John D. MacDonald
The Gentle Killer
We had hacked up the Cleveland purse, the short end of it, and a week later, after bailing out the convertible and paying the back alimony to Myrna, the leech, and catching up on my rent and adding a few necessary numbers to the wardrobe, I was down to a slim fifty bucks; the next bout for the Tailor was set up for three weeks ahead, and there was my other bum, Joe Zamatchi, eating off me while his busted hand knitted.
As a direct consequence, I was giving the Beach the jaunty ‘hello’ and making like I had an in on the sweepstakes which is standard procedure when you feel the wolf fangs, but usually fools nobody at all, at all. Every time I thought of the fifty bucks it seemed smaller and it seemed like every time I turned around there was fat Barney Gowdy clinging to my lapels and breathing in my face, indirectly advising me of what he had had for lunch. Even though the salami was in top shape, I was chewing it like sawdust and smiling in pain and wondering when I’d have to listen to Barney Gowdy when, like rubbing the lamp, he slid into the opposite side of the booth and said: “Danny boy, I’m weary of your evasive tactics and it is high time we consulted each other on a proposition which I want to make you out of the goodness of my heart.”
I gave him the wealthy smile. “Barney, I’ve got no time for propositions. Everything is like silk with me, and I don’t want to change the dice.”
He sighed patiently. Barney Gowdy has been pitching pennies at the cracks in the boxfighting profession ever since the days of John L. He is somewhat like an obese penguin with extra chins, and it is said that if you come up behind him on the street and say, “Eight to five,” he’ll say, “Seven to five,” and make you take it because he is persuasive in his hedge betting on both sides of any sporting picture.
“Danny,” he said, “it is difficult to do you a favor. I like you, Danny; I’ve always liked you. It is people like you, with an education and all, who elevate the profession. I want to give something away to you and for the last week you have been putting a shoulder in my face and walking off. My feelings are hurt and this is maybe the last time I will show you the attention.”
“You’re a pest,” I said, “and the only way I’ll find peace is to let you give me your chiseling proposition so that I can say no. Go ahead.”
I thought his eyes were going to fill with tears. He gulped. “Danny, you have doubtless heard of Spencer Leslie, who, as the coming light-heavy has amassed a string of twenty-one knockouts, three decisions and a draw?”
“Yes. Whitey Burd owns him and Whitey is stupid to change the name. I understand that this Leslie is a good boy.”
“You are right, except on one point, Danny. Ten days ago Whitey indulged in a game of chance and felt so happy about his full house that he put his contract with this Leslie in the pot and my four little threes made him very sad indeed. I am now the owner and manager of said Spencer Leslie and though no one enjoys boxfighting like I do, I have no desire to handle one of the bums. You see my point?”
It baffled me and I nibbled at the last bit of salami while I thought. “Barney, couldn’t you sell the contract? Somebody would pay good dough.”
“That is the trouble. They would pay good dough and the contract would be recorded and the Department of Internal Revenue would take all the joy out of it. It is not good business. I have had offers, going as high as forty.”
“You want to give him to me? I’ll take him.”
“Not so quick, Danny. There is a bit more detail. I won forty percent of this Spencer Leslie and it is my understanding that you own thirty percent of the Tailor. Now Tailor Rowe has been around many years and he is less valuable than Spencer Leslie.”
“That’s open to question, Barney. The Tailor is a good boy.”
“Let me make my point, Danny Watson. I have a friend who owns a small but profitable business property. This friend is very conservative. He can see a good deal of merit in proven property like Tailor Rowe, but he has little interest in an up and coming young man like Spencer Leslie. You and I know that this Spencer Leslie will be clubbing his way around the circuits long after the Tailor is selling neckties in Dubuque.”
“Again you raise a debatable point.”
“Be that as it may. I wish to trade my forty cut of Leslie for your thirty cut of Rowe. Then I can trade my cut of Rowe for a forty-nine percent cut of this small and profitable business in which I will be a silent partner, providing O’Dwyer permits it to remain open and in business.”
“When does Spencer Leslie fight again?”
“Next week in Toledo. A match with Hymie Bruin who is popular out there and the gate should be around ten with fifty-five for the winner.”
I did some mental arithmetic. Conservatively figuring the gate to be seventy-five hundred rather than ten, and figuring on a loss by Leslie, his end would be thirty-three seventy-five, and my forty cut would be thirteen hundred and fifty.
I looked hard at Barney Gowdy and there was nothing but loving-kindness in his big damp eyes. “Has Leslie broken his leg or something?” I asked.
His underlip quivered. “Danny boy, you wound me. You really do. I wouldn’t make this offer to anybody else.”
“Nobody else has a hunk of the Tailor.”
“You have a small point there. What is the answer?”
“Hold it open for twenty-four hours and give me a chance to talk to this Spencer Leslie and then I will give an answer.”
He beamed at me. “You will never regret it, friend. You will always thank Barnard Gowdy for presenting you with this opportunity. Spencer has a room at the Brainard Hotel — 515, and I would suggest that you call at about ten tomorrow morning. He gets up early. I will see you here at noon tomorrow in this same booth.”
As usual the Tailor took in two double features in the afternoon and I didn’t see him until after six. He has a standard schedule. He works out slow and easy all morning, sees movies all afternoon and practises his magic tricks until he goes to bed. He doesn’t drink, smoke or stare at women. He is a lean, knobby guy, about thirty-three and we both worry about his legs. He got the name of the Tailor because of his left. It is always out there like a needle. Stitch, stitch, clip, clip. His specialty is turning faces to hamburg and winning on technical kayos. He has no color, no right hand, no bad habits. Just that left like a needle.
I sat on the bed and he stood in front of me and said, “Now look at this, Danny. Here is a handkerchief. See? I take it like this and stuff it down into my other hand, a little bit at a time. Then I wave the other hand over it and... Pooof! Gone!”
“Tailor, when you say it is gone I see something run up your sleeve, like a small flesh-colored mouse. Could it be that it was carrying the handkerchief?”
“Damn it all, Danny. The man said nobody would see it. I must have stood wrong or something. Or maybe the elastic isn’t tight enough.”
“Tailor, I got a proposition to unload you on Barney Gowdy in return for a forty percent slice of a kid named Spencer Leslie.”
Tailor looked mildly interested. “Okay by me, Danny. But I want the same clause in the contract. You know: the handling expenses charged against my end will never in any one year run over eight percent of my gross take.”
“Sure. I’ll see it goes in. But look, Tailor, aren’t you sore at me or anything?”
He looked blank. “Should I be? All I care is I got somebody who gets me fights. I figure I got maybe two more years, maybe three, before I get out. I’ll see you around, won’t I. Hey, watch this one. See here? I got a coin. A quarter. I hold it tight in my fist and I pass the other hand over it like this...”
I arrived at 515 a few minutes after ten. All the world has a funny look that early in the morning. It smells different, too.