Ruth nearly had a breakdown writing and rewriting the chapters. She and Walt had their first serious fight when he suggested she try writing a novel and not the world's greatest literature. Ruth blamed the “atmosphere” now and although it was a strain on his bank account, Walt rented a place for her on a small island which was trying terribly hard to be a second Fire Island. Ruth spent the summer attending many parties and doing little writing. That fall she took her present job, editing a trade magazine and now had a true excuse for not writing—the job “pooped” Ruth.
Whatever Walt did turned out wrong. A famous playwright and a well-known book reviewer happened to be at a party Ruth had dragged Walt to. Both men were fight fans and on learning Walt had been an amateur champ, they tried to take him over. Walt explained about Ruth and her novel and they suggested she try for a fellowship, agreed to sponsor her. For a time Ruth worked feverishly, filling out forms, retyping her chapters. When she mentioned living in Paris for the year, if she won the fellowship, Walt said he couldn't get that much leave. She accused him of being selfish, after all, he had been to Paris. He said he didn't want to give up his job, even if Ruth felt her book would make a fortune. They had a real battle, but Walt simply refused to think of leaving the force. He had just been promoted to a detective, third grade, for capturing two stick-up men. In a fit of rage Ruth tore up the applications and ever since had accused Walt of ruining her career. In her own mind she had neatly convinced herself she had, in fact, been awarded the fellowship.
For a time she tried drinking, but wasn't good at it. Then, as if to spite herself, she began working like an eager-beaver on the cosmetic magazine, making it one of the top journals in its field. In a perverse way she was happy at her job because she hated it and knew Walt was unhappy because she despised and mocked her job. For the past three months they had barely talked to each other—and with Walt's change of tours, during some weeks rarely saw the other. Ruth decided to “punish” Walt by not having any “mama-papa” stuff until Walt came crawling. But he also seemed indifferent. A month ago she met Burges and somehow he reminded Ruth of her younger days, when she was so sure of being a famous writer.
Ruth stopped to buy a bottle of soda. Entering their apartment, with her story about being at the printers carefully worked out in her mind, Ruth was surprised that Walt wasn't there. It was a few minutes after nine thirty and she stared at the cigarette butts in the ash tray, made herself a light drink, wondered, uneasily, where Walt was. Now she was sure somebody had been with him when she had phoned, and felt a flash of hysterics as she examined the butts for lipstick traces.
The late evening paper was on top of the television set and Ruth had a hunch Walt had just left the house. But that wasn't like him. He never went out alone. She glanced at the paper, thinking a little about Burgie, not at all sure what he meant to her. After soaking in a hot tub, she finished the paper in bed. By ten-thirty she was really worried about Walt. As Ruth was debating whether to call the squad room, he might have gone out on an emergency assignment, the phone rang. Walt said, “Glad you're home. I'll be right over. Oh, I'm bringing somebody with me.”
He hung up before she could ask what it was all about There was an intenseness in his voice which annoyed her. She carefully brushed her long black hair and, as an afterthought put on her best girdle and bra, to make certain she looked slim under her robe. “Now wouldn't this be a living bitch if Walt is bringing another woman over for a showdown!” Ruth told herself. “But that's impossible, I know Walt. Still... he might have been seeing some floozie all these months. Perhaps I misunderstood his coolness in bed. Well I can always phone Burgie. I'll scream if Walt tries to leave me!”
Twenty minutes later Walt unlocked the door. There was a little, boyish-looking old man with him. As Walt said, “This is my wife, Ruth. Ruth, meet Tommy Cork,” she realized the man wasn't old. It was merely his face was out of shape and at the moment full of worry.
Shaking her hand, Tommy muttered, “Pleased to meetcha, Mrs. Steiner, I...eh...” Opening his coat Walt told her, “Ruth, we're in a kind of jam. We have a favor to ask. Something very important we want you to do. Right now. A woman's life may depend upon it.”
TOMMY
Leaving the steak house, Tommy headed west. At the corner he glanced at a window clock. It was a few minutes after eight and the window happened to be part of a bar. Knowing May didn't come on until around ten o'clock, he decided to have a shot. He needed one.
Over his third belt he told himself, “Man, when you get a nutty fight fan, you got the tops in being dumb. Arno takes out a policy on me, as a favor, and Al starts yelling murder. If I hadn't put the lid on him hard just now, Al would have ruined the works for me. For crying out loud, the way Al reasons, if Arno decided to buy me a tux it would mean he was thinking of marrying me. 'Cancel the policy and see what Arno does.' What would they expect Mr. Brewer, or anybody else, to do but throw me out? I got it made and no creep is going to spoil my last chance....Now why am I calling Alvin a creep? He's been plenty decent to me, give me what breaks he can. That cop, that Walt, he was something.
“If I packed his weight, I bet I'd be working at least once a month. And with my savvy—most heavies don't know how to move off their flat feet. Sure can't figure Walt for not turning pro, getting in a couple big paydays. Being an amateur was the good life. Really kid stuff but I sure felt I had the world by the hairs then. Seventy-two bouts—I damn near had more watches than the Swiss navy; if I hadn't hocked them with the promoters. And those bootleg fights, hop into some beat-up car and spend a week fighting in Troy, Albany, Toronto, come back with a pocket full of bucks. I don't get it, even the medal chasers can't get a fight today. TV killed off the amateurs, too. And I figured TV would be a shot in the arm for... Aw, what am I stewing about? I'm set. I'll make some good fights now, I'm feeling strong, ready to go. Always knew my Irish luck wouldn't let me down. That Al.
“Good thing I didn't blow my cap trying to calm him down. Got to keep in good with these TV guys. They're as important now as the mob boys. Well, guess I'll stop with this shot, really have to keep in shape. I'll go see May now— only get tanked if I hang around here. Another thing I like about Arno—he don't mind if I take a belt now and then. Yeah, I'll see May now, show her I'm on my way, all togged out. She hasn't seen me look this sharp in years. Even if she isn't working yet, I'll find out where she's rooming and.... Hey, that was Walt looking in here! I hope that dick isn't tailing me.”
Going to the door, Tommy watched Walt Steiner walk on down the street. He decided the detective was merely passing by. He straightened his tae and overcoat, inspecting himself in the bar mirror, quite pleased with what he saw, then started for the diner.
Mac, the partner on duty, was the baker—although despite the sign behind the counter, all the cakes and bread weren't “baked on the premises.” It depended on how drunk Mac was. Tommy walked in and sat on a counter stool. Over a cup of coffee he asked Bertha, “What time does May Cork come on?”