The Professional Read online

  “Yes. In the Navy.”

  “When?”

  “World War One.”

  “Now, as to cause of death.”

  “A heart attack.”

  “That’s merely your supposition.”

  “Well, what else would it be?”

  “It might be any number of things. We don’t know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It could have been a cerebral hemorrhage, a ruptured aneurysm, an intestinal hemorrhage. It could have been many things.”

  “He had heart trouble.”

  “As a matter of fact, Mr. Carroll, we don’t know but that it might have been foul play.”

  “Foul play? Are you kidding?”

  “No. Until I’ve got evidence to the contrary this man might have been poisoned for all I know. He might have died by strangulation. He might have been struck a blow on the head. There is no evidence of that at the moment, but it may be a fact.”

  “Did you ever hear anything like this?” Doc said to me.

  “That’s why I’m going to perform an autopsy.”

  “An autopsy? You mean you’re going to cut the poor guy open?”

  “You can be sure, Mr. Carroll, that it doesn’t make any difference to him.”

  “It does to me.”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s my ruling. It’s the law.”

  “How long will this take?” I said.

  “I’ll do it this afternoon. Mr. Edwards will remove the body to his funeral home.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “Oh, an hour and a half. I’ll call with my finding, if all goes well.”

  “If all goes well?” Doc said. “What does that mean?”

  “All right,” I said. “It’s all right, Doc.”

  “It is like hell,” Doc said.

  The doctor put his papers back in his brief case and we walked out into the lobby. Doc was talking with Mr. Edwards about the cemetery plot and the doctor motioned to me and I followed him out onto the porch.

  “You understand the necessity for this, don’t you?” he said.

  “I understand.”

  “After all, you recognize the circumstances. The cause of death has to be established. Besides, this Mr. Giorno, or Jay, was in the boxing business. Right?”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Are you in the business?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so, but you’re familiar with the business. You’ve read about it.”

  “About what?”

  “What sort of business it is, the types that are in it. How do I know who this man was, or what went on here?”

  “All right, doctor. You’ll call us later?”

  “I’m not particularly keen about this myself. Performing an autopsy is no novelty to me. I was going to play golf this afternoon, the first time this season.”

  “I know. We were going to have some gangsters up for tea.”

  “What?”

  “Call us when you’re ready.”

  “Listen, we have a fellow in this town who used to be a fighter. You should see him.”

  “Why?”

  “A drunk. A no-good.”

  “Is he the only drunk in this town?”

  “No, but he’s one of them. That’s what it did for him.”

  When I went back into the lobby Doc was still standing there, and Mr. Edwards was coming out of one of the phone booths.

  “I’ve just called my son,” he said. “He’ll be right over and we’ll take the body. I’d like to go up now with you gentlemen and check anything that’s on the body. I mean any jewelry or whatever.”

  We went up to the room, and Mr. Edwards pulled the covers off Jay. I merely glanced at what he was doing, and looked at Doc, who was looking around the room.

  “Nothing on the body,” Mr. Edwards said. “Except, of course, the pajamas.”

  “All right,” Doc said.

  “My son will be here shortly.”

  “Wait a minute,” Doc said. “There’s a ring. Jay had a ring.”

  “There’s no ring here,” Mr. Edwards said. “There’s no ring on either hand.”

  Doc and I walked over and we looked at both hands. There was no ring.

  “There should be a ring,” Doc said. “A ring with a ruby in it. He wore it on his left hand.”

  “It isn’t here.”

  “I gave it to him myself, about twenty years ago, on his birthday. He was born in July, and that’s the birthstone.”

  “Maybe he took it off,” Mr. Edwards said.

  “He never took it off. Since I gave it to him he never took it off.”

  “You’ll probably find it here somewhere,” Mr. Edwards said.

  “Maybe Eddie took it off,” I said.

  “No,” Doc said. “Why would he take it off? He wouldn’t think of that.”

  I heard the front door slam. Then we could hear someone coming up the stairs.

  “That’s my son, probably,” Mr. Edwards said.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said to Doc. “We’ll look for the ring later.”

  We passed the young man carrying a stretcher in the hallway, and went into Doc’s room. Eddie was lying on the bed, looking at the ceiling.

  “Everything all right?” he said.

  “Yes,” Doc said. “Did you see anything of Jay’s ring?”

  “His ring?”

  “Yes. It’s not on him.”

  “It’s got to be. He never took it off.”

  “Some SOB took it,” Doc said. “Can you imagine that?”

  “You’re not sure,” I said. “When they leave we’ll look around the room and through Jay’s stuff. It may be there.”

  “But I never saw him take it off, ever,” Eddie said.

  When we heard them go out and slowly down the stairs, Doc and I went back into the room. We looked all over the room and in the bureau drawers and the table drawer and in the pockets of Jay’s clothes.

  “Some SOB took it,” Doc said. “Can you imagine a thing like that?”

  “Who would take it?”

  “Anybody. Who knows? This is some business.”

  “Well, not anybody. Who would steal a ring off a dead body? Not Girot or his wife. That’s two out of the way.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Suppose we say nothing about it?”

  “I don’t care. I need a drink.”

  We went back to Doc’s room, and Doc told Eddie to keep quiet about the ring. We sat with Eddie for a few minutes, and then Penna came in with the morning papers and Doc and I went down and got Girot from behind the desk in the lobby. I think that desk gave Girot the same sense of security that the Maginot line once gave the French, but it was just as false, and we went into the bar.

  “Make us doubles,” Doc said to Girot, “and that’ll be all. Then you can get back to your work.”

  “All right.”

  “I feel lousy,” Doc said.

  “I do, too. After what we had last night we’d feel lousy under the best of circumstances.”

  “To Jay,” Doc said, when Girot had left.

  “To Jay.”

  “Jay and I went through a lot together. Over forty years.”

  “I know, and now I’m feeling a little ashamed.”

  “Ashamed? Of what?”

  “Of myself.”

  “Why? What’s the matter?”

  “Oh, about Jay. Jay was a nice little guy. I liked him, but I used to think how he weighed on everybody. Now I’m ashamed.”

  “God how he liked to talk.”

  “I probably shouldn’t say this now, but I used to wonder sometimes how you put up with it.”

  “You want to know how?”

  “Yes.”

  “You ever look at that busted nose? That beat-up ear?”

  “Yes.”

  “I put them there.”

  “You?”

  “Certainly. Jay was my first fighter.”

  “I
know that.”

  “I learned on Jay. I was a punk kid, managing him. I put that busted nose there. I put that beat-up ear there. I was learning—on Jay. Many a time Jay used to get on my nerves, too, but I’d look at that nose and that ear, and I’d say to myself: ‘You’re with me. As long as you live, you’re with me.’”

  “I should have figured that out for myself.”

  “It’s something, talking about it now. ‘As long as you live.’ That’s the way it worked out.”

  “Yes. Suddenly today was the day.”

  “I should have been arrested, the fights I put him in. Some of those great old-timers they use to write about—those grand old managers—what they did to me when I had Jay. He might have been a good fighter.”

  “Really?”

  “Not a great one, but a good one. A lot better than he was. I was real brave with Jay. I put him into wars. I’ll tell you one thing. When he was finished, I was finished being a brave manager. I outgrew that with one fighter. Jay.”

  “Some of them never do.”

  “I’ll tell you another thing. Every fighter I’ve had since Jay was a better fighter because of Jay, because of what I learned on Jay. Every one of them, and that goes for the Pro, too, and I told every one of them. Jay never knew it, but I told them. I told the Pro. He was very fond of Jay.”

  “I know. He used to go along with him the same as you did.”

  “A lot of guys at Stillman’s probably wondered why I kept Jay. He talked too much. He got excited in the corner. I could have got ten better trainers. I didn’t need a trainer. I do that. I needed a pickup guy for the towels and the pail and to give a rubdown.”

  “I know.”

  “I thought a lot about Jay in the last few years. You ever ride along in a train, or drive along, and see one of those junk yards packed with old cars, rusting, one on top of the other?”

  “Yes.”

  “I used to see those old car bodies and think of Jay. Every one of those old wrecks has a piece of every new car on the road. They learned on those old ones the way I learned on Jay. As long as I lived there could never be any junk heap for Jay. You know something else?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t get me wrong. This was no charity. Jay did what he was supposed to do, and he was loyal. He was the most loyal guy in the world.”

  “I know.”

  “Right after he had that first heart attack, a couple of years ago, I asked him about it and he says: ‘The doctor says I should take it easy. I shouldn’t get excited.’ Do you think I could keep him out of the corner?”

  “No.”

  “About ten days later we’re in Boston. Eddie got a bad decision—dreadful. He had the other guy almost out at the end, and where’s Jay? Jumping up and down and screaming at the referee, ten days after the doctor warned him to take it easy.”

  “I believe that.”

  “A loyal little guy. He had nothing. You know what was a big thing with him?”

  “No.”

  “Christmas cards. He sent Christmas cards to everybody.”

  “I know. He always sent me one.”

  “Half of the people never sent any back to him.”

  “I never did. You make me ashamed again.”

  “It makes no difference. He got some. He used to hang them on a string in his room. There was an old, bricked-up fireplace there, and he’d hang the cards on a string over the fireplace. He’d keep them there all year, until the next Christmas when the new ones came. Then he’d save the old ones in boxes under his bed. Over thirty years or more he had boxes full of them. That was his Christmas. I’ll have to clean them out now.”

  “Let it go until after the fight.”

  “I will. I’ll have to. He had nothing. That’s why, one birthday, I gave him that ring. I thought he was going to cry. Nobody ever gave him anything. Who the hell would take that ring?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who would do it? Figure it out.”

  “Well, if you want to go into it, you’ve got the fighters and old Barnum. One of them must have gone back into the room while we were in your room.”

  “Not Barnum.”

  “No.”

  “Penna?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “That wise-guy type wouldn’t do it.”

  “He’s just the type.”

  “No, Doc. He’s out in the open. Practical jokes and kidding, yes. Not taking a ring off a body. How about DeCorso? I don’t know much about him.”

  “Vince? Listen, he’s so glad that I gave him a few weeks’ work he wouldn’t take the chance. I know him.”

  “Not Memphis.”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Booker Boyd?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “A possibility, but my candidate is Cardone.”

  “Cardone? Why Cardone?”

  “Well, I know Charley Keener, and the way he keeps his fighters, Doc. Cardone’s probably got nothing in his pockets right now—except, possibly, the ring—and when he’s in Jersey I bet Keener gives him a ten a week. He has all his fighters eat with him, you know, so he can watch them.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Certainly. Cardone’s got those two dames, or they’ve got him.”

  “Ah, he doesn’t need dough for them. You can be sure they pick up everything. Maybe they’re even paying him, for all I know.”

  “Nevertheless, picture the kid. He’s got some pride. He’d like to be able to make one show, have some dough.”

  “That ring is worth a couple of hundred.”

  “I recall seeing it on Jay, now that it’s come up. Does Keener know about those dames?”

  “I don’t know. My suspect is still Penna, in spite of what you say.”

  “You may be right, but I doubt it. Too open. Not knowing anything about Booker Boyd, mine is Cardone.”

  “We’ll never see that ring again.”

  “I believe you’re right.”

  We saw Barnum come through the door, looking for someone, and then he saw us at the bar and walked over.

  “’Scuse me, Doc,” he said.

  “Sure, Barnum.”

  “You goin’ to New York?”

  “Yes. Tonight or tomorrow morning.”

  “I’m sorry about Jay, and I’ll take care of Eddie while you’re gone. I mean I’ll handle him in the gym, and don’t worry about it while you’re gone.”

  “Thanks, Barnum. Thanks. I’ll bring somebody out with me. Freddie Thomas, if I can get him. I’ll get somebody. I appreciate it, Barnum.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m glad to do it, because Eddie’s gonna win this fight.”

  “Sure he is.”

  “I know. I know the other boy. I know him since he start. He ain’t the fighter people think he is. He got dog in him, but he don’t show it to them yet. Eddie, he’ll make him show it.”

  “He will, for sure.”

  “Nobody fought that other boy right yet. I been watchin’ Eddie in the gym, and the way he’s boxin’ in the gym is the way he’s gonna lick him. You got that other boy just right.”

  “I know.”

  “You back him up, he can’t fight you. The way Eddie counters and punches to the body he’s gonna make it easy. I know the other boy and I been watchin’ Eddie. What Eddie knows and the way he punches he’s too much for him, sure.”

  “Thanks, Barnum.”

  “The people in our business, they don’t know. They may think Eddie gets lucky, but I know you for years, Doc. You got the good one now, and he ain’t gonna miss.”

  “Fine, Barnum.”

  “I’ll take care of him. It’s a pleasure.”

  Eddie went into the gym that afternoon stony-faced, and Doc worked him harder than he had worked since we had come into camp. No one kidded around, and it seemed to me that they all were working harder and that there was an air of resentment over it all. Charley Keener said a few words to Doc about
Jay and let it go at that, and Eddie and Memphis were boxing the last round, with Doc and me standing together on the apron, when Girot tapped me on the leg and I climbed down.

  “Doctor Bernardi is on the telephone.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  I went out into the lobby and into the booth and shut the door and identified myself.

  “Oh yes, Mr. Hughes,” he said. “I’m ascribing cause of death to coronary thrombosis with infarction—”

  “Wait a minute. I’m trying to write this down. Did you say infraction?”

  “No. Infarction. I-n-f-a-r-c-t-i-o-n. That’s an obstruction. With infarction due to arteriosclerotic heart disease. Have you got that?”

  “In other words, he died of a heart attack.”

  “To all appearances.”

  “Wait a minute. What do you mean, to all appearances? You performed an autopsy, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Then appearances have nothing to do with it. You were going on appearances before. This is your professional finding, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  I hung up and, when I got back to the gym, Doc had Eddie banging at the big bag. Doc was standing with his arms folded across his chest, watching.

  “That coroner just called.”

  “He did? What did he say?”

  “Jay died of a heart attack.”

  “Surprised?”

  “Hardly. I don’t really think that that doctor was, either.”

  “Political SOB. He’d like to have made a big thing out of it, wouldn’t he? He might even have gotten his picture in the paper.”

  Doc took the 9:25 bus to New York that night. Eddie and I walked up the driveway to see him off, and then Eddie went into the kitchen and had a glass of warm milk and went to bed in Doc’s room. In my own room I lay awake in the darkness for a long while, seeing Jay. He wanted to be sure I’d put him in the story. Then I remembered Jay’s fat friend Stanley, and I felt sorry for Stanley, too.

  19

  The next morning I slept until I heard the fighters come back off the road, their feet heavy on the stairs. By the time I had showered and shaved and dressed, Barnum was coming up the stairs carrying a tray with five cups of steaming tea on it. He took one in for Eddie, and then went down the hall with the others.

  “How did you sleep?” I said to Eddie.

  Eddie was sitting in the wicker chair, holding the cup and saucer in both hands and blowing on the tea. Through the window I could see that it was another clear day.