The Professional Read online

  “What do I do?” Eddie said.

  “Yeah,” Jay said. “What does Eddie do?”

  “Then you’ll be told when to walk in. You just walk in and sit down, and Bunny will talk with you. Haven’t you ever been on television before?”

  “Some of my fights, sure, and a couple of sports shows. Not like this.”

  “This will be the same as those shows, I’m quite sure. You’ll be splendid.”

  “I should have my head examined,” Doc said.

  “We’d better go over there now,” Ethel Morse said, taking Mrs. Braun by the arm and Eddie following. The guitar player in the cowboy clothes was smiling his sign-off melody into the camera, and when he finished and the parochial-school girls started to file off the bleachers, Doc and Jay and I moved to where we could see and hear an announcer introducing the Bunny Williams show.

  “—and here’s Bunny herself!” he said. “Bunny?”

  She was standing at the end of the blond spinet piano, leaning on it with her right arm. At the piano sat a young man, poised.

  “Thank you, Don, and hi!” Bunny said, smiling into the camera. “It’s a kind of a damp spring day here in New York, but we’re all quite cozy here with a special bag of treats to help you spend the next half hour wherever you are in this wonderful big land of ours. First of all, I want to introduce my friend at the piano here....”

  She introduced the young man and he nodded into the camera. Then she went into a commercial and walked over to a table in the kitchen set. On it were a box of flour, an empty cake tin and a cake, covered with light blue icing. She said something about being able to go from this—the empty tin and the box of flour—to this—the cake—in almost no time and with almost no effort. Then, still smiling, she walked back to the piano and the young man played.

  He played four numbers. After each, Bunny chatted with him, leaning on the piano. She asked him about his beginnings as a musician and plugged the place that had sent him and they talked about modern jazz, about which she appeared to know quite a bit.

  After she had thanked him again she seemed to be off the air, because she turned from the camera and said something to someone off to one side. Then she nodded and walked over to the kitchen set and picked up two bottles of milk, one in each hand, and stood smiling at the refrigerator and into the camera.

  “Are you ever caught like this?” she said, smiling and holding out the two bottles. “Not enough hands? Certainly you are, every time you bring in the milk. Well, it’s no problem at all today, with a refrigerator like this. You just—”

  She nudged the door handle of the refrigerator with her left elbow, and the door opened. She put the milk into the refrigerator, talking all the while, and then, in passing, pushed the door closed behind her, still talking.

  “And now,” she said, “we’re going to meet a very special kind of guest—Mrs. Augusta Braun, the mother of Eddie Brown. Eddie Brown is a prize fighter who, a week from Friday night, will fight for the middleweight championship of the world, and we thought that, because so many of you, thanks to television, have become interested in prize fighting and probably have wondered about it and about prize fighters, we would bring you a fighter’s mother.”

  Again she seemed to be off the air, because she turned from that camera and walked to the corner setting where Mrs. Braun was sitting on one of the love seats, turning a white handkerchief in her hands. Then, at a signal, Bunny Williams, smiling and her hand out, walked into the set.

  “Mrs. Braun,” she said, shaking hands and sitting down beside Eddie’s mother. “We’re so happy to have you with us.”

  “Yes,” Eddie’s mother said nodding. She looked frightened.

  “We want you to tell us all about Eddie. We’ve never met the mother of a fighter before, and so we’re most anxious to hear how long he’s been a fighter and how he became a fighter and whether you attend his fights and a lot of other things. How long has he been a fighter?”

  “How long? Exactly I don’t know. For years. Eddie could tell you.”

  “Then you could tell us how he became a fighter. How did that happen?”

  “He liked to fight, I guess. He always seemed to like to fight.”

  “You mean as a boy? That he fought with the other boys in, perhaps, the neighborhood where you lived?”

  “That’s right. They were wild boys, but that’s where we had to live.”

  “That was here in New York?”

  “Yes. On the West Side.”

  “But did you try to stop him from fighting with the other boys?”

  “I tried to stop him. I told him that was no good, that fighting, but he had a temper. Like his father, he had a temper.”

  She kept twisting the handkerchief in her hands in her lap.

  “Tell me, Mrs. Braun, what did your husband do? What was his business?”

  “He was a plasterer. Then he died.”

  “Well, plastering is a good and noble trade. I’m sure, too, that he was a good man.”

  “Yes. He was a good man.”

  “When Eddie became a professional fighter, did you try to stop him?”

  “I couldn’t stop him. He had it in his mind. He was grown then.”

  “Have you ever gone to any of your son, Eddie’s, fights?”

  “I go? No.”

  “Do you watch on television when he fights?”

  “I don’t have a television.”

  “Do you listen on the radio?”

  “Sometimes. Once or twice I tried.”

  “You say you tried. You didn’t enjoy it?”

  “I turned it off.”

  “Are you afraid that your son will be hurt?”

  “Yes, always. He could be hurt.”

  “Tell me this. You gave birth to a son, and watched him grow, and you must have had certain dreams for him. All mothers do. What did you dream that your son might become?”

  “I don’t know about dreams. Dreams I never had. I just thought he would get a job.”

  “What sort of a job?”

  “I don’t know. He was learning to be a plasterer. My husband was teaching him. My husband was not well, and Eddie he helped him. Eddie is a good boy.”

  “I’m sure he is, Mrs. Braun. Then you hoped that he might become a plasterer like his father?”

  “Yes. It’s a good job. Today they get big pay, plasterers.”

  “Indeed they do, Mrs. Braun, and I want to thank you. Now you just wait right here, because we have a surprise for you.”

  She turned, then, into the camera and said something about the refrigerator. Then she got up and hurried over to it and stood waiting, smiling.

  “Why, she’s a dirty little bitch,” Doc said to me. “What is she trying to do, make him out a criminal?”

  “That seems to be the idea.”

  “Eddie’s not going in there. I’m pulling him out.”

  “Wait a minute, Doc,” I said, putting my hand on him. “You can’t do that now.”

  “Why can’t I?”

  “It’s too late. He’s in there.”

  “Where?”

  I pointed to one of the floor monitors that showed Eddie standing there, waiting to walk on. Actually Bunny Williams was still talking about the refrigerator, demonstrating something about the freezer compartment, and then she shut the door and walked back to the set, paused a moment, got a signal and walked in.

  “And now Mrs. Braun,” she said, smiling, “this is our surprise. Here with us today, to tell us himself what it’s like to be a prize fighter, is your own son, Eddie Brown.”

  Eddie walked in. He shook hands with Bunny Williams and then walked over to his mother and gave her his hand and sat down beside her. Bunny had seated herself on the other love seat, and she was leaning forward, smiling at the other two.

  “This is a surprise, isn’t it, Mrs. Braun?”

  “Yes,” Eddie’s mother said, nodding.

  “How long had it been since you’d last seen your son?”

 
“I don’t know. Three weeks.”

  “You’ve been in your training camp, haven’t you?” she said to Eddie. “Training to fight for the middleweight championship a week from Friday?”

  “That’s right,” Eddie said, nodding.

  “And you’re going to win?”

  “Well, I certainly think so.”

  “But in your profession one can never be certain. Am I right?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “It is a precarious business, isn’t it?” she said, smiling.

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “How long have you been preparing for this fight?”

  “You mean training?”

  “Yes,” she said, smiling, “if that’s what you call it. I’m not familiar with all the terminology.”

  “I’ve been in camp, I guess, two weeks.”

  “We’ve been talking here with your mother, Eddie, about your boyhood and what made you become a fighter. Your mother isn’t quite sure. Can you yourself tell us now why you became a fighter?”

  “Well, I just liked to fight. I guess that’s why.”

  “Didn’t you ever want to be anything else but a fighter?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, did you ever want to be a lawyer or a policeman or whatever it is that small boys want to be?”

  “I couldn’t be a lawyer. I didn’t like school much, and I had to quit when my father died. I didn’t want to be a cop. Is that what you mean?”

  “Well, yes, but did you ever want to be, say, a baseball player?”

  “Oh, yes. When I was a kid.”

  “Why didn’t you? I mean, become a baseball player?”

  “Well, where we lived there wasn’t any place to play ball. We played stickball on the street, but that’s not the same. I never even owned a glove. I couldn’t be a ballplayer.”

  “Tell us, how many fights have you had?”

  “Professional? Ninety.”

  “How many have you won?”

  “All but three. I lost three decisions.”

  “Have you ever been knocked out?”

  “No, ma’m.”

  “Do you ever think about being knocked out?”

  “No, ma’m.”

  “You know your mother, here, worries about you when you fight. She thinks about you being knocked out.”

  “I suppose that’s right.”

  “Now, I want to get to the heart of this, Eddie, if you don’t mind.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “Do you really mean that you never think about being knocked out?”

  “That’s right. I take a good punch. That’s what we call it. I just don’t think I can be knocked out, so I don’t even think of it.”

  “But you’ve knocked out others. Your opponents?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How many opponents have you knocked out?”

  “Oh, let’s see. I think it’s forty-eight, or nine.”

  “Tell us, how do you feel when you knock an opponent out?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, isn’t there some sort of a sadistic impulse in a fighter that makes him want to hurt another man, to knock him out? I’m just asking.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t want to hurt him.”

  “But that’s what you set out to do, isn’t it? You try to render him senseless. Isn’t that right?”

  She was doing this with a smile. It was a small, tender smile, to imply sympathy.

  “I suppose so. You put it that way.”

  “So what do you feel when you see him lying there on the floor, after you’ve knocked him out? Do you feel glad, or sad, or what?”

  “Well, you feel glad, I guess. He’s been trying to knock you out and you’ve been trying to knock him out. You won. You got your moves and your punches across. So it makes you feel good.”

  “Exactly.”

  “It isn’t that you’re trying to hurt him. You’re trying to lick him. It’s fighting, boxing.”

  “But you know you do hurt him. You know, for example, that ten fighters were killed in boxing last year.”

  “I don’t know how many. I know it isn’t as many as it used to be, since they got better matting on the ring and they changed the size of the gloves, except for championship fights.”

  “Now, Eddie Brown, you’re married, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you have any children?”

  “We have a boy.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Five.”

  “Do you want him to become a fighter?”

  “He can’t be.”

  “Oh, he can’t? Why not?”

  “He’s not well. He’s all right, but he couldn’t be a fighter.”

  “I didn’t know that. What’s wrong with him?”

  “Well, we found out he has epilepsy. He’s all right, but he has that.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to learn that. I truly am, and I’m sure we all are.”

  “Thank you. He’ll be all right.”

  “But if he were perfectly healthy, would you want him to be a fighter?”

  “I don’t know. That’s hard to say.”

  “Is it hard to say? Don’t you really mean that you have your doubts and, having them, you wouldn’t want him to be a fighter. Is that right?”

  “I suppose so. Probably I couldn’t take it.”

  “Exactly. You’re a fighter and you know the truth of it, and this is it. You wouldn’t want your own son to follow in your own footsteps.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, unfortunately, I see our time is up. I want to thank you, though, Eddie Brown, for visiting with us, and to wish you luck. You’ve chosen your profession, fighting, and I know we all hope you may make the best of it, when you fight for the middleweight title and after that.”

  “Thank you.”

  She stood up, and Eddie and his mother stood up.

  “And to you, Mrs. Braun, you’re a wonderful little lady, and to you our hearts go out. And now—”

  She walked off, talking, in front of another camera, and Eddie and his mother came off toward us.

  “Well, what do you suggest?” Doc said to me.

  “Getting drunk. It was inevitable.”

  “But why did I have to play sucker and be a part of it?”

  “I did the best I could,” Eddie said.

  “It’s not your fault, Edward,” Doc said. “I was the sucker, going for it.”

  “But what did she mean, anyway?” Jay said.

  Ethel Morse came up, all smiles and in a hurry.

  “You were fine, Mrs. Braun,” she said, putting her arm around Eddie’s mother.

  “I don’t know,” Mrs. Braun said. “I didn’t know what to do.”

  “Listen,” Doc said. “Get that dame over here.”

  “Who?”

  “Bunny whatever-her-name-is. Get her over here.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Ethel Morse said. “She’s got a meeting with the agency in fifteen minutes and has to get over there. I’m sure she’d have liked to say good-bye to all of you, but she’s a terribly busy person.”

  “You see?” Doc said to me.

  “Forget it.”

  “Listen,” Doc said to Ethel Morse. “I’m not going to jump on you. I just feel sorry for you.”

  “For me? Really. I don’t understand. I thought it was a grand show.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” Doc said.

  “Please. You’ll be surprised at the impact this could have throughout the country. This is a very popular show, and after this I’m sure there will be many more people who’ll be interested in Eddie Brown and the fight.”

  “And stay home and watch it on TV for free,” Doc said. “Please. Just don’t con me any more. I’ll repeat myself. I just feel sorry for you.”

  We left Ethel Morse standing there and walked out and down the hall and out onto the sidewalk. It was misting again, and Doc c
alled a cab and Eddie and Doc put Mrs. Braun in it.

  “So you’ll be careful?” she said to Eddie, when he bent down to kiss her on the cheek.

  “Sure, Mom. Don’t worry. I’ll be down to see you the day after the fight.”

  “He’ll be the champion then, Mrs. Braun,” Jay said.

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  We waited for another cab and got in and started for the parking lot.

  “I should have known that,” Doc said on the way. “All my life I’ve had one rule. When they send a homely dame or a cripple to shill for something, walk away from it.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Walk away from it. All my life I’ve had that one, so I play sucker.”

  “There’s one thing that Ethel Morse said that was the truth,” I said.

  “What?”

  “If those viewers could really be made to believe it’s as bad as that, they’d walk through machine-gun fire to get to the fight.”

  “Isn’t that dreadful?” Doc said.

  “Speaking of sadistic impulses, Miss Bunny doesn’t even need to climb into a ring.”

  “Dreadful. Thumbs you, spins you, knees you, butts you. It’s my fault.”

  On the ride back to camp even Jay was suppressed. When we got in it was 5:30 and Eddie and Jay ate dinner with the others, but Doc and I stood at the bar a long time so that Doc could get rid of his steam.

  “You know that ten fighters were killed in boxing last year?” he’d say, mimicking the voice. “You know that ten fighters were killed in boxing last year? What does he know, except to fight?”

  “Have another drink.”

  “I will, but I wish I’d got on that television.”

  “You’d have had no chance.”

  “I wouldn’t? With that little Stork Club snob?”

  “Of course not. Not even you. They’re pros at that racket, and you’re not. They inflate their egos by picking on amateurs. They write their own rules. She could do the same thing in there with you or me or any one of us.”

  “You know that ten fighters were killed in boxing last year? That’s for the whole world, and seven of them were amateurs. How many got killed in football? How about that auto racing?”

  “How about that drink?”

  “Hey, what’s the matter with you guys?” Jay said, walking up to us. “We’re finished eatin’ already, and you guys don’t even start. Ain’t you gonna eat?”