“Well, he won’t need to beg for publicity on this one. It’s a natural.”

“That’s what we figured,” I said, “and this is a sports town.”

When he left, Max came out of the bathroom. “Big boy, aren’t you?” he asked. “You don’t need me.”

“I wouldn’t fight without you in the corner, Max.” No answer from him.

Sally said, “We’re going to eat together, aren’t we? Don’t sulk, Max.”

“I’ve got to see some people,” he said. “Can’t make it tonight.” He looked at me meaningfully. “If you intend to fight this wop, you’d better start training, if you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean,” Sally said. “I’ll help you on that, Max.”

He went into the bedroom and Sally smirked at me. “It’s a good thing I’m not sensitive. I know a place to eat.”

“What kind of place?” I asked suspiciously. “Not
Harry’s Hoot Owl Club?”

“Of course not. A refined place. Let’s go.”

Refined was a good word for the spot; it was overrefined, a swish-mecca, a pansy bed.

Near the ocean, in Santa Monica, a place of pastel colors and soft music, of some long-haired boys and a few crew cuts who might be there only for the ride.

The food was good, and the place was restful but I’m the kind of roughneck who’s annoyed by the sight of the unmanly.

“Looking for somebody special?” I asked Sally. “Mmmm-hmmm. I phoned him this afternoon. He’s going to meet us here.”

“One of the-boys?”

“He wasn’t when I was out here before. He’s an artist turned photographer. He worked a lot with Brenda Vane. I didn’t know this was one of — those places, Luke. Doesn’t it give you the creeps?”

“Yup, but it’s all a matter of taste, you know. Some pugs prefer this kind of company.”

“Wrestlers, too, I hear.”

“I was talking of the human race,” I said, “not wrestlers. Why do you think your friend wanted you to meet him
here?”

“I don’t know. Here he comes now.”

The gent coming toward us wore a silver-blue suit of some soft and beautifully tailored material. He had a thin, finely modeled face and startling blue eyes. His hair was white silk, long and in perfect waves.

“Sally, baby,” he said, as I rose. His voice was warm.

“Hello, Michael,” she said. “Michael Lord, Luke Pilgrim.”

His thin-fingered hand gripped mine strongly. “I’ve seen you fight,” he said. “You’re a true champion, Mr. Pilgrim.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Lots of sports writers would give you an argument on that.”

“No, because I wouldn’t argue with a sports writer. I hear you’re doing very well, Sally. I see a lot of your work in the magazines.” He sat down on my side of the table.

“I make a living,” Sally said. “How’s the photography?”

“As a photographer,” he said easily, “I was nothing much. You’ll remember I wasn’t much of an artist, either. However, there’s another branch of the game at which I do very well.”

Art studies, as they’re called,
I thought.

“Pornography?” Sally asked.

“A blunt word.” He smiled at her. “You wanted to talk about Brenda Vane?”

Sally nodded, studying Michael. “She posed for that sort of trash?”

“She loved it. Brenda had an overpowering compulsion to debase herself. A masochist, too, you know.”

“So I’ve heard. You, too, Michael?”

“No. Money motivates me. I had no talent. You know I had no talent, Sally. But you did. And now you illustrate underwear advertisements. Which is the greater fall?”

“Yours. Mine sells underwear. Why did you want to meet us here, Michael?”

“I wanted to show you off to my friends, both of you. They’re prestige-conscious, these lads. They model for me, too, you know. I make
all
kinds of pictures, Sally. To suit
any
taste.”

Flawlessly tailored, impeccably groomed, cleanly scented, he sat there, showing us the dry rot inside him.

“Tell me about Brenda,” Sally said.

I could feel the glances of the boys from time to time, as Michael Lord told Sally about Brenda. Michael’s fine face glowed as he talked glibly about Brenda, as he held us spellbound for the admiration of his stooges.

He used a lot of words and told us nothing we didn’t know. Until he said, “She was shacked up with Sam Wald for a while, I heard. Remember, that’s just something I heard.”

“That’s kind of coming down the ladder for Sam Wald, isn’t it?” I said. “He could do better than that.”

“If you were in my business,” Lord said, “you’d never be amazed at a man’s taste. Brenda could offer a lot — to anybody.”

Sally looked at me when he said that. Then she said, “I think we’d better hurry, Luke. The Bronsons will be waiting.”

“The Bronsons” was a name we used when we wanted to get away fast. Sally looked pale.

I paid the bill in a hurry and got her out of that refined atmosphere. Outside, she took a deep breath of air and stood quietly, looking up at the stars.

Then she said quietly, “For two weeks in the spring of 1946, I was thinking of marrying Michael Lord. Isn’t he a
monster,
Luke?”

“I think he’s kind of cute,” I said. “Where now?”

“Underwear advertisements — he’s got his nerve, the puke.” She was looking out at the traffic on the street.

“Well, you do a lot of them,” I said. “He’s about half right on that.”

She turned to glare at me. “I’m
not
gifted. I’m talented, but not gifted. Do you understand the difference between those two words?”

“I guess. Couldn’t you do illustrations for stories, or kids’ books, or something?”

“I’ve done illustrations for stories. Kids’ books don’t pay my kind of commissions.” Her voice was sharp. “Are you criticizing me?”

“No, honey, you’re criticizing yourself. I wonder where Charley Retzer is staying?”

“Max would know. Why do you want to see Charley Retzer?”

“Because Charley was out watching the box office on two Giani fights, the two fights right after Giani fought Charley.”

“I don’t follow you, Luke.”

“I was thinking Charley jobbed the Giani fight. And got a piece of Patsy’s next two matches in return. If Giani is afraid of an overhand right, I want to know it. That’s Charley’s best punch.”

“But didn’t Giani almost kill Charley?”

“Yes. And that’s easier when the other man isn’t trying.”

“You mean Giani would do that, even if he — ”

“Even if he knew he was going to win. In some ways, beloved, Patsy’s worse than I am.” We were driving now, and there was a drugstore about a block ahead. I said, “Stop near that drugstore; I’ll call a couple of the boys who should know where Charley’s staying.”

The boys weren’t home, but I got his address from the hospital, the place I should have tried first.

It was a motel on Pico, and there was a light in Charley’s unit. There was a sound of a radio, too, and as we came closer the sound of feminine voices, high and shrill.

I knocked, and the voices stopped and Charley’s voice said, “That’s probably the manager. You babes giggle too much.”

“Maybe I’d better wait in the car,” Sally said. “It can’t be any worse than the place we ate,” I told her.

Then Charley was in the doorway, framed by the light behind him.

A second, while his eyes focused to the dimness and then: “Champ! Hey, I been trying to get a hold of you.”

“Meet my girl, Charley,” I said. “You’ve met Sal before, haven’t you?”

“Hell, yes. I’m glad I didn’t get a hold of you, Champ. Hi, Sally. Nothing personal, kid.”

“How personal can you get?” Sally asked. “I know there are two women in there. Is there, by chance, another man?”

“He’s on the way,” Charley said easily. “Come on in and meet the folks.”

The “folks” looked like a sister act, both synthetic blondes past their prime, one named Vera and one Vickie. Both had fine legs and the kind of brassières that made them look adequately endowed, even if they weren’t. These two probably were.

The unit consisted of a living-room and kitchenette and alcove bedroom. Furnished in rattan, thick with smoke and the girls’ perfume.

Charley snapped off the radio. “Drink, Luke?”

“Not unless you have beer. Charley, I’ve been thinking of fighting Patsy Giani.”

“So you told me.” The girls had gone to the bathroom, and this room was suddenly very quiet. Sally went over to sit on the rattan davenport.

I said, “You should have licked him, Charley.”

“Maybe. I haven’t any beer. How about you, Sal?”

From the bathroom came the suppressed giggles of the blondes.

“What are they doing, tickling each other?” Sally asked. “Ahh,” Charley said, “they’re good kids. What’ll it be, Sal?”

“Nothing,” Sally said coolly. And added, “Thank you.” Charley smiled at me. “Why don’t you two get married?”

I didn’t answer that. “You had a piece of Giani’s next two fights after your go with him, didn’t you?”

“Not officially.” He studied me. “What gives, Luke?”

“I was thinking Giani might have been afraid of you. I mean, his manager; I don’t think Patsy’s afraid of anybody.”

“Neither am I, Luke. That’s rough talk. You saying I jobbed it?”

“If you say you didn’t, I’ll believe you.”

“What are you getting at?”

“This — if he was afraid of you, he was afraid of that overhand right, and though a weakness that basic doesn’t make sense, better men have had bigger blind spots. I know you got to me with it, in the seventh. If it’s true, I’d like you to work out with me for the fight.”

“A spar-mate? Me? I should work out with
you,
for that kind of money?”

“For good money. I’d make it worth your while, Charley. And the big gloves and headguards; who’d get hurt?”

Giggling from the bathroom. A sigh from Sally.

Charley shook his head. “You’re punchy. I’d like to see Giani get beat; that I’ll admit. Would you fight him here?”

“Yes. He didn’t have to batter you like he did. Am I right?”

“Maybe. You didn’t have to go crazy, either.”

“I wasn’t quite right, after that punch in the seventh, Charley. Maybe I was rough. I don’t remember it.”

He looked at me for seconds. “I don’t like the guy. I’d hate to see him hold the title. Give me a little time on it, Luke.”

“Sure. I’ll let you know. Nothing’s definite, anyway. Well, keep your tail up, Charley.”

“Mmmm-hmmm!” He smiled at Sally. “We’re friends?”

She shook her head. “If you want, Luke, I can go home alone. I wouldn’t want you to disappoint Vicki. Or was Vera meant for you?”

“They’re both for me,” Charley said. “I’m a two-gun man. Sally, you don’t know when you’re well off. You’ve got the cream of the crop, lady. Treat him right.”

Sally said nothing, not even good night.

The giggling started again as we walked to the car and the radio went on.

“Tramp,” Sally said.

Nothing from me.

“First Michael with his underwear talk, and now this. Why don’t we know some
decent
people?”

“We know us.”

“The least he could have done is call it ‘lingerie.’ And Charley didn’t have to give me a sermon. They all think
they’re
right, don’t they?” She handed me the keys. “You drive for a change.”

The Ford coughed into life. Sally sat on the far edge of the seat from me. She was lighting a cigarette.

I headed the Ford west, toward the ocean.

“Why are all fighters such — beasts? Is it because they were that to begin with? Or is it the fighting that does it?”

“I don’t think they’re beasts,” I said. “Fighting kills some of the — oh, finer instincts in a man, maybe, but — ”

“Some? All,” Sally said. “The canvas coffin. I wonder how many talents have been buried in a ring?”

“I don’t know. Mickey Walker’s getting to be quite a painter. But I don’t know if he’s a good painter, or just a good painter for a former fighter, if you follow me.”

“He’s good,” Sally said. “I’ve seen his work.”

“Well, there’s an answer for you. He held three titles and was robbed of the fourth. He’d fight anything up to a platoon. And he’s still got his marbles.”

“And how about you, Luke Pilgrim?”

“I was always kind of a bastard, I guess. You’re not exactly the sweetest girl in the world, yourself, Mrs. Forester.”

I cut over to Olympic, and down that, through the tunnel to the Ocean Highway. Sally turned her window down and threw out her cigarette.

The moon was just a sliver in the clear sky, the water barely visible to our left. I cut the flivver into overdrive and snapped on the radio.

In the right-hand lane, just loafing, the Santa Monica bluffs towering to our right, the lights of traffic stretching along the big curve toward Malibu.

“Some day this has been,” I said.

No answer from Sally. The radio was giving us the Basin Street Six and the flivver was murmuring to herself. “This is where I’d like to live,” I said. “Near the water.” No comment from my love.