Go For the Body

This page formatted 2007 Blackmask Online.

http://www.blackmask.com

For Therese and Ollie

Chapter 1

IT WAS MY first day in Paris but the feeling was still with me: like I was getting ready to explode, as if my guts were a lit fuse racing up to my brain.

Being cooped up gets me that way, although I was camped in a big room in this swank hotel. Twelve bucks a night and it was the best hotel room I'd ever been in. I'd docked at Le Havre the afternoon before, came straight to this fancy joint from Gare St. Lazare, like they told me to. I had a swell suit of clothes, an expensive big suitcase, and looked like ready money—except I had exactly forty-seven bucks on me.

All I had to do was wait for a call, yet I was jumpy. I'd promoted a deal with one of the biggest guys in the American fight racket, and I was in Paris to put the cap on it—the deal I'd been sucking around on for over a half year. And when you got to butter up a goon like Slats, your nose is scraping the bottom of a dirty barrel.

I'd put away a big supper in the hotel restaurant, then was up early in the morning, waiting in my room. After moping around the room like a caged animal, I went down to the lobby and told the little clerk in the worn tux that I'd be at the corner cafe, on the Champs Elysees, and to send a bellhop on the run if I got a call. He gave me a bored bow, said in good English, “I will handle it, Monsieur Francine. If you'd care to hire a car?”

I wanted to tell him to stop playing me for a tourist, but I merely shook my head and walked out.

The cafe was one of these semi-sidewalk deals and I had two cups of coffee and some croissants, and smoked my pipe. It was only 9:15 am. I was still sitting there at 3 p.m., loaded with coffee and beer, watching the people walking by, spotting the Americans. I stared up the street at the Arc de Triomphe, wondered why anybody made a fuss about it. I watched the Frenchmen around me drinking—mainly by colors. They would drop in for a morning shot of something Irish green, or a copper-red drink, and of course the usual foggy Pernod—any of these drinks will knock your head off.

I hung around this cafe till my kidneys were floating; then I walked back to the hotel and on a wall in the side street there was a crude US—GO HOME sign painted with whitewash. I sat around the lobby for a long time and wondered why the hell Magano didn't contact me. He had to come up from Italy, but he knew when my ship docked.

I had supper again, picked up some English papers at the desk, along with my key. The clerk asked. “Perhaps tomorrow, you would like a bus tour of Paris, all the historic sights, and—”

“Stop the tourist bait,” I said, and went up to my room. I stretched out on the bed and tried to read the Limey papers and gave that up. It was after nine and I wanted to see the night life, but couldn't chance missing my call. And Magano had better call soon. My bucks would only last a few days at these rates....

The phone rang and I jumped off the bed like a cat. The clerk said, “A woman to see you, Monsieur Francine. Shall I send her up?”

“A woman?” I repeated, wondering if this was more tourist bait.

“A Madame Allen. Shall I send her up?”

“Yeah.” I put my tie back on, was combing my hair when there was a knock on the door.

She wasn't French; she looked all-American. I mean smart clothes that could be from an expensive Fifth Avenue shop or from Kleins or Orbachs. She had a pretty face that had been given some care, her dark hair, pulled tightly away from her face, made a horse-tail hanging out of a silly little fur hat. And she had that American tourist air about her—not worried about dough or time, looking down her nose at the world. Her figure was solid and all in all she looked a little like Barbara Stanwyck, but padded with about 20 pounds in the so-called right places.

I must have been staring at her like a jerk, for she struck a pose, asked, “Look better this way?”

“Sorry. I—You want to see me?”

“If you're Ken Francine, I do.” Her voice was a little deep and almost warm. “Have a message from Mr. Vince Magano.” She gave me a big wink, added, “And he told, me to keep it quiet.”

“Come in,” I said, wondering if all this was a rib. She sure didn't look like a gangster's gal.

She stepped in, walking with a long-legged strut, and looked around. “Room must cost a fortune. Fit my room into one corner of this.” She had a slight double chin and I don't know why her hair was pulled so sharply from her face; it gave it a drawn look which the double chin contradicted.

“What's the message?”

“Mr. Magano called me. I'm to tell you he'll see you tomorrow.” She ran her eyes over me. “You a gangster too? Look like a thug.”

Up to now she annoyed me, but I suddenly felt good, relaxed—I'd see Magano in the morning and set the deal. I said, “Sit down. You his doll?”

She laughed. Judging by her teeth and facial muscles, she was around thirty-five. “Don't know if that's a compliment or not. I'm Marion Allen, a magazine writer. Want to do an article on him—how the deported American gangster is making out in Europe. He wrote me from Rome that he'd let me know when he'd be in Paris. I've just come down from Amsterdam to see him. Now, I gather, I'm to see him through you.” She walked by me to the chair, and she was pretty tall. She sat down, stretched her legs out. She knew she had good legs.

I stared at her, wondering why all the jazzing around, the hide and seek. Why didn't Magano get in touch with me direct? Why didn't I meet him in Italy?

She lit a cigarette, said, “Don't concentrate so; thinking doesn't go with your rugged face. And don't ask me what this is all about; I don't know. What are you, buster, a strong-arm man?”

“I'm a fight manager. Just came to Europe yesterday to line up some fighters, with Magano's help. Hanging around all day waiting to hear. Listen, let's go out and have a drink or something?”

She sighed. “Fast worker type. You're a regular breath of fresh air from home. And don't tell me the latest news from the States—I don't care to hear it.”

“What you going to do, write US—GO HOME on the walls here?” I asked. There was a mocking tone to her voice that kept me on edge. But I couldn't take my eyes off her and I sure liked what I saw.

She must have seen it in my eyes for she said, “Buster, stop looking at me as though I was a mouthful of canary for your tomcat teeth.”

“Might eat you, at that. I just might—some day,” I said coldly. “But for now, I merely want company. I'm a stranger in town, and all that stuff. Okay, you can beat it. I'll tell Magano you called.” I put on my coat, finished combing my hair. At the door I said, “If you're rooted to that chair, take it with you.”

She stood up, my eyes following her every movement. She said, “I believe you'd actually throw me out.”

“You believe right. What's a good night spot?”

She smiled again. “All right, buster, let's have a flag of truce. I'll be your guide. But no pawing, and I haven't any dirty postal cards on me.”

On the Champs Elysees we hailed a cab that looked like a fugitive from a museum. She gave him an address on the Left Bank. We settled back on the seat and she said, “Notice how wide the streets are. Napoleon's idea—so he could run the people down with horse troops if they got out of hand. It's narrow streets that make for good barricades.”

“Don't take this guide stuff too seriously. Been over long?”

“Since '48. I'm kind of a literary bum.”

“What's that mean?” I asked, because I knew she wanted me to.

“I'm not quite a writer; only able to bat out readable but stupid articles about fashions, or cute little travel items, for the ladies' magazines in the States. I sell often enough to keep eating and traveling.”

“When you going back...?”

“Never,” Marion cut in. “Too much tension, the frantic scramble for a buck that drives me nuts. Don't get me wrong, I think the USA is a great country—only not for me.”

“Know what you mean.”

“You do?”

I nodded. “Been restless myself ever since the war. Figure there ought to be more to living than eating and sleeping in order to work so you can keep on eating and sleeping. Thought when I got a few cents ahead, I'd do what I wanted.”

“But you never got ahead.”

“I've been loaded once or twice. But still didn't know what I wanted to do. And always in the back of my noggin the idea of running to Europe, but not sure what I'll find here either.”

She laughed, a bitter laugh that excited me. She said, “Welcome to the club—the Society of Miserable Americans! You won't find what you're searching for; in Europe we're always outsiders, and have to keep franc-pinching or lira-pinching—the lowest form of scrimping. And we're not liked, to use an understatement. Everybody looks at us as if we had an atomic bomb up our sleeve.”

We crossed the Seine. The river looked dark and cold. “Then why do you hang around?” I asked.

“Why do losers keep betting on horses? I travel from country to country, hoping to get unlost, hit the jackpot of contentment. I'm a very insecure character. Sometimes me gets me hysterical. Look, don't get me started on myself. I'm my favorite subject; I've baffled enough psychiatrists as it is.”

She gave me an uneasy feeling, like she was talking to herself. “Okay, then shut up.” I could almost feel her stiffen; then after a long pause she said, “You may not be as dull as I thought. Although the direct type can be boring, too.”

I not only wasn't in the mood for chatter, I didn't even know what she was beefing about. We didn't say a word till the cabbie stopped and we got out and I paid him 175 francs and Marion said, “That includes the tip.”

I asked him if that included service, in French, and he said a little sadly that it did and I gave him an extra 20 francs. Marion said, “You're as full of surprises as a grab bag. You speak good French.”

“Learned it in the army. OSS.”

“Oh God, not another cloak and dagger clown?”

“Yeah, but in Italy. Now what?” We were standing on the corner of Rue de Vaugirard, which looked like a lot of streets in Brooklyn. It was a little chilly. We walked down a dark side street and Marion kept peering at the house numbers. I asked, “What do they do, hide the night clubs here?”

“Looking for the Rose Rouge; saw some wonderful African dancers when I was there last summer. We'll try the next block.”

We walked down a couple more dark, narrow streets and in a dim street corner light we saw a very tall, thin Negro walking a poodle. Marion said, “He must be an African, skinny enough. Let's ask him.”

We hurried after him and she called out in French, “Monsieur, can you tell us where the cafe Rose Rouge is, where the Africans dance?”

He said in English, “You're several blocks from it. Shut tonight, anyway.” He was wearing a worn army jacket, a heavy scarf, old pants, and a beret. I kept staring at his lean brown face as Marion thanked him and then I cut in with, “Aren't you Bud Stewart?”

He nodded, said, “Thought I recognized you. Fought you once. You got an Italian name—uh—”

“Francine. Ken Francine. Still throwing leather?”

“Put it this way; I'm still looking for fights. You?”

I laughed. “Hell no, you proved to me I belonged outside the ring. Think of meeting you here! What you doing in Paris?”

“Live here.”

Marion bent down to pat the black poodle. The dog backed away, and Bud said in real good French, “Ernest, stop that.” Then he told Marion in English, “Pay him no mind; he always acts like that with tourists. Think my wife trains him to.”

Marion said, “Ernest—what a delightful name for a dog.”

Bud grinned and moved his face so the light hit it more. He wasn't marked, after all these years of boxing. “We got him from some Left Bank character who insisted we call him Ernest. Since it was a cuff job, I can't complain.”

There was a moment of awkward silence, then the poodle began to whine softly and Bud said, “Well, got to hit the sack. So long, Ken.”

“Yeah. You know we thought you were an African and—”

“I know, all Negroes look alike,” he said stiffly, nodded to Marion, and walked away.

We watched the dark street swallow him and Marion said, “Don't think your friend cares for us. Who is he?”

“Guy I once boxed. I was a Golden Glove heavyweight champ before the war.” I held up my hand so she could see my ring with the little raised golden glove and the ruby in the center of it. “Spent five years in the army before I could turn pro. Was twenty-five when I came out; lost too much time and... That's a crock; I really wasn't good enough for the pro leather slingers. This Bud Stewart clouted me silly in my first pro fight. Imagine meeting him here...”

“Let's start walking before you say it's a small world,” she said and the sarcastic edge to her voice made me sore at her again.

She took me down a lot of steps to a sort of deep cellar called Caveau de la Bolee, where we sat at a plain wooden table and had hot rums while some joker with a pale, thin face and uncombed hair stood in the center of the floor and recited poetry. We were the only Americans in the joint and I could tell she liked that. Marion said, “Isn't this charming? The cave is over five hundred years old. It has been a monastery, a prison, and a general hideout. Real French atmosphere.” _

I don't know why I was still angry at her, but to annoy her I said, “This stinks. Let's blow.”

“I suppose you'd rather go to a gaudy tourist cafe.”

“What's wrong with that? We're tourists.”

Marion shrugged, and she was even better stacked than I thought. I paid the check—150 francs, or about 40 cents—and we left, followed by the stares of the French and I guess a few snickers. Outside, we finally got a cab and Marion told him to take us to the Madam Eve in Montmartre. This turned out to be a lot of bright neon signs and when we got inside, a small place, but very plush.. The tablecloths should have been made of uranium, from the prices they charged. There was a three-buck admission tab, and when I glanced at the wine list, the cheapest champagne was 4000 francs, or a dozen bucks. We had a bottle and I was steaming because I'd talked myself into this clip joint. We watched the show without talking; it consisted of a chorus that couldn't dance and several shrill singers, and the big deal was all the gals were nude from the waist up—a nipple show.

After two drinks we'd finished the bottle and to save dough I ordered two shots of whisky, which was another mistake—they cost four bucks each and tasted like radiator fluid. Marion asked in an over-sweet voice, “Enjoying yourself?”

“Time of my life,” I growled, wondering if I had enough to cover the bill. I made my whisky stretch and when the alleged show was over, we danced once. She was a good dancer and I wanted to hold her tight but her eyes kept mocking me, saying, “You asked for this, you big dummy,” so I played it cool and after the dance we left.

The bill, with a 20% service clip, came to 11,300 francs, or about $35, and when I asked if I could pay in American dollars, the waiter broke his back bowing while Marion groaned, said, “Wish I had francs—you'll get stuck at the legal rate, three-fifty to the dollar. But you insisted on being a tourist.”

She was right about this being a tourist trap—the only French in the place were the chorus gals and the waiters. It was nearly midnight when we hit the street. When I looked around for a cab, and she said, “We can walk to my hotel.”

We walked in silence. I held her arm and was aware of the long stride of her legs, the firm movement of her body. She lived in a small hotel on Rue de Clichy and at the door she said, “Be sure to call tomorrow—whenever Magano can spare me an hour. And thanks for the evening.”

“Not much of an evening. Big deal—bare knockers.”

She laughed. “Haven't heard that word in years. Knockers. That's about all they had. And I have better ones.” She had her coat open and sort of puffed her blouse out for me to stare at—and I did.

“In the interests of science, think I might find out for sure?”

She slipped me a cold smile, as though she'd been waiting for me to make the play. “Wouldn't that be too much like my paying for my drinks?”

I nodded. “Guess it would. Good night; I'll get in touch soon as I hear from Magano.”

“Do that.”

We shook hands and I walked up a wide street full of seafood restaurants, and got a cab. It seemed only a five-minute ride to my hotel, but being after midnight, it cost me double and by the time I got to my room and counted my green, I had exactly eight bucks to my name. But it didn't matter, in the morning when I saw Magano, I was to get a bankroll.

It took me a long time to fall asleep. I had the feeling that if I'd put a little more work into it, I could have been sleeping with Marion. But hanging around the fringe of that idea was another one: I'd played it smarter this way; something about her screamed trouble.

I got to thinking about Bud, sorry I hadn't gotten his address—he could give me tips on the fight setup here. I kept tossing around and finally at three in the morning I took a hot bath and went back to bed and slept like a drunk.

The phone woke me. It was after eleven. A harsh voice asked, “Francine?”

“That's me.”

“You know who this is, don't you?”

“Yeah.”

“I'm in a cab on the corner. Make it snappy.”

“Take me a few minutes to get dressed,” I said and hung up. I took a cold sponge, skipped a shave, and scrambled into my clothes. There was only one cab waiting at the corner and I opened the door and he said, “Get in.”

Vincent Magano had been deported before the war, and while he didn't get the publicity they gave Luciano, he'd been a fairly big apple—bootlegging, numbers, dope, and probably gals. I'd seen his picture once in the papers and still remembered it—wasn't the type of puss you forget.

Seeing him in person made me realize it hadn't been a bad picture in the papers—his ugly face looked as sharp and hard as in the picture. He was a small guy but very thick, with hardly any neck. He was wearing a black coat with a velvet collar, and a wide-brimmed light pearl fedora that seemed to point up the hardness of his eyes, the sharpie face. His entire head looked like it belonged on the body of a snake—I was sure he never smiled.

He said, “You're a big bastard, like Slats wrote.” He had a sandpaper voice and all the gold and silver teeth in his face would have made a pawnbroker drool.

I sat in the cab beside him and he asked, “Get my message?”

“I met Miss Allen.”

“Mrs. Allen,” he said, pulling out a stubby cigar. “See, I got to be careful in these deals; don't want the French cops getting curious about me. You know.”

I didn't know, and that Mrs. Allen was news to me, but I merely nodded, said, “Wondered why the writer was in it.”

Magano fooled me—he did smile, and brightened up the cab. “She's been a pain, writing me for interviews. Don't want to say no because then she might write something out of her head. Christ sake, last thing I want is publicity. She was all set to come down to see me in Rome—all I need is her scratching around there. Figured this was a good way of keeping her quiet and getting in touch with you.”

He said it like he'd done something very clever, only I didn't know what. He lit his cigar, stinking up everything, felt my shoulder like he was brushed with a touch of queer. “Got a boy in Florence built like you. Thinks he's a fighter and—Let's get going. Want to pull out of here before night. These deals make me nervous. I always got to play things double careful—lousy cops waiting to throw the book at me here, and even in Rome where I got connections.” He gave the driver an address and we took off. I still didn't know what he was gassing about, but it wasn't any of my business. After he made the contact for me with the French boxing wheels, I could forget him.

He asked how Slats was, about the crime investigations in the States, and I tried to talk like I was one of the boys, told him how swell Slats had been falling in line with my idea of me bringing over European pugs, how Slats had even given me a new fortnighter bag as a going-away gift. Vince stared at me like I was kidding, said, “You're some comedian, but I ain't got time for gags.”

We stopped in front of a small cafe that was shut and I said, “Your writer girl lives around here.”

He cursed, said something about her that I had in mind before I ever saw him, added, “I'm stalling her. Tomorrow you call and tell her I had to leave town, I'll see her the next time I'm in Paris. Anything to get her off me. And be careful what you say, all we need is a little publicity and the deal is screwed.”

Vince knocked on the metal shutters and after a while a tired-looking man in a dirty shirt and torn suspenders raised the shutters and we went inside and he locked the door. Vince said something to him and the man answered in French, but with a Spanish accent.

It was a dingy little bar, and in the back, behind a wooden lattice that badly needed a paint job, there were a few tables. The air in the joint was stale and stunk of many things and I was almost glad Magano had his rope going.

We went back to one of the tables and the man with the sleepy eyes brought us two coffees and some thick bread and a pitcher of hot milk. The sugar bowl looked dirty and I skipped that, but the coffee tasted surprisingly good.

The poor bastard who ran the place stood behind the bar and looked like he was sleeping on his feet. When Magano finished his coffee he said. “Lousy idea Europeans have for breakfast—a hunk of bread and coffee. States has the right idea; fruit, bacon, stack of wheatcakes—something solid between your ribs to start the day. In Rome I got a special grill for making wheatcakes, but no sense trying to get them here; they don't get the idea.”

I listened politely to all this food talk. Magano belched a couple times, finally said, “We're waiting for Ferrmil Gonnet to show.”

“Ferrmil—some handle.”

“Everybody calls him Freddy, and he's a big operator in French boxing. He's a Corsican. Not as big a dope as he looks, and he has connections. Got two middleweights that are fair. Let me do most of the talking.”

“Sure.”

“You make an impression on him, flash some dough, ask about the records of his boys. But don't tell him nothing for sure. We play it slow this time.”

We shot the breeze for a while and then there was a light tapping on the door and the guy behind the counter came awake and let Freddy Gonnet in. He was a runt, too, but in contrast with Magano, Gonnet was all sleek and fat, a moon face with skin like a baby's, greasy and well combed thick hair—and the shiftiest eyes I ever saw.

He wore a white raincoat tied around the middle with a belt that went around him a couple of times. I don't know why he was wearing it; it didn't even look like rain. When he opened the coat I saw he was sporting a grey pin-stripe suit, dark grey silk shirt, and a lobster red tie that hurt the eyes.

Gonnet looked me over carefully—out of the side of his eyes—as he shook hands with Magano. He treated Vince with awe and respect; obviously as a deported thug Magano was a Prince of “Le Gangsterisme.” Freddy talked in broken English—for my benefit—and I went into my act, ordered brandy, tossed my last eight bucks to the sleepy-eyed Spaniard, told him to keep the change. He didn't even blink.

Magano said. “Gonnet, this is Ken Francine. He represents the syndicate back in the States, a very close friend of Slats.”

“Ah, Slats,” Freddy said, gushing over the word as he shook my hand. I squeezed his fat little hand to let him know I was a muscle-boy and almost laughed. There was no doubt about it, in this musical comedy Slats was the King. “I am most happy to see you,” Gonnet gushed on. “I have middleweights that are most capable, draw big money in the States, be crowd pleasers that—”

“What Ken's here for,” Magano cut in, as the Spaniard placed three glasses of brandy on the table, then retired to the bar on the other side of the wooden lattice. “Lots of interest in the USA in European pugs, and Ken will be the contact man. Through him, fighters will be sent to the States, where Slats will take over, see to it they get the big money bouts. Ken will also arrange fights here for some of the American champs. In France Ken will work with you, in other countries I will introduce him to the right men—a favor I am doing for my old friend Slats.”

Gonnet raised his brandy, said solemnly, “A toast to much money,” and we all drank. The brandy was strong and smooth. Freddy ran his mouth a lot, a few Italian and French words salted into what he thought was English. And if he sounded silly, there was something about his eyes that warned me he wasn't a complete horse's end.

When he started talking about a flyweight he had, I cut him off with, “Skip the flyweights—tough to get matches for them in the States, work up any interest. What I want is the complete records of your middleweights—pictures, press clippings, any other stuff that can be used for publicity angles.”

“I am prepared,” Gonnet said, feeling his inside pockets, running his hands through his raincoat, then smacking his fat cheek. “I leave these in my office. I will—”

“That's okay, I'll drop over tomorrow and pick them up. Also want leads on any other good fighters you know about.”

Magano said, “Freddy, get the records now. These things take time. Ken will set up an office here but he'll fly back and forth to the States. As he's leaving for New York tonight. We need the records now.”

I tried not to do a doubletake as Gonnet leaped to his feet, said, “I will phone and have them here with speed!”

Vince said softly, “Be careful what you say. The flics do not know I am in Paris.”

Freddy drew himself up to his full five feet, spit on the floor, announced, “That for the lousy coppers!” He ran around the lattice and jumped into a phone booth.

I asked, “What's this bunk about me taking a plane to the States tonight?”

Magano gave me a cool look, and finished his brandy. “Your reservations are already in; you take off from Orly at eight sharp. Before you leave, you'll hold a press conference, tell the French sportswriters you are returning in a week with contracts for—”

“What's all this hide and seek we been playing?”

Magano said, “Keep your damn voice down or you'll queer it.”

“Queer what? I don't get the play.”

Vince's hard eyes bored into mine like a kid trying to out-stare another. He said in Italian, “God, didn't Slats—anybody—tell you the setup?”

“Sure. I'm to scout European pugs, get fights for American boxers here, and I get my expenses and a twenty per cent cut of the manager's end,” I said in Italian.

“Keep that crap for shoe polish! That's a cover-up, a legitimate reason for a lot of ocean flying. Each time you take a couple pounds of stuff back with you.”

“What stuff?” I asked, the tight feeling hard inside me as I realized I'd been played for a patsy. Thought I'd sold Slats the idea of a European agency too easily.

“Heroin,” Magano sort of hissed. “Your new suitcase has a special built-in bottom, holds up to seven pounds. You're not known and I've been very careful in seeing you. You make a dozen trips during the next couple months, then we lay off for a while. Make a fortune.”

“Only one thing wrong with the deal—nobody told me! I don't fool with dope.”

Magano leaned back in his chair, his face an ugly mask. He said, “I've wasted much time in this, took a big chance. I don't like to—”

“I don't give a damn what you like. No dice!”

He mumbled, cursing me under his breath, and took out a wallet thick with American bills. “Make up your mind, Francine; I ain't here to argue. Within two hours I'll have the stuff at your hotel with a plane ticket and a thousand bucks. That's my end of the deal.”

“Look, a mistake has been made. The lads aren't out a dime—the fancy clothes, the boat passage, that was my dough. But I'm flat. Let me have five hundred bucks to get back to the States. I'll work it out with Slats there, you'll get your dough back. Or, in time I'll send it to you direct.”

He laughed, all those gold and silver choppers flashing. He put the wallet away quickly. “Not a dime! So you're broke—maybe the boys figured they didn't have to explain anything to you. Try being broke in Europe for a few days; you'll come crawling to me!”

“Vince, there's no point in our fighting. A mistake has been made. All I'm asking is boat fare home so I can—”

“Be careful; you're asking for something else!”

I laughed in his face. “Once a punk always a punk! Act your age! That hard talk may go over with a Gonnet, but to me it's just so much hot air. I want five hundred, now! And if I have to take it from you, I can do that too!” I leaned forward so most of my weight was on my feet, off the chair.

Magano went for his knife. You have to be good and close, to work a knife. I'd no doubt about his being good, but he wasn't close enough—his arms were too short. As he half-rose from his chair he went for his breast pocket. I belted him with a right hook. He went over backwards, did a somersault on the dirty floor, then crashed through the wooden lattice and landed in front of the bar.

I followed him. He sat up, his mouth bloody, shook his head and felt his jaw. As I bent down to get his wallet, I heard the Spaniard coming around the bar. He stopped for a second to draw back his sap for a full swing, and I dropped him with another right.

Magano scrambled to his feet, screaming, “Big jerk bastard! I can't afford a rumble here!”

“The dough,” I said, stepping toward him, watching his hands. He didn't reach for his knife. Instead he tried to kick me in the groin, missed, then neatly pivoted on his other foot and ran to the door. Unlocking it, he raced out into the street.

I started after him, then stopped—waited to see what Gonnet's play would be. He was standing in the phone booth doorway, staring at me with big fish eyes, mouth open, face chalk-white. I glanced over at bar—the Spaniard was finally getting the sleep he wanted; he was still out. I walked over to the door, looked up and down the street. Of course, no Vince—there were a half dozen alleys he could have ducked into.

I stood in the doorway for a long time.' Vince would still be running, probably had the stuff on him and couldn't risk cops butting in. I wondered if I could get anything out of the Spaniard or Freddy. I figured my only move was to scram. I didn't exactly want to blow the whistle on Vince either; I'd have a rough time explaining things to the police myself.

I had my back to Gonnet and I turned and looked at him. He still acted like he'd seen a ghost. He was so scared I grinned at him, and walked out. Without thinking, I hailed a cab, drove to the hotel.

I had less than a 100 francs on me and the cab meter called for 145. I motioned for him to wait and at the desk I told the clerk, “I'm short on francs, haven't changed any checks today. Send 200 francs to the taxi outside, put it on my bill.”

“Yes, Monsieur Francine. And if you wish to change—”

“Some other time,” I said, taking my key.

I opened the door of my room carefully, although I was pretty sure Magano was making for Italy fast as he could. The room was okay. I took off my coat and tie, lit my pipe, and looked at the knuckles of my right hand. They weren't even cut. I sat on the bed for a long time, wondering what the hell I was going to do, ready to explode any second. I couldn't sit still and I walked around the room a couple of times, stopped to look at my fancy suitcase. If there was a double bottom, I couldn't spot it, but with dope it only has to be a fraction of an inch thick. I remembered how pleased—and surprised—I'd been when the boys back in New York gave me the bag as a “gift.” They must have busted their buttons laughing about the little stuttering speech of gratitude I made.

I started wearing out the carpet again, trying to think. My mind was a blank. Only one thought kept turning over and over—I was stony flat busted in Paris.

The phone rang. Vince's rough voice asked, “Francine, know who this is?”

“Yeah.”

“I forget you're slugging me, give you one last chance to play ball. Otherwise you starve.”

“Where are you?”

“Never mind that, you fool. Are you working with me?”

“Leave five hundred bucks at the desk and then we'll talk.”

He started cursing and I got in a few good ones before he hung up. I wondered why he was so damn sure I wouldn't call the coppers? But if I did the Spaniard and Gonnet would certainly dummy up, and I'd be left talking myself out of a cell—with my phony suitcase.

I stretched out on the bed, tried to think. Suppose I agreed to go through with it, then dumped the stuff and kept the grand? But that wouldn't play either—right now Magano was sore because of the time he'd wasted. He wasn't in this alone, and throwing away seven pounds of heroin meant Magano would be out several hundred grand. I'd spend all my time ducking knife or gun punks.

Maybe if I played ball, made a trip or two, I could get a couple of fighters, really become a manager with a Paris office. But that was strictly dream stuff. For one thing dope is miserable, even dirtier and lower than pimping. And once I was in, there'd be no pulling out. I was glad I'd booted the deal, but that still left me flat broke.

When it began getting dark, I dressed, went downstairs and had supper in the hotel, signing the tab. In the morning I'd have to get out of this trap somehow.

I walked along the Champs Elysees up to the Etoile, then to Ave de Wagram. Lots of people in evening clothes were going into the ballet theatre, most of them speaking English. I stood around like a cluck, as though I expected somebody to give me a handout. I walked back to the hotel, didn't even have enough francs for a beer. Tomorrow I'd go to the American Embassy, see what they could do for me.

After a hot bath, I jumped into bed and was just dozing off when I heard this light knock on my door. I got out of bed silently and waited, heard the knock again. I didn't figure Magano for any rough-house, but some of these punks have all their brains in a knife or rod. I asked, “Who is it?”

“Me—Marion Allen.”

I opened the door a crack, carefully blocking it with my shoulder. She was alone. She asked, “Mind if I come in?”

“Wait till I get a robe.” As I turned, she barged in, said, “That's all right. I'm a big girl.”

She shut the door and I locked it and she merely raised her eyebrows but didn't say a word. She was smiling slightly and looked very fresh and pretty in a grey suit and white silk blouse, a cloth coat over her arm. I was dressed for the evening—in my shorts. I said, “Excuse me. I'll get a robe.”

“Doesn't bother me. My, my, look at all the big muscles we have. Like a gorilla.” She walked across the room slowly, tossed her coat on the bed', sat down. “Sorry to bust in like this, but I've been waiting all day for your call.”

“I forgot. Seems Magano didn't want to be interviewed.”

“I see. That's jolly.” She ran her eyes over me again, an amused look on her face. “And where is the elusive and mysterious thug now?”

“On his way to Italy, I hope.”

“Damn, I came down here just to see him. The least you—”

“Marion, I came across the ocean to see him and blew the deal. We parted kind of sudden and I didn't have my mind on your interview. Sorry.”

“Sorry is such a sad word, and so stupid. Sit down. Or do I embarrass you?”

I sat in the chair by the bed, said, “I'm very comfortable,” and wondered what her play was. I felt sure she wasn't tied in with Magano—but nothing made sense at the moment. Her suit was too snug for her to be packing a gun, and her bag was too flat to hold one. If she was on the make, she was making a mistake. Of course there was also another pure thought flying around my head—this girl was the only one I knew in Paris, maybe she could work out a way for me to get back to the States, or at least keep me eating.

She lit a cigarette and stared at me, something like a tiny smile on her red lips. “Don't you ever offer anybody a cigarette?” I asked.

“Too expensive. Want one?”

“Just asking. I use a pipe.”

She kept staring at me and then she did something simple that made me run a temperature—she reached up and pulled the ribbon around her hair. The horse-tail vanished as the hair fell down to her shoulders. It hid the sharp lines of her face, and along with the little double chin, suddenly changed her face into something feminine, soft, and desirable. She asked, “Like?”

I nodded. “Takes some of the tightness, the hard lines, from your face.”

“Mind if I comb it out?” She walked over to the bathroom, snapped on the light, shut the door.

I sat in the chair like a moron: sure, I had a hunch as to what was coming, but I couldn't believe it.

A long moment later the bathroom door opened. She was wearing only a thin slip that didn't hide any of her strong curves. She sure wasn't fooling when she said she had it over the French show gals in the bosom department. She crossed the room slowly, parading before me, still tall even without high heels. She sat on the bed, smiled as she said, “There. Now we're both comfortable.”

I kept telling myself to play it cool, see what this was all about—if I could. I made with the talk. “Marion, I'm not a joker who believes in dreams coming true. Honey, what goes with us?”

She laughed, the sound teasing and mocking. “My great muscle-bound darling, don't you know what this is? We're living a little. Junior, this is L-O-V-E!”

I didn't have to worry about playing it slow, the harsh cynicism of her voice was the sting of an ice shower. We smiled at each other and I said calmly, “Now that you mention it, I think I did hear about that stuff, along with the birds and bees. But you see, angel, I'm in kind of a spot, so what's our play?”

She pretended to think for a moment. “Usual routine is to tell me I'm the only woman in the world for you, all the other babes were merely trial runs. Oh yes, be sure to tell me you certainly respect me—although I never could understand for what. Then, of course, there's the caveman act—you're built for that. Slap me into the sheets and slap me off the bed afterwards—all symbolic of that great boon to the world—manliness.” She giggled a nasty giggle.

I shook my head. “Still don't get it; but as you said, you're a big girl and one of us is either dreaming or nuts.”

She said sweetly, “Oh, I'm the one that's nuts. My husband thought so. There was a sad case, my miserable husband, a lot of years ago in New York and Bucks County. Lord, I was some hick, so eager and striving and... Let's not talk about me.”

I stood up. “Honey, are you for real?”

“Tell me, what do you really think of me?” she asked, a bit too coyly.

“You're something left over from a Bette Davis picture—one of her hammy ones.”

She threw back her head and really laughed. I stopped that by closing her mouth with a kiss. She felt all soft and cool, an exciting odor about her that wasn't perfume. I whispered, “Baby, real or unreal, no more words.”

“Of course,” she said, sort of nibbling at my lips. “Only I should tell you this, Ken, or whatever your name is. Know why I came to your room? Only satisfaction, true sense of security I get, is when I'm with a man.”

“Okay,” I said, wondering what was the matter with me. After that “Ken, or whatever your name is...” pitch, I should have shown her the door fast. Instead I was gently kissing her neck, rubbing my face in her soft dark hair, aware of the warmth of her body through the thin slip.

“You see, I've slept around a bit, and—”

“Lovey, I don't care.”

She sighed in my ear. “But darling, I want you to care. I'm sick—no, don't reach for a penicillin shot, not sick that way. But I have to tell you this—I get my kicks this way. I know I have an attractive body. No matter what I do, never goes scrawny or saggy. If I told you my age, you'd—”

“Tell me later.”

“No, hear this. Whenever I get depressed, in a real blue mood, a man is my pill. I don't like men and my body gives me power over them, makes me feel like a—a—victor. Last night you acted cool...”

—“That's the way I am,” I said, still holding her and wondering how this was going to end.

“... And then, today, forgetting all about my interview. I got so mad that—no matter how childish it may sound, I simply had to get even with you. There, sweet, that's really me. Sorry I ruined things.”

She pulled away but I grabbed her, said, “But, light of my life, you haven't ruined a damn thing. Right now nothing can spoil it.” I fumbled with her slip and she laughed, pushed my hands away, said, “Let me do it, clumsy. You'll tear it, and clothing is too expensive over here.”

It was minutes, or hours, later, when I awoke to hear her crying softly in the darkness. I asked what was wrong and she clung to me fiercely, still weeping. I'd given up trying to figure her out. I just felt full of a warm, lazy, contented feeling. She said, “Darling, oh Ken!” and wiped her face on my chest. “You've made me so happy.”

“That bad?”

“I don't know. Usually it's—I don't like it—Now, it frightens me. Who is Gina?”

I pushed her away, sat up. Marion said, “Don't be angry. You called her name in your sleep. Do you love her?”

“Told you I was in the OSS. She's an Italian girl who saved my life during the war.”

“Honest, were you in the OSS?” The sarcasm was back in her voice. “Was she very pretty?”

“Look, I saw Gina for a dozen or so hours. Most of the time we were ducking bullets; there wasn't anything between us.”

“War was ten years ago and you still dream of her?”

The cross-examination was making me tight and restless again. “Forget her. So I dream of her. Maybe in my mind I romanticize her—like a million guys dream of Marilyn Monroe or Hayworth. Doesn't mean a thing.”

“And it's none of my business anyway.”

“That's right.”

She laughed. “I do like you, Ken.”

“Marion, I—You get under my skin. I'll admit I don't know why. But I think with a little patience we can hit it off like—”

“Like normal people?”

The kidding note was back in her voice. “We are normal people, no horns sticking out of our heads. Also, we're—well, sort of alone over here, so why not try living together? Be rough till I get straight because I'm stony, and the deal with Magano went sour.”

“Ken, do you love me?”

I wished the light was on then. I was sure her eyes were mocking me. I told her slowly, “Why label things? Maybe tomorrow, or next week, or next year, we'll be killing each other. But right now I want you and if you want me—long as that lasts, it's worth playing the hand out.”

“Ken, darling!”

The tears came once more but I knew they were real. We kissed and hugged and made whispered lovers' talk, then went to sleep. In the morning, I told myself, I'd hock something, get out of the hotel and move in with Marion, take things from there. Something would work out somehow.

I awoke with a start. It was drizzling slightly and starting to get light outside. Marion was dressed, heading for the door. She had her hair pulled tightly away from her face and in the early morning light she looked tired and drawn. She blew a kiss at me, whispered, “Good-bye, Ken.”

“Where you going?”

“Away. This has been the best night I ever had, but it's over. I'm no good for you, and you're not for me, really.”

“Damn, don't start that again,” I said jumping out of bed.

Her voice was full of self-pity as she said, “Please don't make a scene.”

“But we agreed. I thought we were going to try to hit it off.”

“Oh, maybe we could, but it wouldn't be worth the bother.”

That trumped it. I stood there like a naked fool as she slipped me that sickening smile, her eyes two small triumphs as she quietly walked out.

It was a little before six and I sat on the bed and held a debate with myself. One moment I said she was nuts, that I was only playing her for a meal ticket, and the hell with her.

The next moment I knew that was a lie, I really wanted her: tramp, nuts, or whatever she was. I wanted her real bad.

Chapter 2

I HAD TO BE out by noon, and by eight I was dressed and hungry. Twice in my life I've dressed in all my clothes and run out on hotel bills. But here they had my real name and address, not to mention my passport number. I had two things I could hock—an expensive camera I'd taken from the corpse of a German officer near Lake Como, and a wrist watch worth five hundred bucks—in 1945. I'd “bought” this in Switzerland for certain rubber goods the Swiss were short of, and the U.S. Army lousy with, during the war. In most European countries the hock shops are run by the government, so you get a pretty fair price.

I slung the camera over my shoulder like a tourist, told the clothes horse at the desk I was checking out, would return shortly to square my bill. He said, “You can cash Express checks here.”

“I'll take care of it.”

He glanced around, whispered, “Perhaps at a good rate—with me.”

I shook my head and walked out. It was too early for where I was going, so I walked over toward Clichy. It was the start of a brisk Fall day and I bought a bag of chestnuts for breakfast from a street vender.

I found Marion's hotel, told a sleepy old man in his undershirt who was behind the desk that I wanted to speak to Miss Marion Allen. He asked in French, “Who?”

“Allen, Marion Allen.”

He pointed to the key board—there were about twenty rooms in the place—muttered, “You have the wrong hotel. We have nobody named Allen here.”

“You must have. I brought her to the door here myself, night before last. American woman, tall, well dressed.”

He opened a book, ran a thin finger down a list of scrawled names, said, “We have several Americans here, but no Allen.”

“What're the names and room numbers of the Americans?”

He looked at me as though I'd asked the impossible, said, “Monsieur, I am not allowed to give out information of that nature, except to the police. But I can definitely tell you there is no Miss Allen here, and since passports are required for registration—”

“Okay, the hell with it.”

I walked back to the Champs Elysees, wondering why Marion had given me a phony address. But there were so many crazy things about her, I gave up wracking my mind, headed for the American Embassy.

There, I explained to a bright young woman I was stranded in Europe, that I understood the Embassy would pay my passage back to the States and bill me for it later. She had a crisp voice and the words cut as she said, “Sorry, but you've heard wrong. We haven't any money allotted for that purpose.”

“That's great. How do I get home?” While I didn't want to go back to the States, being broke and a foreigner was too rugged a deal.

“We'll wire your folks.”

“The cemetery doesn't take wires.”

“... or your relatives.”

I shook my head. “Got a few cousins I haven't seen since I was a kid. They wouldn't give a lead jit to get me home.” I was lying too. My old man was probably alive, although I hadn't seen him since I ran away from home when I was fifteen. He liked to use his hands and the first I knew I packed a punch was when he teed-off on me as usual and I tried hitting back and flattened him.

Miss Ice asked, “How about friends?”

“You don't know my friends.”

She must have thought I was kidding her, for she said curtly, “Leave your address here. Maybe one of these months we can find a job for you on a ship.”

“How do I eat and pay rent during one of these months?”

“Mr. Francine, we're not your family. This is a government office.”

“Okay, okay. Do you know where I can get a job? I'm worrying about eating right now.”

“You can't work in France, as a foreigner, and we haven't any openings here. I'm sorry.”

“This gets better as it goes along. Maybe the French government will give me a handout? I'll tell them I'm only trying to follow the advice of those US—Go Home signs.”

“Please, you don't have to be sarcastic. If you go to the American Legion building—that's near the Paris-Trib office—there's a private organization that helps stranded Americans—they may keep you eating for a few days.” The interoffice phone on her desk buzzed and she answered and wrote something down and then hung up, told me, “That's all I can do for you,” and called out, “Mr. Franzino, I have that information for you.”

This was said to a lean, balding guy who was sitting at a far corner of the office reading a travel booklet. I suppose it wasn't the girl's fault, but I was getting steamed up at the brush-off; that tight feeling was springing up inside me. I said, “Can you at least tell me where I can find a hock shop here?”

“I'm afraid you'll have to ask a policeman that. There's one in each arrondissement—that means district—but I don't know...”

“Try your high-school French out on someone else. Thanks, honey, you've helped a million.” I turned toward the door, almost reached it, when this heavy Southern drawl said, “Hold up there, mister. Maybe me and you could make some talk.”

This was the bald character. “What about?” I snapped.

He pointed toward the door and we walked outside the office. In this magnolia-plantation voice he said, “Don't mean to butt in, mister, but couldn't help overhear what you said. You're in a bad predicament.”

“Thanks for telling me. Maybe you know where the hock shop is?”

“Now mister, you're too big to fly off the handle. I don't want to buy nothing you have. I merely thought, being we're both Americans and of Italian parents—Franzino-Francine—well, I just got here, haven't had a chance to spend my money yet. Figure I can help you eat, at least. Suppose I lend you a hundred?”

I felt so damn grateful I couldn't talk for a second. Then I said, “Y-you'd do that for a total stranger? I'll pay you back. Swear I will, soon as I can.”

“Know you will,” he said, pulling out his wallet. He handed me his card—he was a building contractor in Alabama. “Wouldn't think of insulting a man as big as you by offering anything but a loan. You send me the money whenever you're ready. I'm not wealthy, but I ain't hurting either. Don't have no francs, but this stuff works over here too.” He handed me two fifty dollar bills.

I thanked him again and as we shook hands, I asked, “How does a Franzino get that deep Southern drawl?”

He said in Italian, “My grandfolks went straight from Naples to Alabama. No reason, just picked out a spot and went. But as you can see, they never let us forget the old language.”

“You're a great friend, truly,” I said in Italian and we both laughed and pumped hands again and Miss Ice called him and I walked out.

I felt good. After paying my hotel bill, I'd still have enough left to eat for a week or two, and find a cheap room. Something would work out.

I started back toward the hotel but figured the American Express was nearer, so I headed for the Opera section. I'd walked by the swank shops of the Rue de La Paix and was in sight of the Express office, when a compact, short guy in a worn overcoat and faded canvas rain hat brushed against me and asked out of the side of his mouth, “Change? Give best rate for traveler checks.”

He was so much like a character out of a lousy movie, I went along with the gag, asked, “How much for dollars?”

He fell in step with me. “How many you want to change?” His English was pretty good; he'd probably been hustling since the war. And the stains on his tie said he'd been eating regularly.

“This much,” I said, flashing the fifties.

He looked around so fast I thought his head was on a pivot. “For the love of—careful! Come on.” He turned down the first sidestreet we came to, suddenly darted into a dim hallway. Out of curiosity I followed him. He “was against one wall of the narrow hallway. “American Express give 346. I give 400 franc to dollar. Okay?”

I stopped being curious. I hadn't had time to try the black market in dough yet, although everyone else in Paris dealt on k, in fact the Paris Tribune published the “unofficial” rate of exchange almost every day. Travelers checks and personal checks were taken to Switzerland, or Tangiers, where they could be cashed for American bucks, and for straight cash you got the top rate. This was a difference of 50 francs, the guy was offering me, about l/7th of a buck. Meant an extra fourteen bucks on my hundred, fourteen cheap meals, and I could sure use that. I decided to play it clever, not let on I spoke French.

“Got a deal, shorty,” I said, giving him the dough. I held my hands loose, ready to grab him if he tried to run out on me. He held each fifty up to the dim light. I was sure he couldn't see a damn thing. Suddenly he asked, in French, “You big man—police?”

I caught myself before I said no, told him, “No understand. Me no—com-pree French.”

He grinned, his face like a dirty etching in the bad light. He said, “You okay. Hundred dollars, I give you forty thousand francs. Okay?”

“Yeah.”

He took out a wad of worn money, peeled off a big bill. “This 5000 franc, see printed here—5000? I no cheat, we do business right. Okay, I give eight of these.”

I had a vague idea of how easy it would be to flatten him in the dark hallway and take all the dough. It was just an idea—I've never mugged anybody in my life. A wild idea. Although not so wild, as it turned out.

He gave me the eight bills. Money is a funny thing—in Holland the bills are small, in France and Italy the dough is over-large and tissue-thin. Those fifties—the paper was substantial and not too large or too small. Large money always reminds me of stage money. My business partner said, “Monsieur, you leave first. Look better.”

I went out and walked into one of the busy main streets and was about to hail a cab back to the hotel, when I remembered I was hungry. There were several big sidewalk cafes but they were crowded with tourists and I wasn't in any mood for “How's every little thing back in the States?” chatter.

I went up another side street, found a small bar that was almost empty except for a guy drinking a Pernod. He put down the last of the foggy-colored drink and went out as I asked for a cup of coffee and a croissant. Always amazes me how people can take hard stuff early in the morning, and believe me, Pernod can make whisky seem soft as tap water. The coffee was bad but hot and I had a second cup and another roll, lit my pipe, and gave the fat woman busy cleaning the copper top of the bar one of the 5000 franc notes. She slapped her cheek, said, “Big money—so early.”

I still had some francs left from last night, but I wanted change.

The woman dug around in the cash register, got the change ready, looked at the bill again and let out a little scream followed by, “No good!”

“What's the matter?” I asked in French.

“The money—it is counterfeit!”

I yanked the bill out of her hand and she yelled again and I said, “Damn it, keep still!” and examined the bill.

I didn't have to have her tell me, “Look at the printing—there. And the nose on the face is crooked!”

I took out the rest of the bills—they were all queer. Not even a skilled job. The woman said, “I will call the police.”

“No! How much I owe you?”

“Seventy francs.”

I had a 50-franc coin and some paper money that added up to 70 francs. I slapped that on the bar and walked out as the woman said, “Monsieur—service is not included.”

I didn't bother answering. No time for talk, no time to fool with the police. All I wanted was to find my business partner—he'd sure given me the business—and beat the living slop out of him.

I ran around the Opera section like a hound dog, but of course I didn't see my boy. I slowed down—I'm too large to run without attracting attention. I leaned against a building and got my breath and senses back. Maybe it was lucky I didn't find the joker—way things were breaking for me I'd have killed him and the guillotine would be making hamburger out of my neck.

When I could talk without shouting I went up to the nearest cop, asked the address of a loan “society.” It was four blocks away and with very little red tape I got exactly fifty-five bucks, or 18,200 francs, for both my watch and camera. I took the Metro back to the hotel and dropped 13,400 francs there and walked out with my bag, leaving me about 6,000 francs and' those five wrongo bills. I knew only one person in the whole of Paris, Bud Stewart, and all I knew was he lived someplace on, the Left Bank. But Freddy Gonnet would know.

I looked him up in the phone book—he had a combination office and apartment in Pigalle and fortunately the French believe in putting up directions in their subways and I got there without much trouble. I was turning into his street as he was coming out of his apartment building, practically walking into me. He was wearing a trench coat but no hat, his well combed hair sparkling in the sunlight. When he saw me he stopped stock still, eves looking for a trap.

For some reason I'm always suspicious of jokers who spend a lot of time with their hair. It's stupid on my part, maybe envy, but just looking at his hair put me on edge. Freddy said, “Ah, Ken—what happened yesterday?”

I took a chance that Magano had scrammed without stopping to see anybody, and said, “Magano got out of line.”

Gonnet's hard eyes took in my bag. “You leave for States, come for record my fighters?”

“I leave when I'm ready!”

He suddenly smiled. “Ah, you still work for Monsieur Slats, the mob?” He mouthed the word “Slats” like he was eating something that tasted good. “Magano, he try to muscle in?”

“Cut the crap,” I growled, angry enough to bite his head off at the mention of those creeps' names. “Know where an American fighter named Bud Stewart lives?”

“The black heavy? Clever, but not a—”

“Know his address or not?”

He slipped me a hard stare for a moment, balanced himself on the balls of his little feet as though considering throwing a punch up at me, then took out a small red leather book, thumbed through it. He gave me the address like he was talking to an idiot, and I snapped in French, “Be careful what you say, jerk.”

“You speak French well,” he said in French. “I can not make you out, the way you handled the great Magano.”

I didn't say a word, wondered how mad he'd get if I mussed his pretty hair. He took out a pack of Camels, offered me one. I took it and for the hell of it put on a little show—I lit one of the queer 5000 franc notes on his lighter, lit my cigarette. The damn thin paper, burned so fast I almost spoiled the act by burning my fingers.

Gonnet watched me with puzzled, large eyes. I slapped him in the gut hard enough to make him cough, said, “See you,” and hailed a cab. I left him standing there, sickly pale, rode the cab a few blocks and got off at the first Metro station.

All right, it was a small-time act but somehow I felt good; the tension left me for a while—the act was the only successful thing I'd done in two days of absolute snafuing. Hell, I couldn't even get a sex-crazy babe into bed without a lot of couch talk.

Hard to tell about houses in Paris—they're all old, really old, and most of them look beat, but some are lush inside. Stewart lived in a crummy apartment house off St. Germain Boulevard. Walking up the narrow, smelly stairs, I knew his rooms would look crummy too.

I don't know why I turned to him—I'd only seen him twice in my life. The first time was in the ring, and then I was so cocky I was conscious only of a skinny brown man in torn boxing shoes—and after three rounds I wasn't conscious at all. Running into him in Paris the other night was the second time.

Now as I climbed the three flights of stairs and knocked on Bud's door, I wasn't sure why I was seeing him and if he wanted to see me. But somehow the ring is a real test of character. I mean, there's just the two of you in there and if you're fighting a rat or a phony, you sense it. And if you're in there with a square guy, you know that too, even though he may be pounding your brains silly. I felt Stewart was on the level.

He was astonished to see me, of course, but he said, “Come in.”

He lived in one room: an old high-ceilinged room, furnished neatly with old, heavy furniture. Off to one side, through a red curtain, there was a bathroom—complete with two gas hotplates on a little table next to the bidet. Okay, it made me smile too. In Italy these douche bowls had been very confusing to the GI's at first—always mistook them for a new kind of toilet.

The frisky black French poodle barked and sniffed at me, and sitting beside the bookcase and listening to the radio on one of its shelves was a slim young girl of 19, or maybe older, with creamy white skin, bold and haunting eyes,, and flaming copper hair that seemed to cover her head like a parka collar. She was wearing a plain print dress and rope-soled shoes and I don't know if anybody ever called her pretty, but she was the kind of girl you'd turn and look at on the street no matter how many times you saw her. Stewart said, “This is Paquita, my wife. From the French Basque country.”

I told her in my best French I was glad to meet her and she said it was an honor to have me in their house, but her eyes were full of suspicion.

Stewart said, “Come on, put your bag down. We won't steal it Want to join us for lunch?”

“Sure.”

“Hon, better get an extra loaf of bread, more cheese, and another bottle of cider,” Bud told her in French.

Paquita got up, moving with a lazy sort of grace, a sensuous and exotic movement that immediately put my mind in bed. She put on a woolen windbreaker, took an empty cider bottle and went out, calling the dog, Ernest, who ran after her.

There was a long silence after she left, then Bud pointed to my bag with his foot, asked, “You coming or going?”

“Hard to tell,” I said, and then I told him what had happened to me and he sat there as though in deep thought—maybe not even hearing what I was saying. When I finished my piece, he didn't say anything for a second, then asked, “What are you doing over here anyway?”

“Don't know, exactly. Nothing seemed to add up right for me back home. Then I got this chance to be a fight manager here—a deal I talked myself into. Was I simple! I wanted to get to Europe, thought I might find some answers over here. So far I haven't even found the questions, much less the answers. Why I'm seeing you—figured you having lived in Paris a while, and might know someplace I can get a job and make my boat money home.”

“As a foreigner you can't work, couldn't even get a job cleaning toilets.”

“Why? Damn, in the States anybody can work; they don't ask if you're a citizen, except for civil service.”

Bud nodded. “I know. Before the war it used to burn me to see refugees come to New York City and get good jobs and good apartments, and Negroes—native born—get nothing. Ken, over here, where people are getting by, day by day, you realize how much a job)—any job—can mean. Get away with a lot of stuff here, but don't ever try to take a job away from a Frenchman. Government gets nasty about that. On the other hand, lots of restrictions on foreigners in the States they don't have here, so I guess it all balances. What are you so anxious to return to the States for?”

“I'm not, but you just said I'd starve here.”

“Said you couldn't hold down a regular job, but there are other ways of making dough. You think Gonnet still believes you represent Slats and the mobsters?”'

“Don't think Magano had time to tell him different. Why?”

“Then we might work out something. Tell you, soon as we eat. I'll see about getting you a room, which isn't easy. Housing shortage here as bad as in New York. Been to Paris before?”

“No.”

“You speak good French.”

I said, “Cut the detective act. Studied it in high school and in the army.”

Bud grinned. “Let me give you some real advice about Paris—avoid jay-walking, tourist joints, and guys hustling money—you'll get clipped every time.”

“I've already had a post-graduate course in that last item. What's our deal?”

“You can be my manager. Give you a straight one-third cut of my end of the gate. Only you do what I tell you.”

“If you're going to be the brains, what you need a manager for?”.

Bud sighed. “That's a long story. I can work here because I already have my ten-year card. See, if you marry a French girl or get one pregnant, you get your work card almost automatically—they want you to, support your wife and or kid. Okay, I'm married, I got my ten year carte d'identite. But that doesn't mean I can get fights. Like in the States. You got to have that 'in.' ”

“And I'm the 'in'?”

“Hell, you can't be a manager here either. They got a boxing managers' guild. Everything here, from a shoe repair shop to a liquor store, requires a license and it's controlled by various guilds. In other words, a franc is hard to make and they don't want to cut each other's throat more than they can help.”

“I may be dumb so early in the day, but where do I fit into this jigsaw?”

“I'm telling you. There isn't much dough in the fight racket here and they have an organization called the F.F.B.—Federation of French Boxers that—”

“Jeez, you mean the pugs got themselves a union?”

Bud grinned again. “A cross between a union and just an organization. Everybody belongs to the F.F.B.—pros, amateurs, refs, announcers, seconds. Main idea is to give as much work as possible to the French. At best, the F.F.B. will let me box once or twice a year in France—unless we got pull. And we can fight once a year or so in Brussels, Rome, Germany, Sweden—if we have the 'in.' Game is in the hands of gangsters here, like in the States, with Gonnet one of the top goons.”

“That little jerk?”

But gave me a long look. “Gun in a midget's mitt kills as easily as in the hand of a six-footer. They got a funny kind of thug here, mostly a lot of talk and trying to act like Cagney or Bogart. Few killings or beatings. I'm not afraid of them, but can't chance crossing them on account of Paquita.”

“You mean she's in the gang?”

Bud looked at me like I was backward. “Look, these goons may be all hot air and they may really be tough. I bucked them a couple of times and nothing happened. But that can be because I'm an American. Paquita is French and I can't chance what they may do to her, to get hunk with me. The big point is—they control the game and we have to play ball with them to get any fights.”

“Still don't see where I come in.”

“Long as Freddy thinks you're the mob's boy, that some day you can get some of his pugs into the Garden and the big money in the States, he'll play along with us. We make him our manager of record.”

“What's his slice?”

“Depends on you,” Bud said slowly. “Got to make him think you're the toughest Joe on two feet. Slugging Magano should have been the convincer. If we're lucky we can get off with dealing him 10 per cent. Only chicken feed to Freddy, but he has a couple fair middleweights he thinks can make it in the States; he'll be shooting for that. Long as he doesn't know Slats has given you the boot, long as you act like a movie tough, he'll get us fights.”

I laughed. “I got a head start along those lines. Put on another tough act with him this morning. So they got a lot of comic-book gangsters here—that's a chuckle.”

“Maybe. Maybe we'll end up laughing on the wrong side of our faces. Hell, even in the States, gang stuff is mostly bluff. But the hard characters here look up to the American goon, so Gonnet thinks you must be a rough monkey if the mob is back of you, and if we can keep him thinking that for a few months, we're set. Now I know the ropes and—”

Paquita returned, and merely watching her walk across the room told me I'd make a wrong move if I hung around this place too much. Bud helped her with the packages into the kitchen-bathroom while Ernest stuck his head in my lap to give me another smelling-over. I heard Bud tell Paquita in French I might spend the night there till he found me a room, that we were going to be partners. She said something about not trusting me and he told her not to talk so loud and their voices became a mumble.

Bud came out and set up a card table, put on some dishes and silver. After a moment he asked, “I suppose you heard us?”

“Yeah. Why doesn't she trust me?”

“You're an American, and you're big and strong, like a cop. Americans aren't popular here—you've seen the signs.”

“And what does that make you?”

“I'm not an American to them—I'm a Negro.”

I gave up trying to figure that after one short try. I said, “Let's get one thing leveled—do you trust me?”

Bud stared at me as if seeing me for the first time, said softly, “For what we have to do—I trust you.”

That didn't add up either, but I didn't ask for any explanation. Managing Bud was my ticket home.

Paquita brought out a couple loaves of this skinny French bread which tastes wonderful, a bottle of cider, a plate with three slices of smoked meat, some kind of salad, oranges, and bready cakes.

Bud tuned in music on the radio and we ate, although I could have eaten the entire meal a couple times over myself. Ernest was given the scraps of meat and bread. Bud said, “Lunch isn't much of a meal here. And—we're kind of short on dough.”

“I have francs. Why didn't you—”

“Saving them for supper. Drink some water. That's why European pugs haven't no stamina—too much wine, and not enough water and milk and decent food.”

“If you don't mind my asking, what did all this cost?”

Paquita figured on her fingers like a kid for a second, said, “Two hundred eighteen francs.”

“Why that's only about 60 cents!”

Bud shook his head. “Another piece of advice, stop thinking like an American. This cost two hundred eighteen francs in a country where things are so high the sou and centime have disappeared. Suppose, Stateside, things were so expensive nobody bothered using pennies or nickles anymore?”

“Can't do much with a cent or a jit now. What sort of a payday do you make here?”

“In the Palais des Sports, the largest fight club in France, a main event should bring a grand. About the same in the big clubs in London. You get around that in Rome, Brussels, Copenhagen, too. Of course a real big fight that fills one of the soccer stadiums means a hell of a gate, but we'll never get that. In the smaller clubs around Paris, like L'Elysees, Montmartre, the Central, Mutualite, and Salle Wagram, the main event pulls down from four hundred to six hundred bucks.”

I almost smiled. When it came to salting-money, Bud figured like an American too. “Never get rich quick on that.”

“That's big money for Europe. Germany is another hot boxing country.”

“Maybe you fight in Marseilles; then I go with you, visit my mother and daddy,” Paquita said.

“Maybe. When we get a little ahead, you visit them anyway.” Bud stroked her wonderful copper hair and said to me, “There's angles here, like in the States. Hometown decisions are common, and there aren't many heavies. Europe is full of middle weights; that's about as big as the men grow. Say there's one decent heavy in Norway. He's a good drawing card because the people like to see a native big boy. What I mean is, unless you kayo him it's going to be impossible to cop a decision. Sometimes there's tank jobs open. That's all right with me—let me get about a million francs ahead and I'll never look at a glove again.”

“What happens then?” A million francs was only three grand—not much of a jackpot.

“I'm thirty-four years old, and only have a few fighting years left anyway. Want to quit the game and open a restaurant or small hotel and cater to the Basques, maybe in the south of France, where it's warm. Paris is a cold wet bitch during December and January.” Bud got up, “Come on, let's see about getting you a room—that can be a long-time project here.”

He and Paquita tried to figure who might have a vacant room and I left my bag there and Bud and I went from one dingy flat to another. It wasn't so hard—we located a room on the fourth try. An elderly couple had four rooms, and their daughter had just married a guy in Lyon. After some good-natured haggling, they agreed to rent it to me for 2500 francs a month. They both worked, and as it turned out, I had the place pretty much to myself during the day. They wanted to work out a deal where I'd get my meals there too, but Stewart told me in English, “Nix; you'll eat better on your own.”

My room was large and everything looked very old—my bed even had a worn canopy over if—but it was comfortable and clean. I went back and got my bag and paid a month's rent. The old woman gave me a key, showed me which towel in the bathroom was mine. The bathtub was something you could only sit in, not stretch out. I was to stay out of her kitchen and there was hot water only between six and ten at night, three days a week.

I told Bud, “Bathing doesn't seem to be popular here. No wonder the French are so big on perfume.”

“Hot water is money.”.

After Bud left and I'd hung up my things, I took a walk around the Left Bank, amused by the teen-agers sporting all sorts of fancy beards. I had a cup of chocolate and a big ham sandwich. Now that I had a roof over my empty head, I felt better, almost good. I walked over to the American Express and bought a copy of the Paris Tribune. When I came back, Bud was waiting in front of the house.

“Came over to ask you up for supper—show you where you can buy steak. And don't get upset, steak is cheap in Paris.”

I bought some steaks and more cider, and Bud brought in vegetables and bread. Paquita knocked out a solid meal. Bud and I decided that in the morning we'd tackle Gonnet, although neither of us could think of anything to impress this clown.

I sat around and listened to jazz from a U.S. Army station in Germany and Paquita curled upon Bud's lap. Between programs—when the set seemed to go completely dead for a moment—she'd softly sing some Basque songs, weird-sounding chants that seemed shrill and savage and terribly mournful and full of electricity. Bud sat there like a guy who has the world by the hairs—and maybe he did: Paquita was quite a world.

By ten I was yawning, and as I said good night, Bud said he'd call for me at eight and we'd do some roadwork. It had been years since I'd hit the road and although I was in pretty good shape, I wasn't in fighting condition. “Why we?” I asked.

“Can't afford a sparring partner, even if a heavy should be around. That makes you it. Got a strong pair of shoes?”

“Not for running.”

“Your feet look as big as mine. I have a couple pairs of army shoes I got from some GI's. Try on a pair.”

The shoes were okay and I took them to my room. The old couple were already asleep. The one bulb in the room wasn't much for reading, and I made a note to buy a bigger one and got into bed and read the paper. The sheets were rough as a cob, and after a while I just lay in the darkness, twisting on the sheets, thinking of Marion, wondering what the hell really was wrong with her. I dropped into a solid sleep, but awoke at six when the old couple started shuffling toward the bathroom. They were both breaking wind and that made me laugh out loud and I lay in bed, feeling warm and almost at peace with the world. Gonnet came into my mind—wondered how I could impress him that I was a super-Bogart. I actually tried to remember some of the gangster movies I'd seen. I ought to throw a gun around, but I didn't have one. I could slap Gonnet about, but that might be overdoing it. The whole damn thing seemed like kids playing cops and robbers, and I couldn't take it seriously.

When the bathroom was free, I washed up—in ice water—put on my slacks and a sweater and Bud's shoes. He knocked on the door at eight and had me buy a book of tickets at the Metro—seemed I'd save ten francs on a ride—about two and one-half cents—and we rode to the outskirts of Paris, ran along a bridle path that went along the Seine where old men were fishing with light bamboo poles and short lines for a fish the size of a sardine. We trotted by a big racetrack and Bud explained how the daily double worked in France, but I was too pooped to listen. All told, we did four miles and I was dead. Bud said he usually walked home to taper off and save the Metro fare, but I couldn't make that.

Riding the subway, I got my wind back and told Bud of my idea. “Don't think we have to do much with Gonnet, except keep up the mobster impression. Can you get me a couple of guns, and maybe one of the Negro GI's you know, to play stooge?”

“Guess I can borrow some guns, although it's a tough rap if we're caught with them. Don't want to use a Negro as a gangster. One of the students studying under the GI Bill, guy named Jack, will do it. He's learning Basque folk music from Paquita. This will amuse him.”

“Has to be somebody Freddy will never see around Paris again.”

“Gonnet never hangs around the real student quarters. Let's not queer the deal by overdoing it.”

I called Gonnet from a cafe phone. He was angry that I'd got him out of the sack, and when I said I'd be at his office at one sharp he said something about eating then and I said, “Be there or you'll be eating knuckles!” and hung up and grinned at Bud.

I was sweating like a pig and went to my room and took a cold bath that nearly killed me. I shaved, dressed in my sharpest shirt and tie, my one good suit. I was starving and bought a couple of rolls and ate them walking over to Bud's place. Bud was having coffee with a skinny joker named Jack Grath, who shook hands eagerly with me and said, “This whole idea is simply too fantastic to miss.”

He was sporting one of these shadow beards that ran down the edges of his pale face to his sharp chin, making him look a little like Lincoln. He was probably wearing his complete wardrobe—dungarees, blue turtleneck sweater, flying boots, and a worn GI windbreaker.

I poured myself a cup of Java as Bud showed me two shoulder holsters, and a small .22 automatic. He said, “All I could get was one gun.”

“Doesn't matter,” I told him, making sure the gun was empty. I looked Jack over. He didn't look much like a gun punk, and he spoke with what I thought was a Harvard accent. He said he was studying international law but ”... really trying to be a writer. All this goes into a novel I'm working on. Be a delicious incident.”

Despite the “delicious incident” stuff, he had a sort of clean, boyish quality about him I liked. I asked him to talk tough and he put on a hammy version of Edward G. Robinson that had me hysterical, but wasn't too bad. Beside, our whole act was ham on rye. He raised polite hell when I said he'd have to shave his whiskers, but finally agreed when Paquita said, “But Jack, it shouldn't take you long to grow another beard.” And the way he looked at her—it's a good thing eyes don't have arms.

We went over our act, and he left to shave and borrow a suit. Bud and I sat around and bulled and when Jack returned he was wearing a suit with too much shoulder padding, his face was clean, and his eyes were watery. “Special effect—put in a couple of drops of eye wash, gives a hopped-up look. How's dat?” He talked out of the side of his mouth.

“Not bad, but just don't overdo it,” I said. “Let's go, gang-busters.”

We rode the Metro to Pigalle and walked to Gonnet's place. I wanted to go into the can of a bar and put on the holsters, but Bud said some of Freddy's boys might be hanging out there. We solved things by stepping into one of these pissoirs that wisely dot French streets, and in a wine-drinking country they sure need them. Bud blocked the entrance and I helped Jack put on the gun and shoulder holster. Then I put mine on and stuffed it with a handkerchief. We both wore them over our hearts—where they showed.

Jack walked out, winked at me and asked in a heavy voice, “Ready, boss?”

We skipped the telephone-booth elevator and walked up the one flight to Gonnet's office-apartment. I felt silly as hell, but the odd thing was we really did look like something out of a gangster movie. A bad one.

GONNET'S OFFICE was the front room of what seemed to be a long apartment. There was a file cabinet, an ancient typewriter that looked like it had never been used, a heavy wooden desk scarred with cigarette burns, and the usual fight pictures and nudes on the walls. I sat down in a free chair, tilting it against the wall, staring at Freddy from under my hatbrim with what I hoped was a casual, arrogant glare.

Gonnet was wearing a dark blue shirt and a silver tie bright enough to cut a fog. He had some bullet-headed joker with him whose name I never caught. They both swallowed and stared uneasily at the obvious bulge our shoulder holsters made. Bud stood beside the door and chewed a toothpick; Jack strutted around the room, his eyes watering, and every few seconds giving his shoulder a nervous shake. The kid was a real actor. Freddy stuttered, “O-one minute and we can talk.”

“Get him out of here,” I said in French, jerking a thumb at bullet-head. “My talk is for you alone. Beat it,” I added with a growl that sounded so tough I scared myself.

“You heard the man, friend. Take a powder,” Jack said in a hoarse voice. He put his hand inside his coat, on the gun. “Or you want to be carried out?”

“Cut the rough stuff, Snowy,” I barked at Jack.

Gonnet's pal, after a puzzled look, scooted out like a rabbit. In French I told Freddy that Jack was Snowy, one of the hoods from the States. “Slats sent him over with new instructions for me—reason I had to cuff Magano yesterday. Also instructions for you.”

“M-me?”

“About your middleweights.”

“Ah! They are both very good. Fast, good punchers, tough. Better than Stock, Humez, or Dauthuille,” he said in a relieved voice.

“Good enough for a fifty-grand gate with Gavilan? Or maybe an outdoor match with Turpin for a hundred grand?”

Gonnet almost drooled. “Absolutely! Either boy is worthy of following in the golden footsteps of the great Marcel Cerdan. The news I've been waiting for, the long green!” Freddy was beside himself with joy. In French the “long green” was real comical. “When do you wish to take them to the States?”

“Slats and the syndicate have lots of ideas. Your boys are one of them. The switch in plans is, we're working on making Stewart the next heavy champ.”

“Him? Stewart?” Gonnet repeated, blinking.

“Yeah. Be a cinch to outbox a slow guy like Marciano, big upset. The deal is this; Slats wants to build him up on the quiet—over here in Europe. Sent me here to take a personal interest in him. From now on you're his manager of record. See that he gets lot of work. We cut you in for ten per cent.”

Gonnet sat back as though I was playing a joke on him, “Matches I can arrange, but ten per cent—that is impossible, You understand I must do much wire-pulling and paying off for an American to fight.”

“The ten per cent isn't worth talking about,” I said, glaring at him. “This is the string to getting your boys the real dough in the States. Surprised at you, Freddy, all this small talk.”

Gonnet shrugged his fat shoulders. “As you say, ten per cent is hardly worth all this lousy talk, but—”

Both Jack and I jumped at him. Almost talking into his flat face, I growled, “You calling me lousy?”

Jack had his gun halfway out, and in a whisper, “Boss, this guy talks too much. Shall I plug his mouth with lead?”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Bud fighting back a smile. I said, “Snowy, put that heater away. Freddy, stop stalling. You in for ten per cent, or do you want to be out in the cold?”

Gonnet stared at me as though I were a walking nightmare. He quickly crossed himself, his face a sweaty deathmask. “Oui, oui,... sure... anything you say... Monsieur Francine. Anything!”

“Okay. Knew you'd act big-time, Freddy. For time being keep quiet about Slats. Like I said, the buildup on Stewart has to be quiet. Also, no rumors reaching the States that we're interested in your boys. Boxing commissions are cracking down on the syndicate.”

“Sure—sure.”

“Fix up papers as Stewart's manager, all legal-looking for the boxing federation you have here. We'll be back to do the signing and pick them up in the morning. How soon—”

“Boss, I want some action,” Jack cut in, twitching like crazy. I was scared he would over-ham it, so I said, “Snowy, go out in the hallway, fix yourself a shot. Go on!”

Jack nodded and left. I turned to Freddy and said, “Don't know why they keep those hop-heads. How soon can you get Bud a fight?”

“Maybe—three weeks, or—”

I sneered, made as if I was going to smack Freddy. “Three weeks! I don't call that action!”

“Maybe two weeks, in a small club.” Gonnet blinked, sweat really pouring down his puss..

“Two weeks. Get him plenty of work—small clubs, big ones—you know the buildup.” I held out my hand, and when he shook it I yanked him to his feet, leered in his face, “Freddy—a mistake, a doublecross, be sad for you. Understand?”

“Oui! You bet!” he whispered.

“Bang-bang sad,” I added, patting my holster. I wondered if it was sweat on his face, or oil from his greasy hair.

“Sure—may my sainted mother rot in her grave if I am not your true friend!” Gonnet said.

“Okay, see you in the morning. And have the papers ready.”

Stewart and I walked out, picked up Jack in the hall. He started to laugh and I nudged him and said, “Shut up.”

Outside, we went to the pissoir, took off our holsters and put them in a paper bag Bud had in his pocket. Then we walked over to the Metro and Jack said, “That was truly wonderful. I almost busted a gut at the way that shrimp looked, like his eyes would pop.”

“You ought to go on the stage. Some acting. Thanks.”

“Thank you, wouldn't have missed this for anything.”

We went down the steps, got our tickets punched, and waited for the underground streetcars they call subways in Paris. I told Jack, “Don't chatter about this around the cafes; might get back to Freddy.”

“I'll clam up, boss,” he said kidding me. “Leave you here—want to see a friend working over at the Information Service. Maybe I'll drop by tonight, Bud.”

When the kid left, Bud asked, “Think we're in?”

“Yeah. It was getting over-ripe for a time, but he's so scared he'll have to throw away his drawers.”

“Think Magano might queer us?”

“I have an idea he sticks close to Italy, and little chance of the boys in the States hearing about us, or caring. It ought to work.”

“Hope so. Important we get as much dough as possible in ninety days.”

“Why the deadline?”

“That old carte d'identite I was telling you about. As a tourist you don't have to have one for ninety days. After that you need one, and they'll want to know your visible means of support. It can't, be living off France.”

“Some country! You mean I got to get out by then?”

“No, you can always take a few hours' train trip to the border—Belgium—re-enter France and get another ninety days. Cops will let you do that a couple times, then they give you twenty-four hours to haul your rusty derriere out of France. Don't worry too much about it. We'll probably be fighting outside the country now and then, and you'll leave and re-enter France. This is our train.”

We got seats and I wondered why there had to be all this damn red tape in the world: identity cards, visas, passports, as though each country was something special on the frosting. It ought to be like the States, where you just go from state to state. I glanced at the next Metro station, told Bud, “We're not going toward the Left Bank.”

“It's almost three. We'll have a workout at the gym. I need to get in shape—we'll go a couple rounds.”

“We? Boy, I'm tired as hell—all that roadwork this morning—”

Bud said fiercely, “Cut it! You're not putting on an act for Gonnet!”

“Cut what?”

The train was pulling into St. Lazare and Bud snapped, “Change here.”

I followed him through a maze of underground tunnels till we got on another subway, and when I asked what he was sore about, his mood had changed because his voice was almost tired as he said, “Nothing—only don't ever call me boy.”

I didn't get it, but I gave him a mock bow, said, “As you wish, Monsieur Bud.”

He stared at me for a second, then shook his head and laughed. “Tell you Ken, we'll take it easy at the gym. I haven't done any sparring in weeks. I'm a bug on conditioning, and if Freddy gets me a bout soon, have to start working now.”

“Sure, guess I can stumble through a few rounds.”

The gym was pretty sad—three mangy rings, two or them without any padding; a heavy bag, and a stinking dressing room. As we stripped, Bud said, “Got a shower here—so at least we'll get a warm wash every day. No lockers—hang your clothes on the wall, keep your dough and stuff in my ring bag. By the by, keep up your tough act here—many of the pugs are owned by Gonnet!”

Bud owed some back rent and the guy in charge, a pudgy joker in a fancy colored shirt and a wool vest, came over and said something about paying before we worked out and I said, “See Gonnet,” and pushed him away. He looked like he was going to say something, but changed his mind and walked away. Bud lent me a T shirt that needed washing, an old pair of ring shoes and torn trunks. I put my dough and ring in his battered leather bag and we bandaged each other's hands. A skinny Frenchman with tin ears and watery eyes said he would time our working—the ex-pug you see hanging around all gyms.

It was the first time I'd had on boxing gloves in years and I did some limbering up exercises, but not much, while Bud went a couple rounds on the heavy bag and then worked out on the light bag. He was a good bag puncher, could almost play a tune on the little bag.

I kept moving to keep warm and watched the other pugs. The place was full of amateurs, most of them in sneakers and bathing suits. Bud and I were the only heavys in the gym. The French seemed to go in for a lot of light exercise and shadow boxing. When I mentioned this to the trainer, he said, “In America too much fighting is done in the gyms. I've been there; sometimes sparring is rougher than a real fight. They used to kill me at Stillman's.”

“Guys get experience that way.”

“No, they merely shorten their fighting life that way. Cerdan proved that. Your papers said he didn't spar enough, but he had all his strength saved for the real fight.”

I was half dead from just jogging around when Bud got a jock and protector to put over my trunks—to save money they had several jocks that were worn by everybody—and we tied the gloves on. Bud had a headguard and a mouthpiece. I didn't.

The gloves were old, most of the padding lumpy and pushed away from the knuckles. Although I was rusty and tired, Bud still seemed better than I remembered. We went three rounds and he was very good, banging me with fast hooks and short straight punches I never even saw. Best I could do was clout him on the chin twice, but he was rolling with punches. He had me missing awkwardly and by the end of the third round, I was so pooped I could barely stand and we clinched and tried some infighting.

He went on to do some gut exercises, while I sat on a stool waiting to get my breath back. When we showered I said, “I'll have to get a headguard and ring togs.”

“Soon as we get a little ahead on dough,” Bud said. “Come up to the house for supper. Paquita is fixing Spanish rice.”

“I'm too tired.”

When we got off the Metro, I bought two big ham sandwiches, ate them in my room and drank a bottle of milk, undressed to read the paper, and slept so soundly that the next thing I knew was Bud shaking me, saying, “Come on, it's eight o'clock. Time for the road.”

At first running was painful”—every muscle hurt—but I soon ran the kinks out and we came back to Bud's place, where Paquita had a pot of coffee and cheese and bread waiting. We ate while she sat on the floor and clipped Ernest's woolly hair with a pair of big sewing scissors. When she got up, even though she was wearing old slacks, I could see the supple movement of her legs, the way a dancer moves, and with that sexy red hair and those haunting eyes; I knew if I hung around her much I'd sure make a pass at her. That'd be trouble—big trouble.

I went back to my room and dressed and we went to Gonnet's and signed the contract. I wanted to put the bite on him for dough, but agreed with Bud it would be a wrong move. Freddy had lost his scare. He opened a bottle of whisky. Bud turned it down but I took a slug and Freddy said, “Here's to two championships—the heavyweight, and the middleweight for my boys.”

As we were leaving, he took me aside, said, “I heard you were working out with Bud. A manager that can fight with his boys—that's unique.”

“Just do it to keep my hand in,” I told him.

Freddy ran his hand over the bulge the shoulder holster made, then stood on his toes and felt my shoulder muscles like he was a queer. “Ah, to be a big man is very good thing Tell me—that Snowy, is it wise to keep him around?”

“I sent him home this morning,” I said, thinking quickly. “Dopeheads aren't worth keeping.”

“He's already gone?”

“Yeah, by way of London. Had to pick up something there.”

“Too bad,” Gonnet said, shrugging. “Should have at least sold his passport. I know certain people who will pay five thousand for it.”

“Five grand for a passport?”

“Standard price. The people I know will alter it, and in time it will be sold for double. But a great deal of delicate work must be done on it.”

“That would be a stupid move—take a chance of getting the Feds on our tail for a lousy five grand,” I said, thinking furiously.

“What is the Feds?”

“U.S. Government dicks.”

“Of course,” Freddy said, like a kid who has made a mistake in his lessons. “The Feds. I suppose you are right.” He sounded very disappointed.

On the subway I asked Bud about the passport deal and he said, “That's what I hear—five grand in American dough. See, they need the book, the paper, the seal. Somehow they change the name, picture.”

“Who buys them?”

Bud shrugged. “Some clowns who've made a lot of dough during the war but can't move about. With an American passport they can go to South America—anywhere—and start spending their dough. All this can be a lot of hot air, but I've heard about the deal before. Want to sell your passport? I know other guys beside Freddy that would be interested.”

It was a hell of a temptation, yet it gave me a queer feeling, like I was selling my mother. But five grand—American!

“What would happen to me then? How would I move about?”'

“Nothing much. You go to the Embassy and tell them you lost it. They'll think you're lying but they'll give you papers—can't leave France except to go back to the States. And you'll probably never get another passport.”

I thought of Bud trying to get three grand ahead and quit the ring. “You ever expect to return to the States?”

He shook his head. “I know what you're thinking. No, I don't ever expect to return, yet I never even think of selling it. It's like I never think of getting money by a stickup.”

I looked at Bud with new respect. I never could figure him out.

I went to my room and got out my “good” clothes. There were sure a lot of angles in Paris.

Paris.

Paris of cafes and girls and good living; the Paris of the movies and books. For the next couple of weeks Paris was like this for me:

I trained like a bastard every day, hitting the road each morning, working out at the gym late every afternoon, as though I was going to fight. When I wasn't training I was in my room, stuffing myself with bread and cheese and cider, or eating a thin meal at Bud's. At night I'd knock myself out and spend fifty francs for a plate of hot potato soup.

Paris was taking cold baths, washing my shirts and socks and hanging them up to dry in my room. Paris was walking—I walked all over the place, seeing the Pigalle section and the hard-faced whores and the same sort of ratty atmosphere you find on 42nd Street between 7th and 8th Avenues—the stink of hustlers. I walked the Trocadero and the Champs Elysees with its big American cars, the swank tourist hotels, the better looking gals working the street corners. I walked all over the Left Bank, from Notre Dame to the Eiffel Tower—one of the most useless monuments ever built. I walked because I couldn't afford to ride the busses and couldn't afford to sit at the sidewalk cafes and have coffee or wine and watch the characters stream by. I walked. I loved Paris because it reminded me of Milan, reminded me of Gina. I walked because I thought I might run into Marion. I walked because I had nothing else to do. I'd walk and walk and return to my crummy room and fall between the coarse sheets and sleep like a baby. I lost fifteen pounds, got lean and hard, and felt great. The restless feeling was gone. I thought maybe Paris was what I was looking for—it wasn't.

But those couple of weeks were wonderful. We trained hard and didn't eat well and soon I had that glow that tip-top condition brings, the glow that dims when you keep it too long and become stale. I was too tired even to think of girls and for a time I nearly became as much a physical culture nut as Bud. I even got to thinking of returning to the ring and giving it another try. That was not only a pipe dream—at my age—but I had Bud before me as an example of what ring politics did.

Stewart was so good, he constantly amazed me. Although he was just a bag of skin and bones he could hit like a brace of blackjacks, was fast and smart on his feet, never made a wasted motion, always knew what he was doing. And somehow that thin body of his could take a punch. One afternoon as we were heading for the gym—in Paris the pugs work out late, since most of them have jobs on the side—I asked Bud, “How come you never made it in the States? I know all about having the right jokers behind you, but hell, you're too damn good to ignore.”

“Here's what I made in the States,” he said. “I had forty-one fights in five years, never averaged over twenty-five bucks a week. Nobody was interested in a clever Negro fighter. A slugger they could find bouts for, or a once-in-a-lifetime hitter like Louis, but I was a fancy dan and they never draw the customers.”

“Ever try to get the mob behind you?”

“Sure, I was willing to play ball. This scar over my eye—I did a tank job in Philly for the biggest purse I ever got—thirteen hundred dollars—and I owed almost all of it. The mob was afraid it wouldn't look good, so I had to agree to stop one on the eye, show blood, take a chance of going blind. I did it and still got nowhere. Between bouts I used to ship out to sea—to keep eating. Then I decided to try it in Paris, So far, it's been almost as tough, but if we play Freddy right maybe I'll get a real break now.”

The two weeks went by like two minutes and before I knew it we were at this fight club up in the Pigalle section, the Elysee-Montmartre, with the Sacre Coeur church high on a hill behind the club. The church was all bright and white, covered by flood lights—almost a reminder to the Pigalle.

I couldn't work in Bud's corner, but I had a ringside seat. Gonnet and the old French pug were working as Bud's seconds. Paquita wanted to come but we couldn't get a dog-sitter for Ernest, and if left alone the poodle raised hell and the neighbors complained.

I'd borrowed an iron from the old couple I roomed with, washed and ironed a white shirt, and was togged out sharp to keep up my front with Freddy. This was my first time in a European fight club, and it was sad. The arena looked like an ancient dancehall—held about 700 seats with maybe 1000 guys standing at 150 francs each. We were getting 140,000 francs for our end, or about $375, and the rest of the card must have been getting peanuts because I figured the take for the entire house couldn't be much above seven hundred bucks.

The ref wore a tie, the announcer gave out with the winner of each round, and they only had three pro bouts on the cards. The rest were amateurs who wore sleeveless shirts, and the big deal was a photographer taking their picture, arms around each other—after the fight. Both the winner and loser also shook hands with the other's seconds. They were about the same as amateurs in the States but the French seemed to lack aggressiveness. The fans applauded a guy for ducking a wallop the way the Stateside fans cheer a puncher.

There was a loud-mouthed fat American at ringside who was amusing the French by waving a fistful of francs and asking for bets. Bud's opponent was one of these muscle-bound clowns, and when the ref had them together for their instructions, Bud looked too skinny to be in the same ring with all those muscles. But the guy's battered puss showed he'd stopped a lot of leather. We had decided Bud should go easy for a round or two, then try flooring the guy with a few punches— maybe have the fans asking for a return match.

The first round was awful—the Frenchman was slow and telegraphed every clumsy swing. Bud kept backing away, taking the steam out of the guy with body punches. Once he tried a short right to the chin, just testing, and the guy's knees buckled and Bud clinched to keep him up. Gonnet looked across the ring at me, as if saying, “This is the coming heavy champ?”

In the second round Bud slipped as he was riding under a blow and the fans thought it was a knockdown and made a lot of noise. The fat American was screaming, “Come on Frenchie, finish him! A thousand francs the black boy don't last ten rounds! What's the matter, no sports over here? Two thousand he ain't answering the bell for the fifth!”

The guy was so damn noisy he got me sore. I shouted at him, in English, “You lay two to one Stewart wins by a kayo?”

He gave me a fatlipped grin. “Come into my parlor, sucker. How much?”

“Ten thousand francs to your twenty—okay?” I waved two of my queer five-thousand-franc bills.

His fat face got serious. “Twenty thousand—hey, that's sixty bucks!”

“Thought you wanted action?” I said, holding up my pigskin wallet with the rest of the counterfeit five thousand franc notes sticking out. “Want more? Or isn't your money where your mouth is?” I said this last sentence in French and the other ringsiders looked at the fat boy and grinned.

Fatty had to act the big-shot and he told me, “You're on—only I haven't that much francs. American dough do?”

“Sure.”

In the third Bud started to open up, but the Frenchman would put his gloves at the side of his head, crouch, and cover up. Stewart went back to boxing—stopped an open-gloved right swing with his shoulder; it was really a slap and made a lot of noise. The fans screamed as Bud staggered to the ropes, seemed ready to drop. The French fighter came in like a clumsy bull, wide open, and Bud clipped him with as neat a one-two on the chin as I ever saw. The guy was strong—he did a little backward jig before he collapsed and was counted out.

While the fans were giving Bud a big hand, I got over to my fellow American and collected half a dozen beautiful ten-buck bills. A lot of amateur bouts followed, but big-mouth was quiet for the rest of the evening. After Freddy's cut and taxes, we had $300. And I now had $160, and the world looked rather good.

One hundred and sixty bucks—almost boatfare home. But more important, it was a lot of small things—a bigger electric bulb for my room, money to sit at a sidewalk cafe and sip an aperitif, a mouthpiece and headguard, decent trunks and ring shoes; it was English tobacco, keeping nuts and fruit around my room, and being able to eat in a restaurant any time I wanted to.

Bud and I and Paquita stuffed ourselves with steak and a big meal that night. Bud was gay—we had another fight set for the Salle Wagram in three weeks, for $800, and Gonnet was busy arranging bouts in Brussels, working on Jack Solomons to use Bud in an outdoor bout in London in the Spring. It looked like we were in.

Yet, although I had some dough and could really enjoy Paris, from that night on I started getting that restless feeling again. I don't know what it was, except I was no longer a part of Paris. For the first time in my life I was a foreigner.

It started with the big supper with Bud and Paquita. Being around them made me feel lonely. They really hit it off in everything they did. I guess this was love. The way she looked at him, as if just seeing him gave her joy, the way she sat in his lap and sang those weird, exciting songs, the way they held hands while walking in the street—everything they did had an air of intimacy that made me jealous as hell. I had this unwanted feeling and seeing these US—GO HOME signs scrawled on the walls made me feel angry and lousy.

I took it out in baiting Bud and Jack. I'd sit around Dupont's on the Left Bank a lot with Jack, watching the students acting like students. Jack's beard was growing back again and he liked to sit and sip a vermouth and admire the crazy beards on the other students, or point out the girls he would like to lay. It was kid stuff and at first I got a kick out of sitting with him and some of the other students. But that wore off. The trouble was I wasn't a kid any longer.

Jack would point to some girl passing the cafe and nudge me, say, “Friend, isn't that a lovely hunk of stuff? I wonder how she is in the hay.”

“You must be hot stuff with those student gals.”

He shook his head. “I can get it whenever I want it. Hell of it is, I'm terribly in love.”

“Why don't you marry your love?”

“Friend,” Jack said softly, “I'd marry her in a minute, only some guy beat me to the idea—Bud.”

I stared at him. “Paquita? You serious?”

“Man, she's been in my dreams for months. Of course I don't make any play for her—they're my friends.”

“And Bud would beat you to death,” I said, thinking I'd probably be a starter in that race myself, if Bud and Paquita ever split up.

Jack grinned. “Friend, I'm not worried so much about Bud, I think Paquita would kill me first if I ever stepped out of line. Hell of it is, she's ruined the other gals for me. Putting her in my book. Know something odd? In countries where prostitution is open, the rest of the gals are very very moral. Virginity becomes a big deal, and a form of super-whoring, if you get what I mean.”

I didn't, but didn't bother asking for any explanation either. Jack loved these long-winded lectures.

It wasn't Paquita that ruined the French gals for me. Sometimes the university girls would join Jack and me, and I made a few mild attempts to get someplace with them. Only when I was trying to turn on the charm, the kid would suddenly ask, “Why do you Americans re-arm the Germans?” and I would say how the hell do I know and get sore.

I was getting into silly arguments all the time; it seemed to be part of my restlessness. Like one night I was drinking vermouth, Jack had a rum, and Bud sat down and ordered mineral water. I said, “Mineral water is a racket. The French are crazy; the hardest thing to get in Paris is a glass of water.”

“Hangover from the old days when the sewer system in most European towns was lousy,” Jack said. “Of course the wine companies keep up the idea. Good for business.”

“And now cokes are giving the wine dealers a fit,” Bud said. He suddenly laughed and watched the bubbles fizz in his glass of Perrier. “Sometimes I have a nightmare where I'm run down and killed by a coke truck.” He laughed again.

I said I didn't get it.

“Private joke of my own. All Americans in Paris are running away from—America, and for one of them to get knocked off by a coke truck.... Well, I think it's funny.”

“It's priceless,” Jack said, writing on the back of an envelope. “I'll use it in my book.”

The difference between Bud and myself was he was at home in France, although he'd only been there for about two years. (Two small fights in two years—I wondered how he had lived. Maybe Paquita was working then.) Once when we were getting the Metro, I told him, “Look how inefficient the French are—one person to sell you a ticket, another to punch it. In the States all they need is a changemaker and a turnstile. Same with the shows here, takes two people to sell you a ticket. Or they need two men to run a bus. And why all this service charge on everything? Why—”

“Ken don't be so intolerant. Ever think this is the French way of doing things? Maybe they want to create jobs.”

“But it's a waste of manpower. Now, in the States—”

“Who says the way things are done in the States is better?” Who says all the rush and streamlining is a big deal—our psychiatrists?”

“Damn it, what you always knocking the States for? Bet you're writing those damned go-home signs on the walls!”

Bud stared at me for a moment, then said, “Don't ever hand me that crap again. I'm no flag waver, but remember this—I'm only staying here because in France I can be an American. In America I can only be a Negro.”

I stopped talking. I always felt uneasy when he talked like that, as if there was a wall between us.

We trained every day, and on the night Bud» was to fight at the Salle Wagram we walked from the subway station at the Etoile and the Champs Elysees was lit up for the weekend and Bud pointed at the Caddys that raced down the street and said, “What a phony section this is.”

“And the Left Bank isn't? With all these bearded-bull artists?”

“That's different. Sure, they wear flying boots and crazy beards, all the rest of it, but that's the phony atmosphere of youth, not this tourist bait.”

“Stop it. You'll be writing a book soon, like Jack.”

“What's wrong, Ken? Seem on edge all the time these days.”

“I don't know, just—Nothing. Forget about me. Thought you said Paquita was coming to the fights tonight?”

“She is. Jack's bringing her. Taking Ernest over to the room of some student.”

“Jack sure sees a lot of her, those lessons in Basque folk music she's giving him, and—”

Bud laughed at me. “Don't try to make a thing out of it. I'd be blind if I didn't know he's in love with her. But I don't worry.”

“What makes you so sure of her? Jack probably comes from well-to-do people in the States; he could take her back there.”

“Last place Paquita wants to go to is the States. And the way I look at it—either she loves me or she doesn't. If she loves me I don't have to worry, and if she doesn't—well, there's nothing to worry about.”

“Maybe you have something,” I said, wishing I had a girl I could feel that sure of. Gina would be like that.

Salle Wagram was another old dancehall, but larger than, the first one. Bud went up against a wild French light heavy and kayoed him in the second round. Paquita, Jack, and Bud were going to some artists' shindig in an African cafe, but I felt too keyed-up for that sort of guff. I left them.

I now had over two hundred and fifty bucks' worth of francs in my moneybelt and could go home anytime I wanted to. Only trouble was, I wasn't sure where the hell home was. At the moment I stood in front of Dupont's, across from the Wagram, not even sure of which way to walk. I wanted to let out steam, have a big night.

I bought a couple of lottery tickets, stopped for a cognac at a ritzy sidewalk cafe, glanced at the tourists, watched the flashy gals walking the Champs Elysees with more than casual interest. Only a night with one of them wouldn't leave me much boatfare. And there was Franzino, the old Southern colonel. I should send him his hundred. But he probably wasn't even home yet, and if I stuck him he'd never miss it. Most likely he expected to get rooked.

I finished a second cognac and told myself to stop thinking like a sucker. I'd send him fifty bucks in the morning, and the balance maybe later. And if I wanted a girl, I'd get off this tourist strip.

Paying my check, I started to walk, hoping to tire out the restlessness I felt, wanting excitement, a girl—not knowing that in a few moments I'd get an overdose of both!

I was hungry, and Bud had introduced me to an ex-GI named Haines who ran a small place where the food was good and reasonable. It took me about fifteen minutes of fast walking to reach Place Clichy, then I started to cut across the Pigalle district with some of the old streetwalkers calling me—in France they never seem to know when to take their old whores or ancient cars off the streets. I got lost for a few blocks, then came out on a narrow twisting street that was lined with clip joints and gaudy neon signs promising bright joy, fast-talking hawkers trying to pull you in.

There was a lot of shouting in one of the bars—somebody was being bounced. I stopped to see the fun. A girl was pushed through the doorway—almost went sprawling in the street. I put out an arm to break her fall.

It was Marion.

Chapter 4

THREE PIMPS in sharp suits and loud shirts were calling her all kinds of a bitch as they pushed her out of the doorway. They were all slight, little guys, and I must have looked good, knocking them down with a couple pokes in the guts.

Marion looked hysterical and for a moment I don't think she recognized me, then she grabbed me, crying, “Ken! Ken!”

“What's the matter?” It felt wonderful to have her in my arms, her hair soft on my face, the wonderful clean cool smell of her skin. I held her against me with one arm, my back to the wall, watching the pimps. They were sitting up in the gutter, holding their stomachs, and one of them was sick all over himself. A swarthy kid was edging toward me along the wall. I told Marion, “Let's get out of here.”

“Yes, but I left my hat and bag in there—my passport.”

“Come on; we'll get them.”

It was a small place with a circular bar and colored lights, and as we came in everybody stared at us. Everybody was four hard-faced girls, the bartender, and a drunken American who looked like a college boy and most likely was a GI from the cornbelt. He was about two minutes away from passing out. He got Marion in focus, said, “Ah-ha—there you are!”

Her bag and hat were on the bar beside a gal wearing a gown cut to her nipples, and she had large pink-brown nipples. I nudged Marion to get her things and the gal said something under her breath—her French too fast for me to catch—and spit in Marion's face. Marion looked bewildered, and as I stepped in the gal let me have a mouthful straight in the left eye.

She was a real marksman.

There was a glass of coke in front of her on the bar and I poured that down the gully between her breasts and she jumped up, shrieking.

We made it to the door and they watched us like cats with a mouse—the mouse being the drunken American. “What about him?” Marion said.

“He's over twenty-one—let him take care of himself. If he's a GI, won't matter if he's cleaned; always another payday.”

Outside, a little curious crowd had gathered around the pimps, who were still sitting in the street. I piloted Marion around the corner and down toward Trinite, After that neon brightness, this side street seemed dim. I heard the sound of steps behind us and this kid who had been edging along the wall before was running at me.

Expecting a knife, I pulled Marion behind me as the kid said in thick French, “American bastard!” and landed a wild right on my chin.

It was a hell of a blow, and for 'a second I started to go down. He was kicking and punching at me, but finally I got the cobwebs out of my noggin, grabbed him by the coat, held him at arm's length and shook him. He was a skinny kid, couldn't have weighed more than a hundred pounds.

He kept cursing me as I shook him, and packs of American cigarettes fell out of his pockets. He was so mad he was crying as he tried to swing on me and I was about to slap him silly when I realized what I was holding on to. I got his arm behind him and told him in French to shut up and the three of us started to walk as fast as we could, and the kid began screaming and I shoved his dirty tie in his mouth.

Marion asked, “Where are you taking him? Let him go.”

“In a minute,” I said. The kid was still swinging wildly and he caught me in the gut with a punch and I went numb for a second. I pushed him into the nearest doorway, kept him at arm's length and slapped him across his lean stomach. It took all the air out of him and he slumped against the wall. I took his tie out of his mouth and he fought for air. Marion sounded hysterical again as she asked, “What are you doing to him?”

“Nothing. Shut up.” I went through the kid's pockets, found an old wallet and what I was looking for—his identity card. He was an Algerian, 16 years old, and his name was Tony Ussin. I put his card in my wallet and took out an American ten-buck bill and tore it in half. “Listen Tony,” I said in slow French. “I'm not a cop. You hit hard for your weight. I'm a boxing manager. You want to become a fighter? Like Cerdan?”

He stopped crying.

I gave him half of the ten-spot. “You come to the Central Gym tomorrow at two p.m. Know where it is? Down on Saint-Denis.”

He shook his head dumbly.

“I'll be there and you won't get hurt and you get the other half of this ten bucks—and your identity card. Understand, you may make a lot of money. Ever do any fighting?”

“No.”

“Maybe I'll train you. Just take it easy and don't be frightened of me. Okay?”

I let go of him and he straightened his clothes, felt his pockets and said, “My cigarettes.”

“They're back on the street someplace.”

“I'll never find them. I'm ruined! I'm—”

I gave him a thousand-franc note. “This will take care of it. Remember, tomorrow at two.”

The door of the house opened and the old fat concierge stuck her head out and I said, “Pardon, madame, we did not mean to disturb you.”

She said something I didn't catch and Tony told her we were all friends and we left. He ran back to find his cigarettes, and the old woman said the world was no longer for decent people as Marion and I hurried down the street. We cut across to Boulevard Haussmann, lucked up on a cab. I gave him my address and Marion asked, “What were you playing the big-shot with that kid for?”

“Because I weigh two hundred fifteen pounds and can take a punch well, and that bag of bones hit hard enough to make me black out. I wasn't any big-shot—that was strictly business. Good to see you, honey.”

She sat back in the cab, lit a cigarette, smiled at me coolly. “Thank you for getting me out of that mess.”

“Got our ice veneer on again, haven't we?”

“You must wonder what I was doing in that place. They were—and are—going to loot that jerk. I met him at the hotel and we were doing the bars. I was only trying to get him out of there when—you saw what happened.”

“I didn't ask why you were in there. Should have known you'd be in Paris—the franc fell the other day.”

“Only trying to explain how—”

“Baby, I don't care why you were in there.” For a moment we stared at each other like strangers, then I kissed her as hard as I could, hurting her lips, and when I let up she whispered, “Oh, Ken, I am glad to see you.”

It was after midnight and cost me double fare to taxi to my place. I decided one thing—I wasn't going to let Marion get me steamed. Long as I played it cool that odd drive of hers to lord it over me, or whatever it really was, would make her stay with me.

As we walked up the steps of my tenement she wrinkled her nose, asked, “Good Lord, you live here?”

“Yeah. Room with a French family.”

“Taking me to your room at this hour of the night?”

“Do I need seduction music?” I asked.

“You don't even need to ask me. Quite a dump. Smells of urine.”

“Only on damp days,” I said calmly.

When I opened the front door, we bumped each other as I reached for the light switch and Marion laughed—a practiced tingling laugh that was too loud. The other bedroom door opened and the old man and his wife stuck their heads out and blinked, white stocking caps giving them a comical look. Marion made a curtsy, said, “Bonsoir, monsieur, madame.”

They nodded and I said I was sorry to wake them and walked her to my room. Turning on the light, I went back to turn off the hall light and the old man opened his door, handed me a towel, said, “For your guest.”

One thing you have to admire the French for; they don't make a lot of stupid fuss over something nature never intended us to fuss about.

Marion was lying across my bed, her skirt crumpled up over her knees. She was cracking walnuts from a bowl I kept in the room. “Really a charming room. French houses are so deceptive from the outside. I once went to the home of a dress designer, a big apple, and from the outside the place looked—”

She kept up the small talk as I took off her shoes, stockings, garter belt. When she was nude I gently took the walnuts from her and quickly stripped. She said, “Now I pay for being rescued.”

“If you want to consider it that way.”

She smiled. “I get you, don't I?”

“Yes,” I said, taking off my shoes.

“When I was a girl of about fourteen, I was dumpy, afraid I'd never be attractive to men. I used to save my pennies and buy sexy garters and underwear. Of course nobody ever saw them, but they made me feel good.”

“You're very attractive now,” I cut in, hoping we'd get to bed without a lesson in psychiatry.

“You look harder than before.”

“I've been in training.”

“For what?”

“Maybe for this,” I said, turning out the light.

It was a wonderful night—for a while. She said she was hungry, and later we dressed and took a cab over to the market section, Les Halles, and had some delicious onion soup covered with burnt puffed cheese. When we returned to my room her mood changed—had our usual routine of weeping, her sharp sarcasm, my begging her to stay with me, and all the time I kept myself under control, didn't blow my cap.

Not even when she awoke me from a light sleep, said, “Ken, about that bar. Some slob had brought me and walked out on me because I took an interest in that poor American kid. He looked so much in need of protection. The girls got mad because they thought I was offering free competition.”

From the tone of her voice I knew she was saying it to needle me. “Figured that was the play,” I said smoothly. “By the way, dearest, if you ever think of turning pro, I know a wheel who might be able to get you your yellow card.”

“Why, you miserable louse!” She started to get up and I held her and said quietly, “Now let's stop it, both of us.”

“What's happened to you. Ken? You've changed—sort of a mature ox now.”

“Horse-matured,” I corned.

She thought this was very funny and when she got done laughing she kissed me and said, “Ken, when you try to act intelligent you're almost charming.”

I took this kind of teasing the whole damn night and I kept taking it because I knew that was what she hated: as long as I took it she'd stay with me.

Only the one thing that broke it up was something real cute.

Bud never did any roadwork the day after a fight, and we slept till ten. She started to dress and seemed very lovey-dovey. We discussed the fact that the sheets in her hotel were nearly as rough as mine, and the hot water situation. When I 'asked her to tell me her real name, her hotel, she kissed me, said, “Ken, this has really been a good night. Don't spoil it.”

“But baby, there can be other good nights. How can I find you?”

“Let me come here when I'm not in one of my moods. God, I'm simply starved. That's the best eating—the hunger a lot of bed exercises brings.”

“I'll go down with you and we'll stuff ourselves with—”

“No, darling. Let's keep it all sweet and pure. I was feeling a bit sick and you were a wonderful pill. Don't spoil things with too much talk. If we must chatter, let's talk about important things—French walnuts for example. Why aren't they as crisp as the California variety? Think they don't get enough sun, or are picked too soon?”

“I don't know and I couldn't care less,” I said, getting out of bed and feeling in my pants hanging over the chair for my tobacco pouch. Marion was buttoning her dress and I said, “Pass me my pipe.”

I had the best pipe I ever owned on the dresser—a good Italian briar I'd bought one day when I was flush. It was next to the bowl of nuts and she picked it up, made a face as she smelled the bowl, said, “Something so fascinating about a man smoking a pipe. Cigarettes seem so—so much nothing next to a pipe. This a good one?”

“My best.”

“It has a lovely grain,” Marion said, suddenly putting it in the nut cracker, and smashing it. “Oh, dear, I thought it would be stronger than that.” She gave me a silly grin that drove me punchy. Before I could stop myself, I reached over and slapped her across the mouth, knocking her across the room and against the wall. I'd tried to check my swing, and hadn't hit her hard enough to do any real damage.

She straightened up, a little blood on her red lips, and I knew she'd been digging me into making a jackass move like this. I said, “Christ! Marion, forgive me, I didn't mean—I swear I didn't—”

Her eyes were sad, but her lips were a tight, bloody smile of triumph and self-pity as she put on her coat and hat and made a grand exit from my room. She even closed the hall door gently. I sat on the bed, staring at my hand. I'd never struck a woman before; don't go in for that kind of craziness.

I got up and began to clean the dresser of parts of my pipe and walnut shells. I kept telling myself she was nuts and I was well rid of her; and I stared at myself in the mirror and wondered if I wasn't the one really crazy... because I still felt sad as hell at Marion's leaving me.

I TOOK a cold bath which didn't help my mood and cursed the French hot-water system and France in general. I was hungry as a bear and had several cups of coffee and rolls, then walked across the Seine, through the Tuilleries to the American Express. I had an idea Marion would go there for mail, and I hung around for an hour but didn't see her. I went into the cafeteria of the Galleries Lafayette, the big department store, and ate a stack of sandwiches and then a plate of fish and several fancy desserts—causing quite a sensation and some snide remarks about “Americans—well fed.”

For the first time since I'd been in Paris I really felt stuffed. I hung around the American Express some more, although the place was closed for lunch—and still no Marion. Hell of it was, I didn't even know her last name. I stood there like a chump, wanting to see her and angry at myself for wanting to see her. I waited and had no luck.

In fact, this seemed to be the start of a lot of bad luck for me. I finished the day by getting into a hassle with Bud.

At one, f remembered the Algerian kid and took a cab and got Bud, telling him about Tony as we went to the gym. Bud and Paquita were still in bed when I got to their place and I sat around while he dressed, knowing they must have had a fine night, comparing it to the weird evening I'd spent with Marion.

In the cab, Bud said, “Take it easy with this kid. I mean, don't let him know too much about us—it might get to Gonnet.”

The gym was empty and we sat around till two-thirty and the kid didn't show. About the time I was ready to leave he came in, looked around cautiously. I introduced him to Bud and that seemed to put him more at ease. Bud put on ring shoes and gloves and we got some trunks for the kid. He wouldn't strip till I gave him the other half of the ten-spot and then he stuffed both parts of the bill into his shoes. He wasn't exactly a trusting lad.

Tony looked terrible in trunks, all his bones showing, and chicken-chested. That didn't mean anything. Lew Jenkins was a bag of bones when he won the lightweight championship and he could wallop like a heavyweight.

When he got into the ring with Bud, he was obviously scared stiff. Bud told him in French, “Don't worry, I will not hit you. You just try to hit me.”

“Hard?”

“Hard as you can.”

Tony didn't have the smallest idea about boxing; he kept charging across the ring, throwing punches like a rusty gate, his feet awkward and crossed. Bud ducked, and a couple of times he stopped the kid's wallops on his arms and shoulders. After a few minutes the kid was puffing badly and Bud suddenly hit him—a light tap on the point of the chin.

This got the boy sore and he tore in at Bud, cursing and crying. Bud grabbed him, held him, said, “I'm sorry. It was a slip. I'm very sorry.”

Tony looked sullen and I untied his gloves and told him to walk around for a while, then gave him a towel and showed him where to take a shower. He looked past me at Bud and Bud nodded, said, “That's right, walk around till you get your wind back, then take a shower and dry yourself carefully.”

The kid fooled with the heavy bag and I told him, “Careful. Hit that wrong and you'll hurt your hand.”

Bud and I sat down while the kid showered and Bud said, “Okay, he can clout. Doesn't know a thing, but seems to take a wallop good, and at least we won't have to unlearn him a lot of junk.”

“You think he's worth bothering with?”

“Yeah. With decent food and time, might make a good welter out of him. Bet he don't weigh a hundred pounds now.”

When the kid was dressed we all went down to a cafe and Bud ordered a Perrier while I had a cup of chocolate and Tony said, “Some red wine—it is good for the blood.”

“Baloney—no more wine or cigarettes for you, understand?” I told the waiter to bring the kid a glass of milk and a roll with bits of chocolate in it. Tony didn't like the idea.

Bud said, “Tony, you like being a fighter?”

“Yes, if it will make me money.”

“It may,” Bud said, “But it won't be easy money. Like Ken said, no wine, smokes, or girls. How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

“Hell you are,” I said. “You'd be in the army. Tell us the truth.”

“All right; I'm sixteen!”

Bud said, “That's good. Ever been sick, real sick like—”

“Clap or syph?” I cut in.

“Never!” Tony said, glaring at me. “What you think I am, a pig?”

“We have to know,” Bud said smoothly. “How long you been in Paris?”

“A year. Came with my brother. He's working on a road gang; I do not know where.”

“Got a job?”

Tony shook his head. “I sell cigarettes, things like that.”

“Where do you live?”

The kid hesitated. “I have a place to sleep—the back room of a store.”

Bud told me in English, “We'll sign him to a contract, although it won't be legal—he's under age. I'll have to be his manager of record. Let's invest fifty bucks each; that ought to last him two months. Then we'll try him in the amateurs, see what happens. Okay?”

“I'm buying.”

Bud explained it to Tony, telling him, “We'll get you a room, some clothes, good food, and every day you will come to the gym and we will teach you how to box. In a few months we will all know whether you have the makings of a fighter or not. Agreed?”

Tony thought a moment, turned to me and asked for his identity card. When he pocketed that, he said gravely, “I agree.”

“Good.” Bud wrote his address on a slip of paper. “Be at my house by seven, for supper. We will then sign a contract. I will be your manager.”

“I am happy it is you,” Tony said, smiling at Bud. “I will certainly be at your house at seven.” He stood up and shook hands with Bud, then hesitated, shook hands with me. At the door he waved at Bud. “Bonjour, monsieur,” he said.

“I'll get a contract typed up. Come over for supper,” Bud told me. “Paquita is making rice with mussels, shrimps, prawns, and a lot of other shellfood.”

“Okay. Tony's a snotty kid.”

“He'll be all right. Algerians have it rough here and he's suspicious of us.”

“Of me. Bonjour, monsieur,” I said mockingly.

Bud called for l'addition, paid, said as we walked out, “Feel good today. Hit the road in the morning. You know about the fight in Brussels on the 15th?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

Bud grinned at me. “What's the matter with you?”

“Nothing—everything. Whole country gives me a pain.”

“Suits me fine.”

“Tell me, what's so damn good about it?” I asked.

“To start with, I'm monsieur over here. In the States a Negro is 'boy' till he's 70, then he becomes 'uncle,' but never mister.”

“And being called mister is so important?”

“What it stands for is important as hell to me.”

To be nasty I said, “Sure some reason for leaving your country, to be called mister.”

Bud looked at me sharply. “Well, they call you mister and still you're over here. What's your excuse?”

I didn't know my excuse, and the whole thing suddenly got me steamed, I said, “Christ sakes, all I get here are damned lectures!” and walked away.

I didn't go to his place for supper. I put away a lonely meal in an Alsatian restaurant, tried to find Jack, and finally went to bed early for lack of anything better to do. The next morning when Bud called for me to go on the road, Tony was with him, and Bud didn't say anything about our blow-up.

We worked out with the kid every day, taking it slow, careful not to spoil his natural knack of punching. He put on muscle, had quick reflexes, but was still pretty awkward. I didn't wear any headguard as I sparred with him the afternoon before we were leaving for Brussels, and in ducking one of his wild lefts, I misjudged the ropes and cut my forehead. «

Hard luck followed us to Brussels. In the dressing room we were propositioned to take a dive, but only offered a hundred dollars, and failing to raise the ante, we indignantly refused. We took the bout on a percentage basis and it was raining like a hurricane, so there weren't five hundred people in the hall. Not having a guarantee, all we got was forty-two dollars over our expenses.

Bud was fighting a bald-headed character who'd been European lightheavy champ years ago and was trying a comeback. He was way out of condition, thighs hog-fat, a rubber tire of skin around his belly. Freddy didn't make the trip, he was in Germany with one of his middleweights. I, was working Bud's corner without a license, but nobody said anything.

Fat-stuff was clever, he could have ducked and rolled under a shower and never got wet. And when he stood still, he could wallop. For the first two rounds he kept coyly skipping about, ducking and clinching. Whenever Bud could hit him solid, he pounded the shaking fat belly.

The Belgians thought a lot of Fatso and I started betting between rounds. I had over one hundred twenty-five bucks on Bud to win by a kayo before the fourth round started, and at good odds. I knew it was only a question of time before the old guy ran out of steam. But he danced through the fourth, fifth, and sixth rounds without even breathing hard, outboxing Bud. I told Bud it was time to put it in high gear.

Fatty was no dummy and it took Bud a lot of time to finally feint him out of position, land a 'hard right to the chin. It staggered Fatty, but he covered his head with his gloves, sat on the middle rope, and weathered the storm till the bell sounded.

In the eighth round Bud came out slugging and the old guy clinched and as the ref parted them, Fatso sneaked over a fast right that made Bud stumble. Bud held on this time and Fatty split Bud's cheek with a neat butt of his bald noggin.

The side of his face was all blood and the fans were screaming for a kayo, but Bud didn't get rattled. He stayed at jabbing distance, still trying to set him up for one punch that would start him on kayo lane.

I patched up the cheek; it wasn't much of a cut. But in every clinch the old-timer would cutely rub it open with the side of his head and Bud looked a mess the last two rounds. At the end of the tenth, and the fight, Fatso was skipping and ducking with the same ease he had in the first round, and I was out $125. Except for the one clean punch, and the butt, he'd hardly touched Bud.

As I helped Bud on with his robe he said, “Quite a guy—wasn't he good?”

“You licked him ten rounds to none. You win.”

“Bet I don't. This will be a hometown decision.”

Bud was right. They gave it to the Belgian, and the fans applauded as he raced across the ring and kissed Bud's bloody cheek.

I was sore as a boil but Bud took it calmly. On the train back to Paris all he talked about was, “Think of that joker, how good he must have been ten years ago.”

“All I can think of is we were robbed and I'm out a wad.”

“Sorry about the dough. But think of a guy like that, rusting away in this little country. If he got an in Stateside, he probably would have taken Conn and Louis.”

“And if they fought in Brussels even Louis couldn't have beat him!”

“What's a decision? Let the glory stay with the chumps. I'll lose every night in the week for a decent payday.”

“We sure got a big purse tonight!” What with sending some dough to Franzino, investing in Tony, and losing my bets, I was back to being short of boatfare again.

I was still feeling lousy when I bawled out Gonnet the next afternoon. He said, “It is terrible; things like that happen in Belgium, where they lack sporting instinct. In France—”

“Merde!”

“In my France...”

“Merde! In your damn France the local boy wins too, unless he's flattened. You guys don't know what the word sport means!”

Freddy stared at me as though I were a backward child. “Sport? This is business. As for your American sport, it was just to send Monsieur Dempsey, the tiger of the ring, against a big middleweight like Carpentier? Or Criqui, a one armed—”

“Don't blame me for that—it was before my time. Anyway, Georges knocked down beaucoup folding dough.”

Gonnet chuckled. “I agree it was not sport, but what magnifique business! Ken, I was trying to get hold of you. Where are you staying? I tried the big hotels.”

“Why—I'm shacking up with a babe,” I said, lying quickly, and I hoped smoothly. “She has a husband, and—you know. Always leave a message for me at Bud's. What's on the fire?”

“When I came back from Germany, I wanted to show you the news stories on my middleweight Pantin flattening the good American fighter, Ernie Carr. Thought you might send them to Slats—”

“Carr is small time in the States. In time, we'll get your boys in the States, when we do... it will be magnifique business, as you say. Right now I'm worried Slats won't like the raw deal Bud got in Brussels.”

“Those bastards,” Gonnet said. “But do not worry, I have been busy. I have a fight set for Oran, five hundred dollars and two round-trip plane tickets, in two weeks. They have a strong man there they think is a big Cerdan, only he stinks.”

My life seemed to be divided into two-week periods. I worked out with Bud and Tony every day, and between the road and the gym, I batted around Paris, walking in any direction till I was lost, then finally finding a bus or Metro and returning to the Left Bank. Paris is in the shape of a star, so if you walk long enough you're bound to hit something you recognize.

I felt completely at loose ends, starting to get tense once more. I was dreaming of Gina again, and kept dropping into the American Express looking for Marion. I sat around cafes, trying to figure out what was wrong with me. I could return to the States after the Oran bout, yet I didn't want to do that.

Crazy thing was in Paris I was doing pretty much what I did in New York or Chicago—hanging around a gym, and in my free time having a beer, seeing a movie, always looking for something and never knowing what it was. Here I was more restless than in the States. Here I was always a stranger, a foreigner.

Paris is full of African students, most of them skinny, dark kids. I'd see them on the street and they annoyed me. I don't mean their color or anything, but to me Africa meant lions and jungles, and I envied the way they were at home in Paris, a city that was so strange to both of us. They fitted in while I was as uneasy as a sore thumb.

Or take the kid, Tony. He practically lived at Bud's place, it was home to him. Paquita liked him—maybe because the Basques came from North Africa too, hundreds of years ago. Tony, of course, was nuts about her, always helping her with the dishes, begging her to sing for him. Even the poodle liked Tony, and the kid had trained Ernest to do simple tricks like shaking hands.

Me, I couldn't even teach myself to think straight.

Week before the Oran bout, Bud said we ought to get there a few days ahead of time so he could get used to the climate. One thing about Bud, he always took damn good care of himself. As he said, “In this fight racket you can get hurt badly too easily. Only got one set of eyes, one head, one stomach, and I want to end up with all of them in working order.”

I was glad to blow Paris, even wanted to take Tony along, but old thrifty Bud said the plane fare was too much. The fight was for Saturday and we landed on Wednesday morning and checked into a cheap hotel that wasn't too crummy. Gonnet wasn't with us; I had an idea he was wanted for something in North Africa, and Bud said there wasn't any point in seeing the promoter till Friday, when he expected us.

I'd been in Lion Mountain camp outside Oran during the war on my way to Italy, but never inside the city. Oran is a modern town, very European looking, and built around a deep ravine that's bridged by ramps and roads. Guess that's how it got its name, for a ravine is called wahran in Arabic. We spent Wednesday seeing the tourist spots, the dirty kasbah, the Grand Mosque, and the rest of the sights.

Thursday we startled a lot of Arab women who were washing and bathing as we ran along the beach, the soft sand tiring my legs. When we stopped, Bud shadow-boxed for half an hour and did stomach exercises. We walked slowly back to town, and there was this tiny cafe overlooking the Mediterranean and we sat in the hot sun and had coffee and rolls. I said, “Hope this food is okay—no bugs.”

“You see any piles of dead people about?” Bud asked sarcastically.

The bartender was Spanish, and a hot bath and a shave were just two of the things he needed. He must have sent word that there were two Americans on the loose, for in a short time a couple of hard-looking, over-painted, small Arab women came over and gave us the eye. I told them in French they were wasting their time and they walked away, neither angry or disappointed. I told Bud, “All these European whores are so worn looking.”

“You've been reading romantic books. Making it on your back is no bed of happiness.”

“If they don't like peddling their hips, let them do something else.”

Bud shook his head. “Funny words come out of your kisser at times. You should know whoring and pro boxing are alike—both selling bodies. Ever see a rich guy go in for leather slinging? You don't because only one thing makes a guy take punishment for pay—he's poor, hungry-poor. Same for a girl who starts selling it, and that goes for the babes walking Eighth Avenue or Wabash Avenue or Sunset Boulevard.”

“No lectures, Professor,” I said, opening my shirt and getting the sun.

Bud asked for some water and I said something about wondering if the water was good to drink. He slapped me on the back and burst out laughing: “Ken, you sound like one of those tourists in Paris who rush to the water fountain at the American Express as though the water was piped straight from Kansas or something.”

The sun was hot and I took my shirt off and shut my eyes and the devil with these stupid arguments. I got a little burn and when I opened my eyes, Bud was sleeping with his head on the table. It was wonderful the way he could sleep any place.

After a couple of hours we walked back to the city, took a bath, and spent the afternoon strolling about. There were a lot of soldiers in the city, all French, and looking like GIs from the rear: their uniforms either GI or made out of GI cloth. Bud said, “Whoever is in the khaki cloth business must be making a fortune.”

“Thanks to the American taxpayer.”

He sighed. “Don't start flag waving, nobody wants to wear a uniform or—”

“Don't you start that song and dance,” I said.

Bud shrugged and laughed and changed the conversation by saying Oran was a little like Paris with an Oriental touch. And we got along on that subject fine.

We returned to our hotel room and Bud went to sleep while I tried reading the local papers. Suddenly Bud jumped off the bed and ran out of the room and when he came back he said. “Damn, I got the runs.”

He had it bad during the night, and Friday morning he was running a temperature. I called the American Consulate and got the address of an English doc and he said Bud had an attack of dysentery, told him not to eat and loaded him with pills. Bud stayed in bed and I went walking along the beach, watching the short Arab women, wondering when our—or my—streak of hard luck would turn. I stripped to the waist and got more sun.

When I returned Bud said, “No use, I'm too weak to fight. We'll sure miss those bucks, but call it off.”

“Maybe we can get a postponement,” I said. “I'll talk to the promoter.”

The promoter was a grey-haired Frenchman with a deep laugh and the roundest potbelly I ever saw. Soon as I came into his office, he rushed over—or what for him was rushing—shook my hand hard and said in his best broken English,” Ah, you have me much worried, Monsieur Stewart. All morning I—”

“I'm not—”

“... All morning I phone the airport, but no—How did you come?”

“We—uh—came in yesterday by—”

“No matter, you are here.” He flung a short fat arm around the room at a couple of odd-looking characters. “These gentlemen are from the press. I now introduce the famous American box-ar, Monsieur Bud Stewart.”

I grinned at them, and at myself. True, I had a slight suntan, and I'm fairly swarthy, but to be mistaken for Bud, for a Negro, was a surprise. But then in Africa and in Europe one sees all shades of white people, most of them would be called “colored” in some parts of the States. While I was answering the usual newspaper questions—not letting on I spoke French—I knew I was going to keep on being Bud Stewart till after the fight. I was in good shape, and why let five hundred bucks go down the drain?

When I returned to the hotel I told Bud the fight was off and the doc said he should stay in bed till Sunday. If I told him the deal he might talk me out of the idea. When I undressed for bed, I looked 'white' around my bellybutton and legs—stuff that would show in ring trunks.

Bud had a bad night. While he seemed much better in the morning, he was pretty weak. I had the doc in again and he gave him vitamins and said Bud could eat a little. Fortunately the Doc wasn't a fight fan.

During the day I pinched Bud's identity and work card, in case I had to flash them, and late in the afternoon I bought some tea and ran a hot bath. I sat in the tea for a while and when I got out I may have smelled funny, but I was a uniform tan all over.

For the first time in weeks I felt good, like a kid with a secret. At four I ate a modest supper, then had the rice and soup the doc had ordered sent up to Bud. Bud asked why I wasn't eating with him and I said I had a date for supper and Bud must have been getting well—he gave me a lecture on V.D. Twice he asked me what smelled and I said there were some English on the floor making tea.

I left him sleeping at eight, took his ring togs and went to the arena. This was a large place that was also used as a dancehall and skating rink. The promoter with the jolly face had two Arabs to act as my seconds and they seemed to know their stuff. The promoter sat around the dressing room, asking me about Paris and Gonnet, all in his best English. Nobody asked for any work cards.

At exactly ten I tossed Bud's robe over my shoulders and went upstairs and into the ring. North African nights are cold, and I kept jogging up and down in my corner to keep warm. The Arabs had done a good job at bandaging my hands and I felt full of pep—at least all the training I did with Bud would pay off.

I was still full of pep when my opponent climbed into the ring. His name was Yves Adbelkrim, and he was fearsome. There's a certain type of joker you see all over the world—a muscle man who isn't good enough to be a pro wrestler or boxer, but who can be a cage of apes in a street brawl—really a tough guy.

Yves was like that. He was short but with tremendous arms and shoulders, muscles like fat snakes—and all the earmarks of a brawler, including a tin ear with a small gold earring through it! He wore only one earring, and the prune ear was thick, like you get in wrestling. He had a mop of black hair that fell in front of his eyes and judging from the scars on his puss, he'd stopped plenty of leather.

The thing that almost made me laugh was, I was supposed to be colored and Yves was considered white and he was nearly as brown as Bud.

The arena was packed, and from the ovation they gave him, Yves was a hot potato in Oran, and judging from the size of the house, I felt we should have got more than five hundred. I made a note to talk to the promoter and Freddy.

When the ref called us to the center of the ring for instructions—all in French, which I supposedly wasn't able to understand—Yves didn't look so short; his heavy shoulders and muscles made him seem that way. He was a hell of a strong clown and his face was thick with grease. The ref went through the motions of rubbing some of it off.

Yves—what a name for gorilla!—was scowling at me and I smiled at him. In a dark alley I would have been scared crazy of him, but in a ring a brawler can be cut to pieces.

At the bell he actually came running across the ring, hands at his sides, and suddenly hurled himself at me. His shoulder hit me in the chest like he was blocking in a football game, and knocked me flat on my can. The crowd screamed as the ref pointed Yves toward a neutral corner and started counting.

I was shaken; about 250 pounds of solid muscle had hit me, but when I looked over at Yves jumping around and looking fierce, his hair almost covering his nose, I wanted to laugh. I was up at seven and Yves came in again like a tank, but I danced away, then stepped in and crossed a right to his chin that should have dropped him. All he did was wobble a bit, try to club me with a left he pulled up from centerfield. I beat him to the punch with two good lefts, feinted for his head and sunk my right in his stomach, it was a wallop I felt right up to my elbow.

Punches didn't seem to bother Yves. His mouth was bloody and my right had turned his belly into a dark blotch, but he kept trying to get in close, to club and wrestle me. I had the longer arms and I settled down to outboxing him, raking him with long jabs and rights. The few times he hit me weren't love taps, but he didn't seem to have a kayo wallop.

In the second round I changed my style, began to counter his wild swings. I got down off my toes and hit him some solid pokes and figured another round and he'd cave in. He was snorting a lot and every few seconds his hair would fall over his eyes and he'd impatiently brush it back between swinging wild punches at me. I wanted to see what I could do in close and when we clinched he shoved me into the ropes, and holding him was like wrestling an octopus. He lifted me off the canvas and shook me as if I was a flyweight before the ref parted us.

In the third I started getting tired—I was doing all the punching. I kept jabbing at the scar-tissue over his right eye, turning my glove as I hit him. When I got the blood going, he went stark nuts!

Spitting out his mouthpiece, he roared something, took my right to the chin as he came in, grabbed me, and threw me halfway across the ring. I hit the ropes with my shoulders and bounced off to land on my face. Still dizzy, I got up and walked into a looping left that dropped me again.

I rolled on the dirty canvas, sick with pain. Not from that shove he called a punch, but I couldn't move my left arm—my shoulder seemed broken and full of fire.

If I'd played it smart I would have stayed down. As Bud said, the hell with the phoney glory. I wasn't smart, I was damn mad!

At nine I stood up and when the ref brushed off my left glove, I nearly screamed. Lifting my left arm halfway up to a jab position made me dizzy with pain. Yves came in, wide open as usual, and I smacked him with a right to the eye which started it on the way to closing; but with my left down he clouted me with another wild swing, a roundhouse right that numbed the side of my face. He clinched and whacked me with the side of his head, that cute earring cutting my face. I couldn't let him know my left was hurt, so when the ref broke us I pretended to put on an exhibition of fancy boxing, dancing around with both hands at my side, flicking my right out now and then.

I kept dancing around, like Lee Oma used to do, and even got some applause for making Yves miss, but without a jab I looked dumb trying to peg him with long rights. He came hustling in after me, his right eye now shut tight and swelling up big as an apple. I tried a right to the eye as he came in, but was wild, and only hit him on his hard head. He roughed me to the ropes and when they hit my shoulder, I yelled with bloody pain.

The pain sobered me up some; I wasn't drunk with blind rage any longer. One thing was for sure, I couldn't go another round. Yves had me against the ropes in a clinch, trying to massage my face with his earring. As the ref told us to break, this muscle-bound clown went through his lifting act again. When he had me a couple inches off the canvas, I came down—stepping on his right instep hard as I could. That's a sensitive spot, and of course it was dirty fighting, but it was about time I returned the back-alley treatment.

Yves almost doubled up with pain, his good left eye popping through the hair hanging over his forehead. I rifled through a right at where I figured the hair was hiding the bum eye. The skin burst, sending a shower of blood down his face, splattering us both.

He reeled away, his face covered with blood and looking far worse than it was: all I'd done was cut the skin a little. Adbelkrim held both his powerful arms over his head for some reason—and staggered blindly around the ring.

As I started after him, the ref pushed me away and glanced at Yves's corner and a dirty white towel was flung into the ring. I ran to my own corner, and one of my excited seconds grabbed my left to shake it and I blacked out against the ropes for a few seconds.

Odd part was, when I came too I yanked my left out of his hands and the jerky motion made the arm feel better. They took my gloves off and the announcer held up my hand and gave the time and the fans were okay—they gave me a good hand even though their boy had lost. I felt great—as though I was just starting and winning my first pro fight. I ran across the ring to shake hands with Yves, and he had a slit about an inch long under his eye. I shook hands with his second and Yves hugged me and said in French, “You are both good and lucky.”

Smiling, I told him in English, “And same to you in Macy's window any day.” Then I had my robe on and made my way to my dressing-room. I took a fast hot shower, collected my five hundred after a little argument with potbelly about rooking us. He kept telling me, “Monsieur Gonnet make deal. I keep deal.”

I took a cab to the house of the English doc, got him out of bed and told him about my shoulder. “You two chaps are always in something. Take off your coat and shirt.”

It turned out I'd only given the shoulder a bad wrench and he rubbed on some ointment that burned for a while, told me to soak in a hot tub and rest the left arm. As I was dressing he asked, “What happened to your face? Quite a few lumps. Doesn't look like an infection, rather more like a series of bruises.”

“I got some leather infection tonight. A big dose.”

“Oh, I see,” he said, as though he knew what I was talking about.

When I reached the hotel, Stewart was propped up in bed, reading a paper. He said, “Where were you? Somebody jump you?”

“I was at the fights. Guy named Bud Stewart won in the third round by a TKO! And you had a rugged fight—believe me you did!” I dumped the five hundred bucks worth of francs on the bed. I told him all about the fight as I undressed and he said, “Man, you're crazy!”

“Five hundred fish worth of craziness.”

“Took too much of a chance. You get two-thirds of this loot. In fact you should get it all.”

“We'll split it fifty-fifty. I did borrow your ring togs and work card, not to mention your name,” I said going down the hall to start the tub. Happily there was hot water.

When I came back to the room, Bud said, “I didn't do a thing; the dough is all yours. Damn, think of them taking you for colored.”

I got my boxing socks and some underwear together. “There's a plane out of here at 7 a.m. Feel strong enough to take it?”

“I'm fine. I insist you take all the dough, because—”

“Half is okay. And we'll argue about it after we get out of here, before anybody gets wise,” I said, going down the hall to the bathroom. I sat in the hot water and soaked my left shoulder as I washed my socks and underwear, then took a shower, soaping what was left of the tea stains off my legs.

Chapter 6

WE OVERSLEPT and missed the early plane, and I had a chance to bake my shoulder in the sun most of the afternoon at the airport. We were both okay when we reached Paris that night. Bud and I agreed to split and the next morning I gave Freddy his cut and he looked at my face without saying anything except, “I hear Bud put up a wonderful fight. Promoter wants a rematch soon.”

“We're in no hurry. How come we only got five hundred? Must have been at least a million francs in the box-office.”

Freddy was busy combing his hair, looking into a hand mirror. He shrugged. “Last fight we work on percentage and got nothing. A guarantee is safe, but—I make it up to you. Got three fights set for Bud. One in Salle Wagram, one in Nice, and last one in Marseille. Also I hear Bud interested in amateur.”

“Just a kid we picked up.”

“Maybe I arrange Bud get manager's card in F.F.B.”

“You're a busy little beaver aren't you?”

He put his comb away, looked puzzled. “Beaver? What means beaver?”

“A kind of rat that likes to play it straight and work.”

Freddy still looked puzzled; then he said, “I'm no rat. You level with me, I level with you. I hear from Slats other day, and—”

I dug my hand into my hip pocket like a two-bit actor, growled, “Told you to keep your damn mouth—”

Gonnet held up both hands as though pushing me away, and said quickly, “No bang-bang! I swear on my father's grave I say nothing! He hear about my boy beating Carr in Berlin, and Slats wire he may have some fights lined up soon.”

I slipped him a tight smile that would have made Bogart proud. “I been sending Slats reports on you.”

“Of course; that's why I carry out my end.”

“Okay, when you write him, no word about me—mails may be watched.”

Gonnet shook his head, then glanced in the mirror to see if he'd upset his hair-do. “America watch too much mail.”

“Can that kind of talk. When we fight in the Wagram?”

“Next week. Then we all take trip south in my car. We take it easy, go to Cote d'Azur like tourist.”

“Okay.” I got up.

Gonnet said, “You have cuts on face.”

“Shaved myself with a broken bottle. Been doing it for years and this is the first time I cut myself. African glass is no good,” I said on my way out.

I went over to Bud's and he said he thought he'd be able to fight in a week. Paquita said her food would fix him up in a day. When I told them about Nice and Marseille, she said, “Good; now I go see my parents.”

“That's an idea,” Bud said. “We'll take Paquita with us. Leave Tony to take care of Ernest. Break about Freddy getting me a manager's card. You think the kid is ready for a bout yet? Don't want to rush him.”

“Hell, he can flatten most of the lightweight amateurs I've seen around here. Well, pick me up tomorrow and we'll hit the road.”

“If you're rested,” Bud said, laughing.

Bud did some light training the next few days and the good, feeling of winning the fight stayed with me. I even took Tony out to the Flea Market, at Porte Cligancourt, where a lot of pushcart peddlers sell stuff over the weekend, and bought him a second-hand overcoat; it was turning cold and I was sick of seeing him bundled up in sweaters. The kid thanked me, but was still playing me cool.

The fight at the Wagram turned out to be a cinch. Bud went against a young Frenchman, a well built kid with high cheekbones like an Indian. The Frenchman was a good fighter, only he had a glass chin, and Bud dumped him with the first left hook he tried, put him down for keeps with the next. We pulled down six hundred for that.

The following morning, we jumped into Freddy's 1949 Caddy, which he was very proud of, and headed south toward Lyon. Bud left Tony at the apartment and the kid was put out at not going with us, but Paquita soft-soaped him with a kiss and some junk about “taking care of things for me.”

Bud told him to run every day and only spar at the gym when our French trainer told him to, and maybe he'd have his first bout when we returned.

It was pleasant driving through France, past the forests at Fontainebleau, full of rusty red leaves, where the old kings used to hunt and carry on. Now the place was the headquarters for SHAFE and full of jeeps and soldiers.

Paquita and Bud sat in the back, while I sat with Freddy. He was a good driver and I watched the countryside and tried not to listen to his constant chatter. The farther south we went, the more the country reminded me of Italy—the same airless stone hovels that represented generations of backward living and poverty. Now and then we'd pass some big chateau with a lot of land around it and Freddy, acting like a guide, would tell us it was the home of some ex-noble. Freddy said, “Those guys had it—way back. Now the bastards are all land-poor.”

“Being a French nobleman is a sad hustle,” I said.

“At least they've had it, and have the house and land now,” Paquita put in. “Your heart bleeds for them—what about those who never have had anything?”

“My heart doesn't bleed for them,” I said, not wanting to start her off on a soap-box.

We kept passing a lot of the US—GO HOME signs and I got to thinking of Marion, wishing to hell she was with me.

We came to Lyons late in the afternoon and Freddy said we'd stop for the night. “I know a good hotel.”

“And I bet it's the Terminus. Every town has a Hotel Terminus. Excuse me, a Grand Hotel Terminus!”

We put up at a big hotel and I shared a room with Freddy. I liked Lyon. It's an industrial town and has none of the sucking-around tourist atmosphere of Paris or Naples. Reminded me a lot of Leghorn and Milan.

Freddy had “some business” to take care of in the evening; if you believed him, he had “some angle” working for me in every big town.

Bud and Paquita and I took a walk and Bud said, “This is a good town.”

“How can you tell? Listen, a good town is any town where you get a break—Carrot Corners or New York City or Paris.”

“Maybe,” Bud said. “But to me a good town is a place where you get more of a chance at peace and decent living. Like for me, I can get more of that in France than—”

“By God, the French Chamber of Commerce ought to hire you as a drum beater!”

Paquita asked in French, “What do you two argue about in English so much?”

“Bud claims French horse manure smells so sweet it can be bottled for perfume!” I said sarcastically. “In fact, everything about France is too too perfect.”

“Stow that crap,” Bud cut in, angry. “I'll tell you something about the French. A legend has been built up over the years that French women are the most beautiful, that all French people are terrific lovers, French fashions are the smartest, French cooking the greatest, and French wine tops. Even the French believe it, but—”

“And it's a lot of bull.”

“Sure. The truth is they're no more accomplished in anything than any other country. World is too small and smart today for any one nation to be best in anything for long. But—”

“I was waiting for the but, the big sales talk,” I cut in.

“For me the sales talk is I'm a man here—not a Negro, but just a man. France is dying, becoming a tourist resort instead of a nation; like most of Europe is. One of these days France will snap out of it, become a nation again. I'll be part of that, it will really be my home. That's the difference between us—you'll always be a tourist here, and in America too!”

I began to burn and maybe that started it—from that night on the old sharp restlessness began to build up, spoiling the trip for me. It didn't make sense, I was ruining what should have been a swell vacation.

In the morning Bud and I went on the road and I guess Negroes were a novelty around Lyon. Lot of people turned to stare at Bud, call their children to the window to see him. It didn't bother him much.

Freddy decided not to drive through the Alps. Instead we went through the Rhone Valley. It was run-of-the-mill countryside but Freddy and Paquita kept raving about everything as though they'd never seen grass or cows before. Just before we came to Montelimar, where everybody works at making or selling sticky nougat candy, we came upon a German military cemetery. There were several hundred black crosses, enclosed by a low wall. Stopping the car, Freddy swore, said, “A stinking waste of land.”

“They rot the worms,” Paquita said, sticking her head out of the car and spitting. Gonnet further showed his patriotism by peeing against the cemetery wall.

“They'll give him the Legion of Honor for this,” I told Bud, but couldn't get a rise out of him.

When we came to Avignon, the walled city where the last French pope used to live in the days when there were several popes, Freddy got very religious and had to shop around for several holy pictures.

We stopped in Aix for lunch, after Freddy and Paquita discussed detouring about seventy miles to Marseilles to get bouillabaisse, and I got them both mad by saying no fish stew was worth driving one hundred and forty miles and they'd be in Marseille in a week anyway. It seemed that telling the French bouillabaisse was simply fish stew was almost as much an insult as stepping on their flag.

When we started driving along the Cote d'Azur, even I had to admire the clear blue water of the Mediterranean, and I didn't have the heart to quibble and remind them it was just as clear and blue off Capri and the Italian coast.

The sun was hot and we took off our coats, and drove by palm trees and orange trees and some of the villages around Cannes looked like movie sets and Nice itself was strictly a luxury town. We put up at the Ruhl, the most expensive hotel, a squat old building facing the Promenade and the sea, and Paquita was quite impressed. When Bud said something about the cost, Freddy said, “From here on in we're riding a gravy train—part of our expenses—the promoter is paying.”

After we were settled and took a bath, it was dark, and pretty cold. We had supper at a gyp joint and then went into the Municipal Casino. I got a kick out of this, it was exactly like a movie—the hawk-eyed, dead-pan jokers in stiff tuxedos who ran the roulette tables. We had to show our passports or identity cards to get in, and chips started at 100 francs. There were a lot of tricky card games I couldn't understand, and the characters hanging around the table were astonishing because they looked exactly like characters—fat Chinese women in long black dresses, Englishmen who looked like they could use a decent meal, a lot of Americans acting like happy suckers, and even several wrinkled old women who played a system, wrote down every number that won. I dropped a couple thousand francs and Freddy was spreading himself. I saw a square chip that represented 100,000 francs and when I told Bud, “Hey, that's almost three hundred bucks,” he said, “Hell, that one chip is half a year's salary for the average French salesgirl.”

For some reason Paquita felt uneasy in the place. “All these people, they look like they belong in a graveyard,” she said.

We went downstairs where they were playing boule, which is like roulette except a large rubber ball is used. Here you could play for as little as twenty francs and the people seemed more like the types you passed on the street. Paquita won a couple of hundred francs and was happy. By ten-thirty Bud wanted to hit the sack. I went up and told Freddy we were leaving. He said he was 15,000 francs ahead. “Stay around. I'm checking on some girls later. You want, we spend the night —free. They show Gonnet all the love he wants.”

“I bet.”

“Things are quiet now, but when the American Navy is here at Villefranche, girls do big business. And in the season, if a girl is lucky, she can make real money with one trick.”

I'd heard that Freddy had an interest in a string of whores, but at the moment seeing Freddy browbeating a couple of gals into giving it away wasn't as good as getting a full night's sleep.

Bud and I were up early, ran along the boardwalk and then came back to the hotel and ate. Freddy drove us to Monte Carlo and as far as the Italian border at Ventimille. Seeing Italian soil made me more restless than ever—reminded me of Gina and Milan.

We were back before noon, and after lunch walked along the rocky beach. Between noon and two p.m. the sun is real hot, and even though it was November, a lot of people were sunbathing, some of them even swimming. Although Bud was' against it, Paquita undressed to her bra and pants and stretched out to get the sun. She had a stocky figure and with her flaming copper hair, she looked very exciting.

Bud sat with her, his shirt open, telling her to stop it before she got a cold, while Freddy and I sat on some clumsy looking fishing boats and smoked.

Freddy said, “That girl is sitting on a million dollars.”

“Don't let Bud hear you talk that way.”

“But it is true, she gives out that sort of sexual sunshine that makes a man dizzy. I've seen many women, and I know it is wrong to mistake beauty for sex. Women feel the same way—a man can look like nothing and still women go for him.”

“They go for you?” I asked.

“I do good. A man sees Paquita on the street—if he knows nothing about women, he maybe turns to a prettier face, a slimmer figure. But if he has had experience, his—mind will tell him here is a good lay. Best girl I ever had was a Pole and she had a face like Rocky Marciano—one of these wide-open big faces. But in bed—I tried to buy her from her pimp. Wish I'd known you then.”

“Why me?”

“This pimp was an idiot—a wild man, dangerous because he was full of dope. It would have been nothing for you to kill him, dispose of the body.”

Freddy's talk gave me the shakes. Everything seemed so unreal: here I was in Nice without any real money, sitting with a pimp-thug who respected me because he thought I was a killer, watching a Negro who'd spoiled my ring career, and his white wife who was suspicious of me because I was an American. I seemed to be living a weird dream.

When Paquita dressed, we walked over to the harbor where the water was so clear you could see under the yachts, even see the fish. Several men were fishing, their lips white with some dried fish they chewed to make soft, then rolled it into a ball and put it on their hooks. Even though they could see the damn fish, as usual in France, we didn't see anyone make a catch.

The gym was even worse than Paris and Bud and I had a long workout before supper. We spent the next couple of days like that, watching the sunworshippers on the beach, the phony exercise and muscle hounds showing off—walking or riding around the seashore, wondering at the fantastic wealth—for a Frenchman—the villas and big cars represented.

Whether because I was restless, or what, I didn't like Nice. This was strictly a tourist town and everybody seemed to be bowing and over-polite and waiting for a tip.

The fight club was surprisingly modern and large and Bud fought a plump Frenchman who thought boxing was just firing your left, then crossing your right. He managed to bloody Bud's nose before Bud's right slammed the wind out of him and a left dropped him for the count.

The fight in Marseilles was only four days away, so we decided to stay in Nice and train, and drive to Marseilles the afternoon of the bout.

I don't know; it was warm and sunny and we were making money, and it was interesting to watch the gals on the beach or take a ride in a helicopter, and there was always gambling at the casinos in the evening; yet I was nervous as a cat.

For one thing, Bud and I couldn't even say two words without arguing—petty stuff. Some Spanish dancers were at the casino and Paquita met them in a cafe and became friends as they came from the Spanish side of the Basque country. We went to see them perform one night. They were all slim, hand-^: some men in tight black pants, strutting and stamping around the stage as they snapped their fingers, and the women seemed, to get angry trying to stamp on the floor hard “enough to break either the wood or their feet. The men had very slim waists and when I mentioned this to Bud, he said, “A skinny ass is no good for punching.”

“Or in bed either,” I said, to make conversation.

“That's bunk,” he said, and off we went into some silly argument neither of us could prove.

I was glad when Bud went ten fast rounds in Marseilles against some muscle-bound clown who did nothing but wrap his arms around his head, and keep them there, round after round. Bud even won the decision, the Frenchman was so lousy.

Paquita and Bud took off to see her folks. Freddy was going to spend a few days in Marseilles, and I was happy to hop the train for Paris. We'd made $1150 in two fights and I had over $600 in my money belt and sent Franzino the other fifty I owed him.

I slept all the way to Paris in a second-class coach. I got into Paris in the evening and left my bags at my room—the old couple were out—then I found Jack and took him to supper and we had several hot rums and I sailed home at midnight and went to sleep without any trouble.

The next thing I knew my old landlady was shaking me and it was seven in the morning and she said, “Monsieur Francine, we are glad to see you again.”

“Yeah,” I said, my mind a sleepy fog and sore she had awakened me.

“A woman has been here twice to see you. A Madame Severn.”

I sat up and asked, “Who?”

I sleep in the raw and the old woman grinned at my muscles and said, “Ah, to be young and so strong. This woman left a note for you. I thought it might be important, that is why I wake you before I leave. Here.”

She gave me a neatly folded slip of paper and went out. In the early light I read:

Ken darling—

Call me soon as you get back. I'm at the Hotel de Parme on Rue Clichy

Marion (P.S. It's Marion Severn)

The letter was dated two days ago and I wondered what sort of jam she was in. Anyway, I finally knew her name—a big deal.

It was too early to call and I stretched out and fell into one of those half-awake sleeps and had a crazy dream I was back in Nice and I suddenly saw Gina in the sea and she smiled at me and I was in bathing shorts and swam out to her, only she kept swimming farther out and I never did quite catch her. About the time I started to worry about being able to swim back, I awoke. I went down and had a couple of glasses of coffee and a brace of rolls and felt I was living again.

The French phone system being one of the world's biggest gambles, it only took me three calls to get Marion's hotel, then they took so long getting her, I had to put in another token.

Marion sounded different over the phone, her voice had none of its bitchiness. “Ken, I'm so glad you're back. Are you free—now?”

“As free as you are.”

I heard her suck in her breath at the other end of the phone, then a quiet giggle and, “Darling ox, let's stop the cracks. Meet me at that sidewalk cafe up the street from the Galleries Lafayette—be about halfway for both of us. Make it in half an hour?”

“Yeah.”

As I was about to hang up she said, “Ken, Ken—I love just hearing your voice. A half-hour, dearest.”

I stared at the phone, wondering what had come over her.

She was sipping a Cherry Rocher and didn't look too well, with dark circles under her tired eyes. I'd taken my time, even stopping at the American Express a block away for a drink of water, and casually asking if there was any mail for me. I didn't expect anybody to write me. Nobody had.

I sat down at her table and ordered some more coffee and a slab of plain cake. Marion squeezed my hand and smiled at me, a deep, warm smile. “Ken, for the last few days I've been wanting to see you something fierce.”

“That's nice,” I said cautiously. “Broke?”

“I'm loaded. You need money?”

“No,” I said and didn't know what to say. She looked like Marion but sounded like a stranger. “You—eh—look like you've missed a lot of shut-eye. Bottle stuff?”

“Doing research on some old pre-war papers, reading myself blind. Ken, really, seeing you is a—a kick.”

“Well. Want to go up to my room?”

“No darling, no hurry for that. Every time we've talked it's been in bed. I've been waiting to take a day off till I saw you. I want us to sit here and sip drinks and watch the people pass and—oh, make all the small talk of normal people.”

“What were we before—subnormal?”

She smiled softly. “Ken, don't make fun of me. I'm feeling so—healthy—for now. And you're big and handsome in a rugged sort of way. And crazy, as it seems, I'm very much in love with you.”

I stared at her like a dope. “Okay, this is a dream and when does the alarm awake us?”

“Was I that bad? Ken, I hope our dream never explodes.”

I searched her eyes. They looked bloodshot but didn't have the watery glaze of a snowbird. “Okay, Marion, when do you slip in the sneak punch?”

She reached over and kissed me lightly on the cheek and either her perfume, or her own odor, left me all excited. But I still wasn't leaving myself open for a sucker punch. I tried to laugh it off by making a cornball play. “What happened,” I asked, “fall on your head?”

She laughed till she cried, worked a tiny handkerchief over her wet face. I felt like I'd said something terribly clever, except it was over my own head.

“Ken, don't you notice anything about me? Something different?”

“Got a new bag and shoes, and new stockings,” I said running a finger along her slender leg.

“Sold a piece to a travel mag in the States for a thousand bucks! Silly article about how honest Europeans are. Traveled all over and never had a thing stolen from my room, stuff like that.”

“Sell something more often; it does things to you.”

Marion shook her head. “That didn't snap me out of it. Ken, I'm excited. On a story that will be sensational, real dynamite. Lucked up on it by chance through a drunk that... Well, never mind how, but it's the kind of yarn will be reprinted on the front page of every newspaper in the world. May be too big for me, but I'm trying it.”

“What's it all about?” I asked politely.

“Can't tell you because I'm not sure of all my facts—yet. Oddly enough it's something in your line. When I have a final draft I'll let you read it before I mail it. Usually, when I get a couple of dollars ahead, I take it easy, but for the past two weeks I've been working harder than I ever did in my life—and I feel simply wonderful. Do I sound like an idiot?”

“Don't know what you sound like, but it's good, whatever it is.”

We sat there for a long time, getting a glow on and talking. I told her what happened in Oran, and about Nice. We even got her name straightened out. Her maiden name was Marion Severn, the name on her passport, but sometimes, to get rid of pests (although she swore I wasn't one) she used her married name, Marion Allen—which was why I had never been able to locate her.

It was great, sitting and making small talk with her, the drinks leaving us nicely warm. I felt just fine.

Along about noon, the sun came out and we walked along the banks of the Seine, kissing each other now and then. I didn't spoil things by asking her to my room—without asking her I knew we were both enjoying the sensation of wanting each other, a delicate teasing feeling that for the moment seemed sweeter than any physical satisfaction.

We had a lot of raw oysters and white wine for lunch, then dropped in to see a French movie, which I could just about follow. We kissed in the darkness like kids. Whoever thinks up the French movie shorts advertising various products must be all brains and zany humor. We laughed ourselves sick.

It was dark when we came out and we went from cafe to cafe, drinking all sorts of sweet aperitifs, making snide remarks to each other about the tourists we saw. We were both a little drunk and hungry as hell, so we knocked off a tremendous amount of snails and mussels and two bottles of wine, then steak and potatoes and Marion quit but I ate cheese cake till it seemed to be coming out of my ears.

We walked this down and then took a long cab ride and necked like teen-agers and I guess we were both a little nuts, sure I was, because when we finally got out of the cab and sat in a cafe on the Montparnasse, I asked her to marry me. “We can either try it in the States, or stay here. With Gonnet as my partner I can start a stable of pugs. Already got one who...”

She said gently, “Thanks for asking me but... no.”

“Look, skip the thanks; I'm not playing games. It's no good being lonely... I want to marry you.”

“Ken, I know what it means to be alone. But it wouldn't work. I've had these—good spells before. Never like this but... well, sooner or later, I revert to my old sweet self.”

“I'll chance that.”

“Ken, I can't chance it. The way I feel about you now... if I ever messed that up I don't know what I'd do.”

“What can we lose by trying? It goes sour—we get a divorce.” And I kept thinking this was what I needed—with Marion I wouldn't be restless any more, I'd be able to unwind.

“If we try and it fails, we'll destroy ourselves.”

“Marion, stop slipping me the big words. This concerns nobody but us. We can work out our lives. Forget about marriage for a while—let's live together. We'll give it six months, then we either marry or we'll be glad to forget each other. Will you buy that?”

“Ken, you're going to make me cry. You've seen me at my worst, and you still want me?”

“Honey, I'm only thinking of from now on. There was a Marion Allen I knew, some jerk's wife who was only good for a quick wrestle in the sheets. I'm talking to a gal I just met today, Marion Severn. We're starting with a new deck. Will you try it for six months? For six weeks?”

“Let me think it over. I want to say yes, but—”

“Then, say yes.”

She shook her head, her eyes large and said, “Let me think it over, be sure. This is Tuesday. Let me finish my article. Saturday morning you come to my hotel and we'll breakfast and—darling, I'll know for sure. Are you buying that?”

“At once.” I pulled off the only ring I had, the one with the golden glove and the little ruby. “I want you to wear this—corny as it may sound.”

I slipped it on her left hand, where she'd wear a marriage band, and of course it was too big. I pounded each side of the ring against the table, bent it a little out of shape and it was tight enough to stay on.

She held it up to the light, said softly, “Ken, it's the most beautiful ring I ever had.”

Then we kissed so hard I knew I'd better leave her soon.

We taxied to her hotel, which was a small place that didn't go in for tourists, but seemed clean and warm. I kissed her again, in the lobby, said, “Won't see you again or call you till Saturday. Then I'll be over with my bag—ready to move in.”

“Maybe. I hope so, Ken. I have a large room with a double bed. Good night, dear.”

We kissed good night and for a moment we started up the stairs, only we both realized we didn't want that to influence Marion one way or the other. So we settled for a last little hot kiss and I walked out so full of pep I wanted to run all the way across town to the Left Bank.

On my way to the Metro I passed one of those public lottery wheels and I put thirty francs on 00 and won a one-tenth chance on the weekly lottery. I had a hunch it was a winning ticket, an omen for us.

I was up early Wednesday and went over to Bud's house. Tony was glad to see me and kept asking when Bud would return and did I want to do some roadwork with him.

I wasn't in any mood for getting up a sweat but I told the kid I'd be over at the gym in the afternoon. He said the French trainer was talking about an amateur card out at Mutalite next week and I said I'd look into it.

I snapped the leash on Ernest and decided to take him for a walk. We stopped at a cafe for chocolate and croissants and I put the poodle in a good mood by slipping him a couple hunks of sugar. We strolled across the Seine, then along the Rue de Rivoli, window shopping. I wanted to bring Marion a gift on Saturday. With the poodle and the cheap beret I was sporting, I must have looked French. A pouchy old American who looked exactly like a movie banker was standing on a corner, one of those tourist maps of Paris flying in the wind, and when I strolled by he stopped me, asked in his best how-to-speak-French-in-five-easy-lessons, “Par-done, monsieur. Eh—ou—eh—a Bastille?”

“Keep walking straight ahead, buddy, and you can't miss it. About fifteen blocks from here.”

He became one big grin. “I'll be spanked; you an American?”

“Want to see my passport?”

“No offense. I mean, I thought you was too big to be a Frog. I'm from Nevada.”

I didn't say anything, I was in too good a mood to listen to his wind. He kept smiling, like I was a wonder of the world, said, “Doing the town with the missus, but she's tuckered out, sleeping right now. Well, just keep walking and I'll hit the Bastille?”

“Yeah. See a Metro stop called Bastille, and that's it. Send the folks back in Nevada cards and have fun.” I turned down a side street till he was out of sight, then returned to the Rue de Rivoli and looked at the shops. I could see Nevada ahead of me, peering at every subway station he passed. As we neared the Bastille he kept slowing down and finally I overtook him, said, “See that Metro station down the block? That's Bastille.”

“Read about it when I was a kid in school, and in these historical novels. Famous prison where they took the kings and all that.” He looked around. “Where is it?”

“That tall monument in the center of the circle where the streets meet—that's where it stood.”

He pushed back his cap and his thin white hair was plastered on a skull of pale skin. He stared at me as though I was lying. “You mean I did all this walking and they've torn the lousy thing down?”

I wondered if he was kidding me. “Maybe they didn't know you were coming a hundred and twenty years ago?” I said.

“So that's all there is to it?” He was sweating a little and he mopped his face with a large blue handkerchief. “I need a shot. Care for a drink—on me?”

“Thanks, but I have to take the mutt home. Good—”

“Been in Paris long?”

“Few months.” I wanted to get rid of him. I wasn't on any guide kick at the moment.

“Long time. We got here yesterday, leaving for Cannes in the morning. Be back in the States in three weeks. Matter of fact, this is the first free time I've had. Got a tour, every hour planned. Going back to the States soon?”

“Don't expect to.”

He pulled out a leather cigar case, offered me one. “Real Havana. Damn French cigars are awful. You married?”

I said no and took a cigar for Jack. Nevada chewed on his rope for a moment, then lit it. I stuck mine in my pocket, told him, “Save it for later.”

“So you been in gay Paree all this time. Wonderful city, for a young man.”

“It'll do.” I shouldn't have taken the rope, now I was stuck with him.

He stunk up the air with a cloud of smoke. “Sure you don't want a drink?”

“No, I have to go...”

“We saw the Follies last night. Wife near went through the seat when all them bare titties was shown. Don't have to ask if you've been good—impossible over here.” A big sloppy wink went with this crack.

“Haven't touched a French girl,” I told him, and it was the truth.

“Come on, might as well sit and have a few shots instead of...” He gave me a long suspicious look. “All these months you haven't... Say, you're too big and ugly to be one of those...”

I took the opening. “What's wrong with that, peaches?” I pinched his cheek—hard.

He gave me a horrified glance and fled, his cigar puffing like an exhaust pipe. Now he'd have something to tell the lads back in Nevada—although I don't know what would cause any eyebrow-raising in places like Las Vegas or Reno.

Ernest and I walked back to the Tuilleries and sat on a bench and watched the rich kids playing in the park, wearing little white gloves, maids hovering about. There was a pond for sailing toy boats and an elderly woman who rented them out. For sixty francs I got a neat little schooner and sailed it up and down the pond while Ernest barked like crazy and people stared at me as if I was an overgrown clown. I finally gave up and walked the mutt back to Bud's.

Tony was cooking some eggs and I sent him out for more and a bottle of cider and we ate and then he went to sleep. It was funny how hard he was trying to be like Bud. I read some old magazines and listened to jazz on the radio.

Radio listening is a joy in France—they don't have any commercials. (Except Radio Monte Carlo, and Monaco is the country of the fast hustle.) You pay a tax of 1200 francs a year, less than four bucks, and brother, it's worth double that.

Tony and I went to the gym and the kid worked out on the heavy and light bags and the tin-eared trainer said Tony was ready for a bout, that he'd been sparring a lot while we were away. When I told him to enter the kid in the amateurs next week, Tony almost blew his top with excitement, then worried whether Bud would be back in time.

I was called to the phone. Freddy was excited too. “Ken, lucky you are at the gym. Great news! I come home this morning there is waiting a telegram and I accepted at once.”

“Slow down. Accepted what?”

“Eighteen hundred dollars—all American green—for Bud to fight in Milan! How you like that?”

“Why all the dough and when do we fight?” I asked, my mind already in Italy. Milan is only fifty miles away from Acosta—from Gina.

“Why all the money I do not know, except they want Stewart badly. We get it in advance, too. He's to fight Massimo, the champion of Italy, a slow fighter, and we have three weeks.”

“That's a good deal. You know where Bud is, when he'll be home?”

“I have phoned some people in Marseilles, they will get in touch with him at once. By the end of this week we should have the money.”

“You're on the ball,” I said solemnly, which was about the highest praise you could give a joker like Gonnet.

I hung up and told Tony Bud was coming back and the kid asked, “He returns just to see me fight?”

“That's it.” Might as well make him feel good. I was walking on air myself—everything was working out. Marion and me, this big break, and Marion or no Marion, I was excited at the prospect of seeing Gina again. Okay, it didn't make sense, but that's how I felt.

I had supper with Tony and wanted to take him to a movie but he told me, “No, I must return and get my sleep for next week.”

I grinned. “Okay, and don't worry too much about next week—it's only three rounds and lose or win it won't be a big deal.”

“I must win!”

“You will; don't worry about it.”

I walked around the various cafes, trying to find Jack, and finally went to a movie. When I got back to my room I turned on the radio and read the papers. At midnight they announced the lottery numbers and damn if my ticket hadn't hit. I didn't get the big prize, but one tenth of 30,000 francs, or about ten bucks. Still it was an omen that things were finally breaking.

I went to sleep a happy man woke up in the middle of the night, sweating like a pig. Never figure dreams—I fell asleep thinking of Marion and dreamed of Gina, of her brother Hermano, of the blood running out of his bullet-torn body. It was a nightmare I had almost every night right after the war. I hadn't dreamed of that in years now, and I lit my pipe and stared at the darkness and wondered why that had suddenly popped into my mind.

In the morning I went to the nearest lottery stand and exchanged my ticket for francs, and the one-armed vet running the stand made some crack about “lucky Americans.” I wanted to phone Marion tell her about this lucky sign, but we had agreed I wasn't to call or see her till Saturday.

When I got back to my room and started to shave, the old lady called me from her bedroom. I didn't even know she was home. She was in bed and the room had a stale odor to it. She said she had a cold and screamed at me not to open the window. She wanted some medicine, a tonic. I went out and got her tonic and also some rum and a lot of lemons and fixed her a hot toddy which put her right to sleep.

I knocked off a stiff slug of rum myself, for no reason. After I bathed and shaved, I walked over to the Opera section and bought the airmail edition of yesterday's New York Times, found a quiet cafe, ordered some cafe espresso and started reading the sports news, then the rest of the paper. I was reading the words but all the time I kept thinking what a time Marion and I would have when I saw her the day after tomorrow.

But I didn't have to wait till Saturday, I saw her two hours later.

A Frenchman with a scarf so tight around his neck it should have choked him, came in for his afternoon Pernod and sat at the table next to me with a late paper. I glanced at the headlines and almost knocked him off his chair as I yanked the paper out of his hands, tearing it.

Marion's picture was there—all over the front page—a strange picture: she seemed to be sleeping with her eyes wide open. The headline shouted that an American woman had been found dead in Monceau Park that morning.

Lying on a hideous stone slab in the Paris morgue. Her left breast —and her heart—had been shattered by two shots fired at close range.

I don't even remember getting from the cafe to the police station to the morgue. The cop with me said it had been a Spanish automatic with a silencer. The cop talked a lot, but the sight of this bloody mess of flesh that had been my girl made me so sick I didn't hear much of what he said. I took one fast look, stumbled away, and managed to get outside before I puked like a pig.

THE SMALL GUY in brown tweeds was something in the American Embassy not the top guy, but high up. The other one with the crew-cut hair and the shoulders that made him look like a college halfback was FBI. Maybe not. I was too mad and rattled to get names and titles straight.

For three days the French police had given me a run-around, and if you think we have red tape in the States, the French can give us lessons in stalling. When I first went to them to see the body, asked whether, they'd found my ring or not, they were polite, very interested—and it all ended with their carefully checking my alibi, trying to grill me. Marion had been killed before noon, and fortunately it was then I went out to buy rum and fix a hot toddy for my landlady. If I hadn't had her to back me up, they'd probably still be sweating me.

When I finally convinced them I wasn't a suspect, they thanked me for my trouble, told me they were old hands at solving murder cases and pretty good at it. In time they would most certainly catch the killer or killers and it was best for me to go about my business and wait till they called me—if they needed me.

I wasn't buying a brush-off, so I went to the Embassy.

The tweedy character was saying, “You must realize one important factor—this case is in the hands of the French police. Just as if a French woman was murdered in—say, Baltimore—the case would be first and last in the lap of the Baltimore police. Of course, since Miss Severn was an American citizen, we co-operate with the police in every way. But we must give them time; it's only been three days since the killing of Miss—”

“Three days or three months, the thing is they won't listen to me,” I cut in. “They're off on the wrong trail. Marion told me she was working on a terrific yarn, front-page stuff. It was the sort of thing she probably didn't tell anybody else. I'm sure that was the cause of her—her—death. Then, there's my ring. That's disappeared. It should be a big clue.”

The FBI joker gave me a superior smile. “Yes, it should be. Mr. Francine, solving a murder, the movies to the contrary, is no work for amateurs. The Paris police know their business.”

“Damn it, then why do they act like I'm stuffing them with lies!” I said, the tight feeling inside me making me dizzy with the desire to get into action—do something besides talk.

“Because this front page story angle of yours may be true, or...”

“It is true—I know!”

He held up a big paw and smiled again—his teeth crowding his silly mouth. “Francine, you were a close friend of Miss Severn, so you can't have the objective approach the police have. You say she was on a big story—it's possible she only thought she had a real yarn. Then again, she may have said it to impress you. The fact is...”

“Stop rattling your paper head—why would she have to impress me?”

“You were—uh—-practically engaged, you say.”

“You think I was nuts about her because she could bat out words on a typewriter?” I asked, my guts starting to boil again. “I never even read a damn thing she wrote.”

He gave me that cold grin again, like a patient school teacher soft-soaping the class dunce. “Look at the facts: Miss Severn was a free-lance writer of fashion articles, light travel items. Hardly consider her a real reporter, so we can assume she wasn't in the position of stumbling on front-page news, international incidents. As it happens, we know something about Miss Severn, she was a—” He spread his big hands in the air. “I suppose fast living would be the most graceful way of putting it. A pretty woman who—”

“That was her own business! What the hell has that to do with her being shot?” I shouted.

“There's always a simple motive behind murder. She probably had a run-in with a boy friend, a jealous ex-lover, and he shot her. Or, maybe she was the jealous one, threatening a departing boy friend with...”

“You stupid bastard, that's what I'm trying to tell you and these knuckleheaded French coppers—-she was done with all that way of living! She was off the sex kick, but you crumbs keep taking the easy and obvious way out, like clucks that can't see!”

The Embassy man said, “Please, Mr. Francine, we'll get at the facts only if we act calmly.”

FBI was red in the face as he said, “I must warn you I am an American officer of the law and you are on American territory, and—”

“So what?”

“Watch your big mouth!” he snapped.

“Keep talking like you are about Marion and I'll wait outside the Embassy gates and knock those big teeth down your damp throat!”

He stepped toward me—but not all the way. “Think you can do that?”

“Don't you?” I asked, watching his hands. Tweedy said loudly, “Gentlemen, this is merely sidetracking us. Mr. Francine, I realize you have a personal interest in this, quite naturally you're upset. But you must also realize that acting like a child with a chip on his shoulder isn't helping matters. The police must consider all possibilities, even that of jealousy. I suggest we stop the bravado, get down to cases. You're positive Miss Severn was working on a big story, that she was also wearing a ring of yours—a ring with a golden boxing glove and a ruby?”

“That's it,” I said, all my anger turning into a tired feeling. Busting J. Edgar jerk on his crockery would be a detour from my job—finding who killed Marion. “She told me it would be reprinted on the front page of every big paper in the world.” I didn't tell them about her saying it was something in my line—that didn't even make sense to me.

“Now, you've told the Paris police all this,” he went on. “I have learned from them that the ring has not been found—either in the park or her hotel room. They're checking the pawn shops and—”

“She had money, just sold an article for a grand.”

“We know she was at the American Express the day before she was killed,” the FBI guy cut in, “asking for a government check she expected. I suppose you know her husband died several years ago in New York and she was living off his GI insurance policy, and some other money he left her?”

“I didn't know that. She said she was divorced.”

“They were merely separated at the time of his death. He fell under a subway. Probably a suicide.”

“What's that got to do with this?” Yet I wondered why she hadn't told me this. Maybe she would have, never got around to it.

“Merely, a fact on her background,” the Embassy man chimed in. “Now that ring—to me it's the real clue. You say inside the ring the words 'open heavy champ, 1941,' were engraved?”—“Yeah.”

“We don't have to pressure the French police; murder is fairly uncommon here, and the papers have been playing up the fact that Miss Severn was an American. Needless to say the police will make every effort to solve this. They may seem slow, but as one who has had dealings with them, I can assure you they are most thorough.”

“But the story she was on—that's a bigger clue than the ring. That's the key to everything.”

The FBI man said, his voice cold and dull again, “That will be investigated. The police know she had been reading pre-war papers in the library, but frankly it doesn't give us much to go on. For one thing, where is the story? Not even a carbon copy, or any notes were found in her bag, in her room.”

“If she was killed because of the story, they'd take it, and not leave any copies.”

He shook his head. “Words like big story, front page, sensational—they can mean many things. To a fashion writer, for example, it could mean something about French high style being copied from a two-bit dress house on Seventh Avenue. A gossip columnist would call Rita Hayworth's being pregnant a big yarn.”

“I know, but from the way she talked, this wasn't just a travel or fashion article.”

“I don't rule that out. Although highly improbable, Miss Severn may have stumbled on a plot to kill an important diplomat, or something about atomic secrets. The police will sift all the facts. Even the smallest clue will be gone into. Police work is actually very tedious and boring. I recall a case that—”

“Spare me the lecture, Mac,” I said, turning to go. “Guess you're doing what you can.”

FBI said, “By the way, Francine, the police are interested in what you're doing in Paris.”

“I'm a tourist; still got part of my ninety days left before I need an identity card. And I have my passport, so forget me and stick to Marion.”

The Embassy man said, “I understand you were in this building about two months ago, stated you were stranded. How have you been getting along since then?”

“This an official question?”

He shook his head. “Let's call it just official curiosity.”

“My Aunt Tissy sends me a CARE package every week. That answer it?”

“Yes,” he said stiffly.

I walked up the Champs Elysees feeling lonely and lost, too mean and nasty to live. I was mad at the world and madder at myself. It was dumb blowing off back there in the Embassy. To them Marion was merely another file, a routine matter. And who the hell was I to say the other angles were out—that she hadn't been on a bat again? After all, she could get a man angry—I'd hit her myself.

My brain had been spinning like a top ever since I'd seen her body. All I knew for certain was that everybody—including me—was guessing. There wasn't any action going on.

When I reached the Arc de Triomphe, I headed over toward Clichy' and walking by Monceau Park gave me an eerie feeling. A little crowd was pointing to the spot where Marion's corpse had been found, staring at the ground with awe, speaking in morbid whispers. I joined them, glanced around, wondering if whoever had pulled the trigger was in the park now, or watching from one of the lush apartment houses across the street.

From the blood on the ground, the police were sure she'd been shot in the park, but around noon the place was usually full with people getting some air during their lunch hour, even school kids. One thing made sense: if Marion was seeing a man, they weren't meeting in a crowded park to make love. But then, you don't kill with a lot of people about either, even with a silencer unless you have to.

I kept on walking along the Boulevard de Courcelles till I reached Place Clichy and could see her hotel. I stood there for a moment, knowing I'd probably retraced Marion's steps... and all of a sudden that seemed important. You don't kill in a crowded park unless you have to!

Suppose she'd been working hard all morning and went for a walk? Courcelles is a wide street with trees, and the other streets spread-eagling out from Place Clichy are narrow and crowded. So she walked down Courcelles till she reached the park, stopped to rest. That was the only reason she'd be in the park that added up—nobody goes into a crowded park full of people at high noon to do anything crooked or secretive. Marion was out for a stroll when she was killed, and to me that meant only one thing—she had been followed. If she were being tailed, then it would only mean it was damn important for somebody to get her out of the way. The killer or killers couldn't chance getting her alone again; as far as they were concerned, this had to be it.

Okay, a lover's quarrel and all the other crap the cops were handing me was out—a jealous boy friend would wait for a better opportunity to kill. No, this could only mean one answer: she had uncovered something so big she had to be killed as fast as possible to quiet her.

Standing there and figuring that out gave me a glow—-told me I'd been right all along. Only how could I prove it? It was odd the cops couldn't find any notes or anything in Marion's room. But she'd been cagey about telling even me what the story was, so she may have had all her material on her. That would be what the killer wanted badly enough to risk shooting her in a crowded park. It all boiled down to the story once more. Something in my line, she'd said. But what could be big about boxing? Or did Marion think I was in something else—black market, the rackets?

I got a little brain-punchy. All my great deductions made me sure I was on the right track, but didn't add up to anything I could prove.

For a moment I started towards her hotel, thinking I might question the clerk and maids there. But I turned back and walked up towards Pigalle. FBI was right, my playing amateur dick could ball things up. The police had questioned everybody better than I could. Only way I could help was to work angles the cop didn't know.

And I had one angle I was going to squeeze dry—Gonnet.

He was talking to a couple of shifty characters in his office. When I busted in he said, “Ah, Ken, I have good news. Thought I'd see you in the gym today. The Italians have sent the money for the fight.”

He pulled a thick wad of ten-buck bills out of his breast pocket, counted out our share while the characters stared at the green with hungry eyes. I recounted our share, jammed it in my pocket, told him to clear the office. Freddy kept on chattering with these jokers about some cafe and wine deal and I barked, “Come on, I'm in a rush!”

Gonnet let me have a nervous look and the others slipped me assorted suspicious stares, then left. Freddy said, “You shouldn't have done that, Ken. I'm a big guy to them.”

I sat on his desk, told him, “This is very important. Read about the American woman being killed—Marion Severn?”

He nodded.

“I want to know who did it.”

Gonnet's hard little eyes studied me, then he took a brush out of his top drawer, gave his sleek hair a going-over. “She in the rackets?”

“No. Don't think so.”

Freddy kept brushing his hair.

I said, “Maybe a holdup, a mugging, or—”

“What means this mugging?”

“Petty robbery. Put out feelers, see what you can find.” He kept brushing his hair and I reached over and mussed it up. Texas would have been proud of his noggin—there was that much oil. I cleaned my hands on a sheet of paper and he stared at me with angry eyes and for a second I thought he was going to try something. I almost wanted him to—slugging a guy would quiet my nerves.

He sat there, his hair sticking up like a rooster's, asked, “Why you do that? I don't like people play with my hair.”

“I want to get the idea that this is damn important through the layers of oil you're sporting.”

“How would I know who—?”

“Slice that elsewhere,” I snapped, wondering why he was stalling. “Freddy, ask around—and fast.”

“I try, but very difficult.”

“What you making such a big rugged deal out of asking about?”

He dropped the brush on his desk, took out a cigarette. I knocked it out of his hand and he jumped to his feet. For a second I was going to smack him, but that would be a sucker play.

We stared at each other like kids in a street fight, then he said softly, “Ken, for you, this very personal, very important?”

“That's the idea... bang-bang important.”

He shrugged, sat down again, started to pick up his cigarette but let it go. He said, “I don't like be pushed around. I play square with you, like you say, level all the way. Just now I give you big dough—lousy peanuts for me. No need to rough me up. I hesitate because asking around always get back to the police, and then they take an interest in me. Murder is a most serious thing in France.”

“It isn't a game of potsy in the States, either.”

He smiled as though I'd told a joke. Then his eyes narrowed and he said, “I read about this murder—it's not the work of a punk. No money or jewels stolen, she even have passport in bag when police find body. I think maybe killing of crazy guy. That impossible for me to learn.”

“All I'm asking is for you to keep your ears open, so I can rule out the thug possibility. I want to know if Vince Magano has been in Paris recently.”

“You think Magano...”

“Don't think anything, just want to find out!”

“You call me tomorrow, in the morning. Now you happy?”

“Yeah.” At the door I stopped, went back and put the brush in his hand. “Sorry I blew up. I'm jumpy today.”

“She your girl?”

“Was. She was a plump scared kid who wore sexy garters when she was fourteen.”

Gonnet pressed my hand, his eyes sad, as though he knew what I was saying. “Tragedy always has a bitter taste.”

“Guess so. Call you in the morning.”

As I turned to go he asked, “Ken, you in a jam?”

“Me?”

“Maybe you get mad, blow top with this girl, and bang-bang. Maybe now you look for... how you say—fall guy?”

“Look Freddy, all I want is to kill the bastard who shot her,” I said as slowly and calmly as I could, then walked out. Freddy went back to brushing his oily mop.

I walked toward the Left Bank, with nearly sixteen hundred American greens in my pocket, several hundred more in my money belt. Bud was due home today and Tony was fighting tonight. I stopped at a bar and called up the railroad station to find out when the trains from Marseilles came in, but after a couple of attempts at getting the number, I gave up.

When I got to their house, Tony was running to the store, shouted they were back. Paquita was unpacking, said Bud was out airing Ernest and buying supper. She seemed very gay and showed me pictures of her folks. She'd come a long way—the hovel in the snaps she called home was pretty bad. I wanted to talk to her, tell her what happened.

Taking her hand I looked into those wonderful eyes and didn't know how to begin and then I did something crazy—I kissed her hand and walked over to the dish cabinet, got out a bottle of rum and poured myself a stiff shot. Paquita came over and stroked my face, asked, “Ken, you in trouble?”

I was sitting in a chair and she was standing behind me and her hands felt so soothing, I knew in a minute I'd make a damn fool of myself, maybe start crying or something. The one thing I wanted most in the world at that moment was to have a little apartment, have Marion standing behind me, stroking my face. Or have a Paquita really give a damn about me. I held on to her hand for a moment and she asked, “What is wrong?”

I didn't want to slobber, so I said harshly, “Nothing,” and pushed her hand away. “Your folks like Bud?”

She walked away, returned to her unpacking. “They were most pleased. They were overjoyed with the money and presents we brought. Ever since my poppa was a little boy he has been trying to buy some land. Bud bought an acre for him—30,000 francs. You can see how happy my poppa was.”

“I'm glad somebody is happy these days.”

“Ken, you sick?”

“Maybe a little sick of myself, of—”

I heard Bud's quick steps, then he came in and Ernest jumped all over me and Bud said, “What's this Italian fight deal, Ken?”

I counted out his share, over $1100, and Paquita squeezed the money gently, said, “My God, much money! Soon we have enough for business.”

Bud sat down and shook his head. “I must be a card there... odd they should pay so much, and in front too.”

I said it was cockeyed but the hell with it, and Bud said we'd start training in the morning, that Tony was nervous about his bout. He and Paquita kept on chattering about the money and I poured myself a second drink and Ernest stuck his head in my lap and I stroked the woolly hair and drank without listening to them. Tony came in and there was more talk when he saw the dough. Bud and I gave him a few bucks each and the kid began talking about when he'd be a pro and earning a big payday. Bud and Paquita got into a mild argument as to whether they should buy a hotel near Paris or in the south of France.

I had another drink and felt lousy. They were all making plans—my future was foggy, if there was a future. With the dough I had, Marion's roll, we could have rented a small villa around Antibes or Juan les Pins, away from the tourist stink, do a lot of rowing and fishing, relax and live for a while,... till we were fed up. Then we'd head for Paris, maybe New York... maybe. Two hunks of lead tearing through Marion's body had ended that dream—all dreams.

Look around all your life for the girl and when you want to see if it's Marion, a gun and a guy—or guys—you never heard of, shoot up all your plans and hopes, shoot everything you want into a corpse in the morgue they say is your girl.

I took another drink. But was Marion my girl? Why hadn't she told me her husband was dead and... What difference did it all make now?

Bud sat down opposite me and Ernest jumped in his lap. Bud asked, “What's ticking with you?”

“Me? The world's all strawberry shortcake for me—the sun rises and sets in my little derriere, so what have I to kick about?”

“I can see that, the way you're hitting the bottle. And your eyes look like they were bottled. What's wrong?”

I told him about Marion and talking about it seemed to release some of the tightness inside me. They stared at me, sorrow in their eyes, and finally Bud said, “Rugged. Read about it in the papers but of course never knew she was your girl. You say this Marion said 'something in your line.' What's that mean—boxing?”

“Got me. Been racking my alleged brains over it. Marion didn't know a ring post from her elbow.”

“It's politics,” Paquita said. “You will see.”

“Oh, for—don't start on that. Marion wasn't interested in any mess like that.”

“Why you so positive? What was this girl interested in?” Paquita asked.

“I don't know—herself mostly,” I said, and it hurt to realize how little I did know about her. Already in my mind she was getting hazy... like Gina was hazy in the back of my head.

“You say this girl interested in what papers say about Italy and Germany before the war, no? Why only these two countries? They both fascist... maybe she come across something big, like Hitler still alive...get killed for knowing that.”

“How does that tie in with something I know about?” I asked. “What was Hitler, a welterweight?”

Bud yawned. “Your line is boxing, and the only thing missing—outside of her notes—was your Golden Glove ring. But what could be so important about boxing, a boxing story, that would make for murder?”

“I liked that ring,” Tony said. “Maybe I go to the States some day, win Golden Gloves.”

Paquita announced, “For me, I still think it's politics.”

I stood up. All this talk made me feel worse. “I'll amble on. See you at the arena round eight.”

“Have supper with us, then we'll go together?” Bud suggested.

“I want to walk around.”

“You see, I win tonight,” Tony told me.

“Yeah. Just don't get nervous and you're in.” I went out and walked around like a stray dog and I walked into Jack and he was in the dumps. “Friend, misfortune has kicked me in the pants.”

“You too?”

“A streak of madness hit me and I cleaned up my room—accidentally tossed out three chapters of my book. I don't know if it was an accident, or my subconscious. Anyway, I need a drink.”

“You met the right joker.”

“My check didn't come yet; I'm busted.”

I took out my wad, counted it. I had exactly seven hundred bucks in dollars and another couple hundred bucks in francs. Jack kissed the money, said, “Friend, you are a friend!”

We walked—from bar to bar. I got a stupid silent drunk on while Jack went on a roaring drunk. I vaguely remembered we set up rules, in one bar we drank only rum, in the next only apple brandy, in the next cognac. I dimly recalled going to a John and getting scared—the toilet bowl seemed to be at the end of a long narrow room, and off center. The bowl itself was decorated with a kind of blue tattooing, like the Delft china you see in Holland. The whole thing made me feel like I'd been dropped into a surrealist painting and gave me a weird feeling that sobered me up a little—enough to keep from passing out. Somewhere in the picture I remembered seeing Tony.

The next thing I knew for real was Bud bending over me. I opened my eyes, which seemed to be quite a trick, and. Bud seemed very dark and shaky. “What's the matter?” I asked.

“It's eight o'clock. Going on the road?”

“My heads are on the road now—all nine of them.” I sat up and swallowed the cotton taste in my mouth. I was still fully clothed, and as far as I could make out in my own room.

Bud's voice came from afar. “I'll run alone. Think you can sober up enough to spar? Haven't much time to get in shape.”

“Yeah.” My voice sounded so shrill the very sound nearly cracked my head open. “Sure. I'll... I'll... be at the gym...later.”

There was a buzzing sound in the room that seemed a different tone from the bees stinging my brain. Bud asked, “Where were you last night? Tony was upset because you missed his bout. He won by a kayo in the second.”

“W-wonderful.”

“Ken, sure you're straight?”

I nodded and my head came off. After a long time I opened my eyes again and Bud was gone. I held my head in my mitts for a long time, till the bees and bells quieted down, although that damn buzzing was louder. When I looked at the window the sun seemed to blind me.

I tried standing, opened my tie, threw off my overcoat and slowly stumbled to the can. I gave up and felt better. The inside of my dome was quiet. I washed out my mouth with cold water, let the water run over my wrists and was okay. I felt for my money belt and it seemed thin. Tearing it open I saw I'd been rolled!

I ran—or tried to run—back to my room and went through all my pockets... and sat on the bed. The buzzing was loud again. A clear thought was trying to fight through the fog in my head—I was broke, jobbed out of nine hundred bucks!

The room was very still except for that damn buzzing. It came from under the bed. I got down on my knees—very slowly—as if my head was made of old egg-shell that would crumble any second—and there was Jack under the bed, snoring like a windmill. Reaching under the bed, I shook him and after a moment he sat up and banged his head on the springs, moaned, “Oh... God!” and fell back on the floor, hitting his head a second time.

I straightened up, suddenly felt terribly tired and made it to the bed and fell into a deep sleep.

When I got my eyes open again the light was on and Jack was standing in the center of the room—buck naked—drying himself with my one bath towel. He was humming a song and looking at himself in the mirror, proudly examining some cuts on his forehead.

Sitting up wasn't the ordeal I expected. Jack said, “Hello, friend. Glad you moved; I thought you were dead. Man, we tied on a big one last night. That rum is a bitch of a drink.”

“I was rolled—nine hundred bucks.”

“What's money? I don't remember any fight, but look at my head.”

“You hit your head against the springs.” I sat on the edge of the bed. Jack was still humming. “You seem pretty damn cheerful.”

He winked. “I'm sober. Water does the trick, friend. Nature's greatest gift to mankind. Best thing for your system—when it's on the outside of your body.”

“Aw, shut up.”

“Fact. French are smart. They don't have hot water because they know a cold bath will either cure or kill you. You know, I'm glad I lost part of my manuscript, make me rewrite k now. Always knew...”

“Damn it, you have any idea where we were? I want to get my dough back.”

“I know exactly where your money is, friend, so relax.”

Jack went on drying himself and after what seemed an hour and probably was a few minutes, I said, “Jack, I'm in an ugly mood and when I'm ugly I got to hit...”

“Primitive, very primitive.”

“Damn it, where's my dough!”

“Tony has it—I think. Kid met up with us and bawled you out about something and took your dough. For safekeeping. Excellent idea, too.”

“Hope so,” I said, feeling better all at once. Although with nine hundred bucks Tony could be on his way to Algiers by now.

Jack was off again on some sophomoric chatter about the value of beards. I went to the bathroom and it was a mess. After washing my teeth, I stuck my head under the faucet, and banged it and myself wide awake trying to straighten up. I got a mop and started to clean up the room when the old woman came home and took over.

She seemed to understand exactly what had happened. It suddenly came to me that it must be seven p.m. if she was home. Back in the room I looked at my watch. It was 7:27. I felt lousy about missing working out with Bud—or as lousy as I could feel with a hangover.

I had a bottle of cider on the window sill and Jack and I finished that and I still felt awful. I said, “Come on, let's find Tony. Must be over at Bud's.”

“Great idea. Seeing Paquita is always a morale booster for me.”

We went out and I was weak with hunger. I went into a bakery and got a loaf of bread, gave Jack half and we walked and ate and Jack, who was still in high spirits, said, “That girl you were crying about in your rum last night, or maybe if was in your Calvados, I'm going to put her in my book—when I rewrite it. If you don't mind.”

“The way I feel, I couldn't care less.”

“She sounds wonderful. The type of girl every chum is looking for and never finds.”

I said, “Maybe that's what she became—the kind you never find. I mean, when she got that way she was too good to live.”

Talking and thinking was tough work. I finished the bread, I added, “Can't say I didn't play it according to Hoyle: lost Marion and got drunk—like they do in the movies. Only the bottle doesn't solve a damn thing.”

“No, but it eases things, friend.”

“I'll give you an ending for your chapter on Marion when I find the killer.”

Jack laughed at me. “Ken, I'm talking about the other gal you were slopping over. The Italian one—Gina.”

I was completely confused. I couldn't even recall thinking of Gina lately. And why should I think of her flow, when my mind was full of Marion?

Before we got to Bud's, I went into a bar and called Gonnet. He said, “I ask everybody. Nothing.”

“You sure?”

“I asked plenty. Nothing—not the work of punks.”

“All right. Thanks.”

“About Italy, I will not be able to go with you and Bud. My middleweights are set for Norway—both fighting a brace of bums the same night.”

“I'll tell Bud.”

“Already told him. He was working out at the gym today. Seemed unhappy.”

Jack and I barged into Bud's. He and Paquita and Tony were eating couscous; a grits and bean dish that's filling. I apologized to Bud for not being at the gym and Paquita told us to pull up a chair.

We all ate in silence for a while and when Tony started collecting the dishes, I followed him into the bathroom-kitchen and he said, “You didn't see me fight last night?”

“You know I was drunk. I'm sorry. And glad you won.”

“I fight next week. In first round I was stiff with fright, but when I open up in the second...”

“Tony, where's my dough?”

“I give it to you in a minute.”

“Get it now.”

“What's the matter, you don't trust me?” he asked sullenly, and went out to the coat rack and pulled a paper bag out of his pocket like it was candy. He gave it to me and said, “Now you will count it.”

“Damn right.” I counted the bills: it was all there except for the few bucks we spent the night before.

“You think I rob you?”

“Look Tony, you're a nice kid—but only a kid. Never play around with anybody's money. It isn't anything to fool with.”

“You think I rolled you?”

I said slowly, “I thought I was rolled. When Jack said you had the dough, I felt better. Now forget it.”

“You lousy man,” Tony said, in English, and started washing the dishes. I wasn't in any mood to start figuring out a kid.

In the other room Jack and Paquita were bulling each other about folk music and Bud was playing with Ernest and listening to the radio. Bud was sore. I sat down opposite him, said, “Don't give me no sermon. I got potted and what about it?”

“I don't mind today, but...”

“You don't mind? Who the hell are you, my jailer?”

“Ken, I know this must be rugged on you, but acting like a child, all this drunk act—that isn't helping anything. And I need you. This fight is important to me. One more bout and I'll be at the three grand mark. I don't want to get sloppy and get hurt now. Screwing me isn't going to find Marion's killers.”

“Okay, okay. I'll be on the road with you in the morning. Anything else on your mind?”

“Nope. Anything on your mind?”

“No.”

We sat there for a while and Paquita went in to see how Tony was making out, then came over and lit a cigarette, sat in Bud's lap and kissed him. Bud pushed her away, said, “Cut that out; you know I'm in training.”

“I hate it when you're training,” she said, sticking her tongue in his ear. Bud jumped—almost knocking her off his lap. But he grinned as he said, “Now stop it.”

Jack was watching this love-play with envious eyes and Paquita got up and walked back to the kitchen, her hips swinging, her breasts higher than ever—or maybe it was my imagination. She turned and said something in Spanish that made Bud chuckle and Jack blush.

I had about all the domestic happiness I could stomach, so I took a powder. Jack left with me and he was in the dumps now. We stopped at a bar and I had a beer to taper off and he put the bite on me for a thousand francs and I left him as he started to get drunk again.

Having slept all day, I didn't feel tired. I walked to the Seine, watched the river for a long time. On the path below me several couples were kissing. I walked over to the Opera, which was dark and empty. I felt lonely. I walked on and found myself in Rue de Provence, which used to be a street full of better brothels, before the French closed down the houses to please American morals, putting on a blue-nose mask for ECA money.

A few girls were out peddling and I thought maybe this was what I needed. I stopped the nearest one and she asked, “American? Want good time, Joe?”

“English, old girl,” I said, feeling like a cheap jerk as I had plenty of dough. “What will the bloody tariff be?”

“Anglais,” she repeated, voice heavy with disappointment. Although Rue de Provence catered mainly to Frenchmen, like elsewhere in Paris, there was a special price for Americans—whatever the traffic would bear; another for English, who were only allowed to take forty pounds out of England; and of course a Frenchman paid half of what it cost the English. She said in English, “Fifteen hundred francs. You have wonderful time.”

I nodded and we headed for this shabby hotel. She was in a hurry, even walked fast. I guess that did it, told me this was all a mistake. When they try to slip a Frenchman “le petit moment,” the rush act, he laughs at them, says, “Relax, I'll be buying you coffee in the morning.”

I paid the hotel clerk three hundred francs, plus a service tip, and the girl almost ran up the steps. I wasn't walking fast enough; when she grabbed my arm she said, “Ah, tres bort, big mus-cells. I like strong man.” She gave me a little hard smile.

The room looked like what it was: a worn room used just for this. And the girl had a worn, weary look about her, the bored air of one who has gone through the same routine too often.

She slipped off her coat with a mechanical smile. I leaned against the door and she started to unbutton her dress, then stopped, asked, “George, why you no take off coat?”

She came over and gave me what was supposed to be a big hug. I was about to tell her it was all off, when she cried, “Ah, good, bonbons!” and before I knew what she was doing, she had half pulled the paper bag—with my dough that Tony had given me—out of my pocket. I yanked it out of her hands, gave her a 1000 franc note and said, “Sorry, changed my mind.”

Her eyes went big at the sight of the bankroll. She grabbed me and I shoved the money in my pocket, stupidly told her in French to let go of me. She began screaming unkind remarks about what my mother and grandmother did for a living, that I wasn't any Englishman but an American. From the tone of her voice, being called an American was the grand insult. I didn't prolong the discussion by answering her. Pushing her out of the way, I opened the door. She made a frantic grab for the money pocket of my coat, now whispering what a time I was going to have.

I picked her up and gently tossed her on the bed. She was screaming insults once more as I closed the door, started down the stairs. She must have been yelling pretty, loud and the clerk had called her pimp.

As I walked down, this tightly dressed little joker came brushing past me, then turned and reached for something in his hip pocket. Grabbing him by his gaudy tie, I held him at arm's length and slapped his bony face. His nose began to bleed and he took his hand out of his pocket—empty. I let go of his tie and he sat down on the stairs. As I reached the lobby door the girl screamed down the stairs that my father carried on a romance with sheep.

I walked around aimlessly, felt downright crummy. More and more I was acting like a strong-arm goon. And that dumb British act I put on—what the devil did another 1000 francs mean to me? I wondered if I was going nuts. I kept walking and when I stopped to light my pipe, by the light of my match I saw I was leaning against a wall with one of those US—GO HOME signs scrawled on it. That burned me up and I tried to wipe off the white paint with my hand and merely rubbed off some skin.

I stared at my bleeding hand and told myself I had to snap out of it. I turned around and headed for the Left Bank, walking fast. As I crossed the square in front of the Madeleine church, I was still looking at my hand and I walked into a couple of fat women.

They said, “Pardon, monsieur,” and I tipped my beret, said “And up yours, sisters,” in English.

One of them let me have her pocketbook across the mouth as she said with a shrill Kansas drawl, “Why you filthy, filthy... thing!”

I dashed by them and ran, my lips bleeding. All in all it had been one great big day for me.

I didn't sleep much and when Bud called for me in the morning I was jumpy. Being out of shape, I was so pooped after we ran, I came back to my room and slept like a rock. I awoke feeling nasty and in the gym that afternoon I pasted him a couple of times and we went at it like a couple of club fighters. I came out of it with a busted lip and a swollen eye. It was exactly what I needed: I was dead tired and my belly was sore from Bud's fists pounding it like a bass drum. I slept soundly that night.

Exercise acted like a drug, eased my restlessness. For the next two weeks I ran like a greyhound every morning, pounded the bag and boxed with Bud and Tony in the afternoons till I could hardly stand. Bud never complained, realized I was taking it out on him, and he was able to handle me without being cut or hurt.

Tony had another fight and I was in his corner. The kid was still awkward, but his right hook was fast and deadly—the first time it landed the bout was over. And in the ring he had the cold cruelty of a real fighter.

I asked around the gym about my Golden Glove ring, but without success. Once I phoned the cops and some hoarse-voiced inspector finally told me they were “still looking into Mademoiselle Severn's case.” I didn't waste any francs calling them again.

I went about in a weary daze, working hard to keep myself that way, with only one clear thought in my mind—I felt sure I would find the killer. I didn't know when or where, or how, but it was almost like the comfort of religion, my faith in finding Marion's murderer.

IT HAD BEEN a long ride and now the train raced through the Mont Cenis tunnel, then stopped for a moment on reaching the Italian side of the Alps. Being in Italy again, in these very Alps that had allowed me to return instead of remaining in Italy under a cross—all gave me a queer feeling. I was full of pent-up feelings, all of them bad.

Bud was sleeping on the other seat of our compartment, his six-foot-three curled up comfortably. I watched the easy movement of his chest with envy. The last two weeks of intense training had left me stale and en edge, ready to explode. And thinking about Marion, the time I was wasting without lucking up on any clue, made my nerves tight as catgut.

A short Italian frontier guard wearing one of those comical high-crown hats that made him look top-heavy, entered our compartment, asked for passports. I gave him mine and he asked in would-be English, “You go Italy on business or tourist pleasure? How much money you have—American, francs, lire?”

“We have fifty American dollars, a few thousand francs, and no lire,” I told him in my best Italian, which was pretty good. “We go to Milano on business.”

The guard smiled: he had a poor set of false choppers. “You speak our language fluently.”

“I spent many months here during the war, in this very region.”

“Yes? There were few Americans this far north.” The guard pointed to my passport. “Francine—you are of Italian descent?”

“My father's family lived in Bari. During the war I fought with the Partisans—OSS.”

“Ah, one of them,” he said, impressed, stamping the passport and handing it to me. “The brown one is also American? Many brown ones in Viareggio in the war. There are brown children there now. Wake him up.”

I gave him Bud's passport. “Let him sleep. He is a man who not only is able to sleep, but also he needs much sleep. He is a boxer.”

The guard studied Bud's passport picture, then bent over and looked at his face. “This one is a pugilist? He carries none of the marks of that trade.”

“Because he is a very good boxer,” I said. These last weeks in the gym I learned how really good Bud was, never a wasted step, always sure of every move. And when you thought how good he must have been eight years ago—I sure picked a wrongo to start my pro career when I took Bud on back in '46.

“Robert Stewart, also known as Bud Stewart,” the guard said, stamping the passport and giving it back to me. “Forgive me if I say I never heard of the name.”

“You don't always hear of the real good ones. In a week he fights Milo Massimo in Milano.”

“Truly?” The guard sounded shocked.

I nodded.

“This thin brown Stewart, he is to fight Massimo?”

“He will. And slap Massimo's ears off.”

The guard shook his head as he made a fist. He was a little guy and the fist made him look silly.

“You, I might expect to fight Massimo, but this brown one is much too frail for such a brute. I have seen pictures of Massimo; he is a giant of a man.”

“Giants are strictly his meat,” I said, ending the conversation. I was tired of talking; and so damn tired of myself.

“I wish him what he needs most,” the guard said, leaving. “I wish him luck.”

Although it was dark out I pressed my face to the window as though I expected to see Gina waving at me, waiting for me at the station. I sat that way for several minutes, then I got this cramped feeling I had to move about or explode. I stood up and flexed my shoulders, worked my arms as though I was cold. I opened my bag and took a nip of a pint of Calvados I was working on. It was dry tasting and hot in my stomach. As I sat down, Bud stretched and yawned, looked at the bottle with disapproval. He sat up and rubbed his hair, yawned again. “How soon we hit Milan? I'm hungry.”

“Another hour or so. Want a shot?”

He shook his head. “Only place I been in Italy is Naples. Wish it wasn't dark out.”

“I was almost killed here during the war.”

Bud grinned. “Merchant marine for me—had a busted eardrum. Lucky; couldn't have taken that army crap.”

“It wasn't so bad.”

He yawned and shook his head. “Maybe for you, but I sure as shooting would have ended up in the stockade if I had to tangle with any cracker officers. You told me once—you were walking around Milan dressed like a monk. Rugged?”

“Not in Milan, but later—damn!” I shut my eyes, saw the villa outside Rome again. The nervous Italian officer who kept working on my Italian till it had a northern accent; reading and rereading the history of the holy order I was supposed to belong to, and all the time wearing a brown robe that scratched and breaking in a pair of open sandals that nearly killed my feet.

The fighting was stalled above Florence then and when I parachuted out of a plane one bleak night, I shut my eyes and screamed with fright as I went tumbling through the darkness. Two Partisans picked me up after I landed and I was so trigger-happy I darn near shot them. Then we walked through the hills for over eight days before they finally got me a ride in a wagon full of logs, into Milan. I almost ruined my Italian underwear when the first kraut guard stopped us. It was all I could do not to reach for the grenade and .22 I wore over my groin. But my papers were old and worn and the bored kraut merely waved us on.

I swayed with the movement of the speeding train, took another nip. Bud was sleeping again. I stretched—it was great to be back in Italy again. Maybe see Gina. I'd been a fool not to look her up before, all these years. I felt alive; maybe it was the applejack working on me.

Milano looked as I remembered it, big and modern, with some of the rush of a New York or Chicago, dusted with whatever It is we call “old world charm.” Above all, Milano was a city.

We put up at a small hotel and before I showed the clerk our American passports, I asked in Italian how much—so we didn't get any tourist rooking.

After a fine supper with wonderful cafe espresso in a restaurant in the Victor Emanuel Gallery, we took a walk before turning in. Bud was impressed, said, “This makes Naples and Paris look like suburbs. This is great.”

“Going to open your hotel here?”

He laughed. “Had enough trouble with a French work card, without battling the Italians for one. Tell me, Milan bombed much during the war?”

“Railway yards were worked over.”

Bud shook his head. “Always amazes me how fast bombed cities are rebuilt. Rotterdam, Le Havre, you can look at them now and never tell they were flattened. Then you stop to think all the buildings that 'means, and you wonder why Paris and New York, that weren't touched, haven't been able to build and at least beat the housing shortage during those same years.”

“Got a point. In the last twenty years, every big city in the world outside North and South America has been bombed. Think the world is trying to knock itself off?”

“Be my luck a war will pop when I set my hotel started,” Bud said, gloom in his voice.

It was crisp and cold the next morning and we were out early. I took Bud to the park outside the ancient Castle Sforzesco for roadwork. Many a day I had sweated it out in this park, meeting my contacts, whispering whatever news I had about troop movements.

We ran several miles, then walked by the arena where he was to box. It was a big place and Bud said, “Guess if they fill this, I'll earn my eighteen-hundred cut. Look at the posters—where's my name?”

The posters were something: about half the space was given to a picture of Massimo scowling, with his name as large as they could make it. The names of Joe Louis, Jersey Joe, and Camera got a big play. Near the bottom, after some long-winded phrases about “Italy's great new Champion of Champions, greater than Camera, fighting a ring stylist who has traded blows with the great champions, Louis and Walcott—” Bud's name appeared in small print.

I translated it for him and Bud said, “Sure give this joker a buildup. You know, Camera was a guy I would like to have battled—those big slow guys always make me look good.”

We had breakfast and Bud remarked about the lack of coins—everything was paper money. We argued whether this meant Italy was better off than France or what. I bought the papers and we went back to the hotel. Bud sent Paquita, Jack, and Tony some cards, then got in a few hours of shut-eye while I glanced at the papers.

Massimo's press agents were on the ball. The sport pages were full of those phony stories about whether he hit harder than Dempsey, if Joe Louis would have lasted five rounds with him, and even some snide remarks about Marciano not being a “full” Italian, while Massimo was said to be a direct descendant of Romulus and Remus, who lived on the milk of a she-wolf before deciding to found Rome.

It was fantastic, the articles were larded with adjectives like “tiger,” “killer,” “the grand boxer,” “the puncher supreme,” and some baloney about Massimo restoring Italy's old glory as ruler of the world when he became champion. One paper said he was positively related to famous Roman gladiators on his mother's side. There wasn't much about Bud, but they hinted he had licked Louis and Walcott, instead of sparring with them. There were sketches of Massimo's “mighty shoulder muscles,” and his mighty everything else—almost everything else. They were really beating the publicity drums for this clown, I never saw it piled this high before.

After a light lunch and a walk, we got our bags and dropped into the local gym. It was better equipped than the Central in Paris, but that wasn't saying much. There were a lot of kids working out, including a few heavyweights. I didn't have the slightest difficulty picking out Massimo.

He was young, maybe twenty-two, and built like a weight-lifter. Although at least six feet tall, his thick shoulders and heavy muscles made him look short. He was even handsome, if you overlooked a slightly flattened beak, and wavy blond hair that seemed too light to be real. His square jaw rested on the biggest neck I'd ever seen. He was a perfect specimen—but not a boxer.

Bud whistled softly, asked, “Who am I boxing—Mr. Italy? Look at them thick legs, the pigeon-toed walk. I'm almost queer for these slow boys!”

Massimo was surrounded by a crew of admirers, most of them old and obviously not the usual gym hangers-on. Milo was wearing an outfit that was strictly for the books: gold skin tights and clean white silk trunks with a gold embroidered emblem. Even his shoe laces were dyed gold. He was busy skipping rope, moving like a truck, and the old boys around him made chucking noises of admiration. They were a queer bunch, all looked like they had money—a long time ago.

When I introduced myself, one of the jokers came racing over and told me in slow, but perfect English he was Count Curzio, Massimo's manager. The count was thin and wiry, in his fifties, brushed grey hair, his handsome face having the look of a guy who has always lived well. He was dressed like a fashion plate of 1935, with spats, afternoon pants, a worn tweed sport jacket, and one of those plaid waistcoats for a vest. He wasn't wearing a tie but a cravat with a black pearl stickpin. The count looked like he'd jumped out of the past.

I introduced Bud, and the count was disappointed. Bud never did look like a fighter, but like a hungry basketball center. I said, in Italian, “I see the press is giving much attention to the fight.”

“How delightful you speak Italian,” the count said, giving me a shrewd glance. “When I first saw you I knew the glorious blood of our great race ran in your veins. Even if tainted with American blood.”

“Guess a red corpuscle is a red corpuscle, no matter how you slice it,” I started to say, but never had much of a chance. The count drowned me in rapid Italian as he rattled off all the publicity I'd read about Massimo being a “champion of champions,” and all the rest of the bunk.

Then I was introduced to the others. Massimo was moving in high society, every one of these clowns was a count, a prince, or something. The “champion of champions” came over and solemnly shook hands with me and Bud. He took himself very seriously, must have been dumb enough to believe his own publicity.

Count Curzio hustled around his muscleman like an old hen, told Massimo to punch the bag, then said to me, “Boxing is a noble sport, bringing out all the qualities that make man superior to an animal, and one race of men the superior of the other. The ring proves to courage of the pure heart, the bravery of a fearless soul, the fighting spirit of a conqueror.”

I merely nodded, not certain if I was in a gym or in the middle of a comic opera.

“You look like a pugilist yourself?”

“I help Stewart train,” I said.

“Then you understand the noble art. In my youth I was quite a boxer. Some time I will show you my trophies.”

“You look like a man who' can take care of himself,” I lied: the only thing the count probably ever boxed was candy.

He sighed. “In those days, you understand, the leather gloves were not too popular, and certainly no profession for a man of my royal family. Unfortunately we went in mostly for fencing.”

“A shiv is a mean weapon too,” I said, kidding him.

“But the ring, it is the true essence of the only thing that has mattered in world history—a victory, a victory of arms. In the days of the gladiators, when Italy was ruler of the world, we Romans were the foremost boxers of the day. It is perhaps because boxing has become a forgotten sport that the glory of Italy was dimmed. But I shall change that. As a part Italian, you will be proud of your ancestors' homeland.”

At various times I'd seen some fanatical fight fans, but none as wacky as the count. He must have been smoking leather.

Massimo began punching the heavy bag. After a couple of warm-up wallops, he carefully set himself and for our benefit hauled off and hit the bag a tremendous sock, ripping the old canvas. It was quite a blow and the old guys all sighed as though they'd just seen the finish of a strip act. Bud whispered to me, “Should I faint now or go along with this corny act?”

I winked at him. A blow like that could probably kill a man, but Massimo telegraphed his punches so awkwardly that even an amateur pug should be arrested if he ever let himself get tagged by such a sucker punch. Also, on closer inspection, I noticed several scars around Massimo's eyes, meaning he cut easily.

Count Curzio breathed deeply as he said, “A blow fit for the king of the ring! Enough—enough! Take a shower before you ruin more bags.”

Massimo put on his robe, waved, and said, “Farewell, gentlemen, and thank you for coming to see me, Our cause is in good hands.”

I did a double take. Not only didn't Massimo make sense, but he spoke a very cultured Italian, like an actor who has practiced making speeches. Count Curzio cut into my thoughts by telling Bud, in English, “I speak frankly and when I say you will be most fortunate to survive a round with this master fighter.”

“A round is long as it should go,” Bud agreed.

The count and the others went over to examine the torn bag, the count showing the old ducks his version of how to hit a bag. Bud asked, “How long has this been going on? We should have fought in Italy all the time.”

“Don't pay no attention to these guys,” a cold voice said in rough English. We both turned and there was Magano! I half raised my hands and he said, “Cut it, I never seen you before, understand?”

“Thought you hung out in Rome?” I said, to say something.

“Forget our other deal. I'm in something big here, and just as well nobody knows we were—friends—before. I forget you slugged me, see?”

The count came racing over—he never seemed to walk and said, “I am so sorry. Allow me to introduce the trainer and co-manager of the great Massimo, Vincent Magano. Signor Magano spent much time in your America before the war.” Bud looked at me at the mention of Magano's name, but I shook hands with Magano as if he was a stranger. Bud shook his hand quickly.

The count went back to bulling the other characters on how to punch a bag, gesturing with his fists and proving what I figured—he'd never hit a bag in his life except the two-legged kind.

Magano invited us into his office and pulled out a bottle of Scotch. Bud shook his head but I took, a taste. Vince said, “I'm in solid with these guys and—do me no good for them to know I was trying to sell...” He stopped talking suddenly, looked at Bud. I said, “He's okay. Let's stop talking about the past, as you said. What's the setup here?”

“What you think of Massimo?”

“I like him just dandy. By the way, where's the promoter? We're supposed to collect a hundred bucks for train tickets.”

“I'm the promoter,” Magano said, taking out the same wallet I remembered, only this time it was thicker. He gave me two American fifty-dollar bills. I looked at them casually but carefully—they were real. I said, “You're getting up in the world. Makes it cozy, being manager, trainer, and promoter. Keeping things in the family. Want a receipt for this?”

“Ain't necessary. We're all honest men.” Magano said it with a straight face. I pocketed the dough and he said, “Don't pay no attention to the count, he's muscle-happy. On the level, what do you think of our fighter?”

“Haven't had a chance to judge him,” I said. “How do you rate him?”

Magano gave us a sneer that passed for a grin. He still had all those gold and silver choppers. “As a guy he has a great personality, but as a fighter—this is only for our ears, understand?”

“Sure,” I said, “we're all old chums.”

“He's a stumblebum, slow and clumsy. Anybody who knows anything about muscleheads can see that.”

I knew what was coming, but I asked mildly, “Then why the great buildup? Where's your boy going?”

Bud added, “From the press you'd think I licked Louis and Walcott. Why the big play?”

“For the prestige a win for Massimo will give us. I don't horse around: I take it you both are businessmen?”

“Don't be coy, Vince, how much?”

He gave me a hard look. “I keep telling you to forget you ever saw me before—stop calling me Vince so soon. Two grand.”

I tried not to look startled. Bud's face was full of suspicion as he asked, “American?”

“Is there any other money?” Magano said.

“When do we get paid?”

Magano waved that thick wallet, then counted out twenty hundred-dollar bills. I was astonished at the quick payoff, at his confidence in us. He must have read my mind for he said, “I forget what you did, Francine, take you for smart guys, anxious to live to a ripe old age.”

“Both looking forward to collecting our Social Security,” I said.

Magano put his wallet away. “You'll work out in the gym here. I'll arrange for sparring partners.”

“I spar with Bud.”

He gave me a cold grin. “That's crazy, for a manager, but in this case all the better. Here's the deal: this must look damn good—no tank job. Bud will be stopped in the fourth round, take a count at least once in the second and third stanzas. At no time must you outbox Milo, make him look lousy. To do an expert tank job calls for an expert boxer. That's why I picked you; seen you fight in Oran and Nice.”

He was lying, of course, but I didn't say anything. Bud managed to say, “Don't worry about it. Can he take a punch?”

“He ain't going to,” Magano said.

Bud nodded. “Okay, I'll work it out fine.”

I was fingering the hundred-buck bills and they all felt old and good. As I pocketed them, I asked Magano, “One angle I don't get: you're paying a lot of dough, and took the trouble to see Bud fight. Why? This Massimo would never amount to much.”

“That's why it must be a sure thing, look good. There's lot of betting among them counts and other big bracket boys. We got a betting kill in mind. Not only on this bout, but later too, when we're ready to bounce Massimo. Get it?”

“Sure, done the world over.” Okay, where's our lockers?”

As we undressed, Bud said, “Something phony—he saw me fight in Oran. But, Ken, know what this means, this extra dough? I can quit the ring any time now, go into business!”

“Maybe we can rig up a return match,” I said, dreamily, wondering if we had to cut Freddy into the two grand. And if Magano was lying about Oran, what difference did it make?

Bud and I limbered up. Massimo wasn't around but everybody else stopped to watch us work out. The count had his handsome face glued to the ring apron, studying Bud. We went three rounds and Bud put on a dazzling exhibition of speed and fancy boxing, laying the scientific stuff on thick. Maybe I helped him look great, and maybe he was too smart for me—but for two grand we'd sure make the odds on Bud soar.

Bud went on to shadowbox while I cooled off and took a shower. As I was dressing a young guy with a fat egg face topped by a short haircut that made what little hair he had stick up like new grass, came into the dressing room. He said, “I'm Matt Tucker. Cover Milan for several of the States' wire services, and a Canadian paper.”

“Been here long?” I asked as we shook hands.

“I was on Stars & Stripes during the war; never been home since. Makes about a dozen years. How's things Stateside?”

“Nothing's changed much. Everybody has watery eyes from TV, but that's about all. How come you stayed here all this time?”

Tucker took out a pipe and tobacco. “Don't know,” he said, lighting up. His tobacco smelled good, not like the stuffings from Napoleon's mattress I'd been smoking in Paris. “Got this offer after the war and it was too good to turn down. Sometimes I get an awful yen for the States. Get restless—-but never do anything about it.”

“I know about the restless part. Aromatic tobacco you're; puffing?”

“A-ha. Know a GI in the PX. Want a couple packs?”

“Sure do.”

Bud came in and he and Tucker shot the breeze for a while about Chicago, then Matt asked, “Can you whip this second-rate Atlas?”

“You a betting man?” Bud asked, drying himself with a rough beach towel.

“Might bet a little.”

“Betting on fights is sucker stuff,” Bud said, which was enough of a tip-off for Tucker to save his dough.

Tucker said, “That's what I've been told.”

He had a second-hand Fiat, but a big one, and we drove to the Hotel Excelsior. Up in his room he gave me a couple packs of Walnut and Bond Street, refused to take any dough. We sat around and he told us how cheap the lira was, about the big influx of English and American tourists. He said, “Soon as the people are eating garbage, you find the tourists flocking in like vultures. Same in Spain.”

“People seemed better off than in France,” Bud said, and he and Matt got into a long yak-yak about living conditions. I sat there, thinking if Marion was alive, she'd be here with the other tourists. Then I remembered I was only an hour's drive from Gina and that made me so anxious I couldn't sit still. Tucker had some rye and I nibbled on that, found out where I could rent a car, that it didn't make any difference where we changed our dough—there wasn't much of a black market in Italy.

Matt had a supper date and we left him and had something to eat, took a long walk before returning to our hotel. Bud dropped off the moment he hit the sack. I tried reading myself to sleep, but it didn't work. I dressed and went down to a bar and had a vermouth and some beers, got to bed after midnight, and still didn't sleep much.

Bud shook me awake at seven. “Come on, let's hit the road.” I got him in focus as I Sat up. “What for? You can do four rounds without any more work. You're sharp now.”

“You know I never go into the ring unless I'm right. Any little thing throws your timing off—you don't duck fast enough and a lummox like Milo busts my eye. You want to sleep, I'll run alone.”

“I'm getting up.”

We jogged along the road the krauts called the autobahn and when we got back to the hotel, Bud went to sleep. I washed and dressed, rented a car, and it took me a little over an hour to make the sixty miles to Acosta. I was jumpy as a schoolboy calling on his first girl. I didn't know how I'd explain away not writing or seeing Gina for over ten years.

Acosta looked exactly the same, as though I'd been there yesterday. The Alps towering in the background like great snow-covered jagged teeth; the green-colored clothing factory at the edge of the woods, looking more like a resort than a factory. The factory seemed to be closed. The stores didn't have much in the windows and the town looked beat, as it had before—but there had been a war on then.

Nobody paid any attention to me as I parked by the church. Even the bullet marks were still in the wall—but now there was a neat plaster plaque in memory of:

HERMANO RUPO, 28, A PARTISAN LEADER WHO GAVE HIS LIFE

THE NIGHT OF 15TH OCTOBER, 1944, THAT ITALY MIGHT BE FREE OF THE BARBARIC NAZIS.

I read and reread it, stared at the faded flowers at the base of the wall.

October 15th—that had been one hell of a night.

For weeks I'd been trying to contact the “Party-johns,” and at six that evening I'd met Hermano and his sister Gina on the outskirts of Milan. He was driving an old car with a boiler on top of it, using scrap wood for fuel instead of gas. Hermano had a long thin face, pale as a saint, with serious eyes, delicate features. We were driving to meet some of the Partisan top brass. We didn't talk much in the car, and Gina was so bundled up, I could barely see her face.

Just as we reached Acosta, we ran into this kraut road-block by the church.

I knew the Nazis had been tipped off—we were finished. For a split second I was almost going to accuse Hermano of selling me out, but there wasn't any time for thinking or talking. Hermano had a machine pistol someplace on the floor, and telling the kraut corporal he was coming, he opened the car door and stepped out with his gun blazing. I wasn't armed and I sat there, unable to move, as the Germans got their guns working and Hermano went down. Gina tugged at me and then we were falling out of the car—on the other side—in a field of high grass, maybe, wheat. Before I hit the ground, from under the auto I had a flash view of Hermano lying on the road in the light of the kraut headlights, his face sickly pale, blood pouring out of his skinny body in a dozen places, but his gun still stuttering lead.

Gina and I ran through the field, we crawled, we scooted like a couple of rabbits. It all took a matter of seconds, but it seemed a long time before his gun was silenced. Later I learned he had killed six of them, badly wounded two others, was pulling the pin of a grenade as he died. Four Nazis took to the field after us, but the grass was high, it was pitch dark, and Hermano had left them jittery.

Gina and I pressed our bodies flat into the hard, cold earth, as my ears strained for the sound of Nazi jackboots slowly drawing closer.... I was also aware of the warmth that was Gina, her warm breathing the only life in the world for me at the moment. She fumbled in her skirts, silently handing me a grenade, her left hand squeezing my face, warning me not to move.

If we could see them, and they were bunched right, two grenades could finish the four krauts. But we didn't dare raise our heads. For a time I thought they'd step on us, but they stopped and after long minutes that were outright torture, we heard them returning to the road, getting one of the cars in position to headlight the field. Gina and I crawled and crawled and by the time the lights came on, we were up and running, at right angles to the light.

When we stopped to rest, my chest seemed to tear with each breath and I flung myself on the ground. She sat down and rested, then said quietly, “There is a pass in the mountains. I take you there soon.”

We spent the rest of the night, the darkness that protected us, climbing like mountain goats. As I stumbled and cursed, thought I was finished, her firm hand was always within reach. By morning we were in French territory, and before Gina left to go back over the Alps, I made arrangements for an arms drop.

Maybe she said three dozen words the whole night, and never a tear for her brother; that wasn't the place for tears.

I was in the C-47 on a cloudy night a week later, when we parachuted the supplies as close to the flashing lights of the Partisans as we could. Not as much ammo and guns as they asked for, but all I could get.

I leaned against the car, staring at the plaque for a long time.

A guy dies the hard way and all that remains are words in cheap plaster. But then there must have been plaques in the hearts of all the people around there. Maybe that's better than ending up under a fancy marble slab with some slop next to your name about the beloved family you left, and nobody really caring. But then, once you're dead, what difference do the thoughts of the living make?

I drove over to the town's bakery, asked where Gina Ruppo lived. The baker was one of these very old men with lined faces, the type artists love to paint. He looked at me and said, “You are a stranger here.”

“I've been here before.”

“Not for two years,” he said smiling, the lines becoming furrows.

“Baker, I have no time for small talk. I must return to Milano. Where does she live?”

“On the first road to your left, in the third house, you will find Gina Vica. Her wedding was two years ago this September. What a cake I made for them! A cake fit for the wedding of a queen.”

I thanked him and walked back to the car. I felt numb. I drove on up the road, turned in toward her house and the numbness became deep sadness that almost made me want to bawl. I was sorry as can be, for myself.

I snapped out of it. First I got mad, then I talked myself out of that. All the time I'd been dreaming of her, and not doing anything about it. These long years I'd been building a girl in my dreams whom I'd actually seen for less than a day, said less than ten sentences to—all that time, what the hell else did I expect but that she'd get married! I was a romantic dummy, thinking she'd look into some cracked crystal ball and wait for me!

She lived in a small yellow-stucco house, a tiny garden in the front with a few struggling flowers: a lonely cow, some chickens, and a rabbit hutch in the rear. I should have turned around and gone back to Milan, but I knocked on the door. When she opened it, she stared at me with big eyes for a moment, said in a husky voice, “Ah—it is you.”

We were too busy running and climbing for me to really see her before. Now I saw a young woman of about twenty-nine, a strong, solid figure in a worn dark dress, a proud bosom, good bare legs that ended in an old pair of ugly GI-shoes. Her face wasn't pretty, rather it was a tender face full of warmth, with serious eyes; her hair was a soft stream of dark black that flowed down past her shoulders.

My staring embarrassed her. She blushed a little and her eyes lost their softness. I said, “Hello, Gina. Guess you're—surprised to see me.” It was not only a jerky thing to say, I hadn't even thought to bring her a present, not even a box of candy.

She didn't answer, except to nod, a slight motion of her head. A thin man in a patched blue turtleneck sweater and baggy pants suddenly appeared behind her. He had a thick head of black hear that made his face look powder-white. Gina asked, “Have you come as soldier?”

“Soldier? I'm in Milano on business. Thought I'd come up to see you.”

“Who is this?” the man asked, his eyes suspicious.

Without looking at him, Gina quickly told him about me and the man turned away, saying, “An American.” He didn't like me, and for that matter Gina didn't seem exactly overjoyed at seeing me again.

“Gina, I've come a long way. Aren't you going to invite me in?”

“Of course; you must pardon my rudeness,” she said, stepping aside. The guy—I assumed it was her husband—grunted under his breath. Maybe it was jealousy, but I'd had about all I could take of him.

I walked into a clean living room, barely furnished with rough homemade chairs and a table, a straw rug on the floor. Some dried flowers hung on the wall, plus a photo of Mussolini and his mistress hanging by their heels. This picture sold like crazy in Italy after the war. Another popular snapshot was a close-up of Musso in a coffin—after an enraged old woman had scrambled his dead brains by emptying a gun against his skull. Musso always did have a head like a tomato, but in that snap, his head looked all puffed and out of shape, and was probably stuffed with dirt.

Gina said, “My manners are on vacation today. This is my husband, Mario. Mario, this is the American I tell you about once—Kenneth.”

“Call me Ken,” I said as we shook hands and sat down. I was sure Mario had a couple of other things he wanted to call me. Gina brought some red wine and glasses and Mario said he didn't want any. I got the impression they were flat, perhaps downright hungry. To make conversation, she asked what I was doing in Milano and I told them about the fight. Gina said, “Hmmm, Massimo,” and glanced at her husband, who swore somebody's mother wasn't fit to be eaten by pigs.

“Do you speak English?” I asked Gina.

“A little.”

“I speak in English because....What is wrong with your husband? Does he think we were lovers?”

“I do not think that!” Mario said in fair English. I was sure a prize dope, not even figuring he could understand English too.

“Please, I will explain,” Gina began, in Italian.

“No! I will tell him!” Mario said, his Italian fast, and looking me right in the eyes as he spoke. “It is simple—Americans are not trusted here!”

“US—GO HOME crap again,” I said in Italian. “We were pretty popular back in '43, '44, and '45!”

“We made the big mistake then, we treated conquerors like liberators!” he snapped.

Gina touched his hand. “Please, Mario, please.” She turned to me, her eyes sad. “It is not a feeling against you personally, but my Mario is very bitter. He spent much time fighting in the mountains, lost all his toes there, and—”

“God knows there's plenty of Americans buried here—proof that they lost more than their toes!” I said, getting up steam.

“If they could talk they would be bitter too,” Mario said, his voice weary rather than angry.

“Nuts. I'm sick of every European looking down his snotty nose at us! I'm an American and I'm sure not ashamed of it! Where do you get off hating us?”

“The promises America made during the war,” Gina said, “they have turned out to be empty words.”

“Empty? For Christ sakes, the American taxpayer is being squeezed dry so Italy, and the rest of Europe, can be given billions of his hard-earned bucks for your food and arms! There's a limit to—”

“It goes into the wrong hands,” Mario cut in. “The black-shirts are trying to climb to power again. Look at me, I have no clothing, our factory is not working. If Washington—”

“I'm not Washington! And believe me, Washington has more important things to worry about than a clothing factory in Acosta!” I said, angry and confused. “I don't know any—thing about politics—never touch the stuff. If the money went into wrong hands, that's your fault. What you expect us to do, spoon-feed you?”

Mario looked away, as if talking to me was a waste of time. Gina stared at me with large sad eyes, said gently. “Once you—yes you —gave us hope for a better life. Now—”

I didn't know what to say. Were they trying to put the bite on me? Or would they ask me out if I offered them dough? It didn't make sense. In the States everybody was beefing about carrying Europe on our backs, and here they were complaining we were rooking them. I tried to change the subject. “Want some money bet on the fight?”

“The brown man, he will win?” Mario asked.

“Let you in on a secret, do not gossip about it. He will lose. It's a—a deal,” I added in a whisper. “What we call a sure thing. I urge you to bet. You cannot lose, unless you talk about it.”

Mario looked as though he was going to spit in my face. Gina quickly pressed his hand again. He looked at her, his narrow puss flushed with anger. She said, “Signor Francine, what made you change?”

“Signor Francine? Changed? What you talking about? And call me Ken!” I'd sure come a long way to get this kind of a brush-off.

She said, “During the war you fought against people like Count Curzio, a gangster like Magano. Curzio is a Don in the Mafia, yet now you are working with him.”

“Why are you bringing, the war, the Mafia, into this?” I asked. “I never saw Curzio in my life till yesterday. This is only a business matter. It's done all the time. You don't understand boxing angles.”

Gina said, her voice suddenly strong, “I understand Curzio was a big man under Mussolini, that many of my people died because of him! I understand the noise they are making over this brute, Massimo, building a new movement around him! All the former blackshirts and brownshirts, all the noble scum of Europe hailing him as a superman!”

I laughed. “Gina, talk sense. You got this all wrong. It's only a betting coup. Like I said, it's an angle, done all the time.”

“Fool!” Mario said fiercely. “Who in Milano has money to bet, to gamble? We are a nation of poor!”

“Stop it, there's always suckers ready to gamble.”

“Gina has talked of you as a brave man. Now you are either blind, or with them. I'll tell you why Massimo must win—because he is beating a colored man, because he is beating an American! And you give out gassy words about betting.”

“One of us is a fool, all right!” I said, so mad I had to hold on to the table to keep myself from clipping him. “You're talking like a windbag—your words contradict themselves! First you say Curzio is cutting into the American gravy, now you claim he wants his clown to win because Bud is an American! What you growing around here—smoking weeds?”

Mario shouted, “It is impossible you are so blind or so stupid! Curzio loves American money, it is his stepping stone back to power. He has visions of Massimo as the new Mussolini, with Curzio and his murderers pulling the strings. Why do they make such a fuss over this fight in the papers? When Massimo whips an American, a brown man, they are back to the old racial ideas of Italians being supreme, the former blackshirt appeal that fooled our people for years!”

“You talk like a man full of—of bad drink. Like a drunk, a zigzag. This is just a fight, that's all! We've boxed in Holland, France, in Africa. Fighting is a business: when we're paid to win we win. If the price is right—we lose. The price is very right here. Now stop these crazy nightmares and talk sense or shut up!”

Mario jumped up, walked away from the table, which was a good thing, we were both ready to blow our tops.' If I ever clipped him, I sure as hell would have busted his face. There was a long moment of silence, Gina staring at me. Then she asked gently, “Kenneth, if we should prove what we say is true, would the brown boxer win? For the sake of Italy, of the Americans who remain here forever under Italian earth, it is important that Massimo lose.”

I stood up, sorry I'd come. I didn't expect any hero's welcome, or a big hug and kiss, but as least I was due something better than this crock of bull they were handing me.

“You have not answered me,” Gina said. “For myself, I can not believe you are in with them.”

“Don't talk like that! This is business. I took Magano's money, and Bud—the brown one—he will not return it. Magano is not the type to forgive, not do anything about a cross.” I made a shooting motion with my hand.

Gina shrugged, her breasts dancing. “You were not in terror of the Maganos and their guns during the war. Why?”

“Damn it, are you all crazy, under a spell here? This isn't any war, merely a tank job, a dive! I'm not a soldier now, not at war with a living soul. I haven't any gun, any army behind me. And if I'm going to risk my life, I'd try holding up the Bank of Rome! I regret this visit has been so painful. Goodbye!”

Outside, I jumped into the car and kept the gas pedal on the floor all the way back to Milan, feeling tense and angry and bewildered.

It was after three when I reached the hotel and Bud had left a note saying he was at the gym. When I got there he was skipping rope, asked, “Where you been?”

“Lucky me, I was visiting an old flame!”

“The count was asking for you. Wanted to show you his ring trophies.”

“I couldn't care less!”

Bud glanced as me with cool eyes. “What's wrong, Ken?”

“Nothing—nothing. Come on, let's box.”

“Sure. Get undressed.”

Changing to ring togs, I went into the ring cold. I was still so boiled I went after Bud and he clinched, said, “Easy, pal.” I tried a wicked uppercut that missed by a hair and got a savage poke in the belly which took all the steam out of me. Bud let me clinch till I got my wind back.

We sparred for another two rounds and I was angry at myself now—wondering why I took it out on Bud.

Massimo had finished training, but quite a few reporters and photographers were still hanging around the gym. When we left the ring, Magano gave Bud the eye, said to me, “Never saw a manager like you. What you training for?”

“For the Junior Prom!” I was talking to myself again—Magano never heard that simple joke.

As I got my gloves off, helped Bud with his, I asked, “What's Magano eyeing you about?”

Bud grinned. “You don't know about this act—pure ancient corn.”

He went over to the wall weights to work out, and as Bud gave them a savage yank—they came completely off the wall, with a large hunk of plaster. By “coincidence” the photographers had their cameras set up, got the shot.

This business of cracking the plaster beforehand was such an old stunt, the last time I'd heard it used was before the war when they were building up one of Camera's first opponents. And they blushed when they used it then.

As we took showers, Bud said, “Ken, I don't want to get into your business, but you'd better slow down before you blow a fuse. Been throwing off a lot of steam these last weeks.

“Pay me no mind.”

“Can't mix hard training and hard liquor and lot of worrying. Your heart will bust.”

“It's holding out; don't worry about it.”

“Well, I do worry. I know Marion was a tough blow, but—”

“Shut up! Mind your own business!” I barked, going back into the shower. It made me mad to realize I'd forgotten all about Marion these last few hours.

Bud was dressed and gone when I came out. I drove back to the hotel and waited for him to have supper with me, but he must have been real sore—he didn't show. I felt more upset than ever: Bud was about the only real friend I had in the world and I'd acted like a goon.

I finally drove over to the Excelsior. Matt Tucker was at the bar, sharpening his appetite with a few martinis. I ordered a vermouth and Tucker said, “If you want something really tasty, they have a special brandy here made in '47. That was a good year for the grapes in this region.”

“Can you tell the difference? I think all this stuff about a good year for the grapes is so much bar-wind.”

Tucker laughed, said, “Frankly, I agree with you. But then I'm no connoisseur. How's everything coming?”

“Like a ton of bricks.”

“Hear Stewart put on a strongman act in the gym this afternoon?”

“Yeah, but that's not the only act going on here. Is it true that Curzio and Magano are former blackshirts, Mafia hoods?”

Matt lit his pipe, said, “Let's not shout.”

“What is this—everybody playing cloak and dagger here? What's wrong with what I asked? Why the hush-hush?”

“The hush-hush is I have to live here. You're leaving in a few days. Me, I'm everybody's buddy; have to be to get news.”

“So what? What did I say out of turn?”

Tucker grinned. “You look sore, Ken. You're far too big for me to tangle with. Relax.”

“I'll swing on the next bastard who tells me to relax!”

“I get like you sometimes. Hold myself in check by a bit of philosophy I live by. Something I heard as a joke. Like to hear it?”

“Sure, I've been on one big giggle all day! Sorry, Matt, I'm on edge. Maybe a joke is what I need.”

Tucker was the kind that liked to tell a gag, his facial muscles sort of bunched up, ready to laugh, as he said, “Seems a guy died and was sent to hell for a probation period. Since he wasn't a regular sinner, the devil told him he could have his choice of punishments. He could listen outside several locked doors and make his choice. Through the first door he heard screams of terror, at the next door he heard bare flesh being whipped. You can build this joke up as much as you wish; point is at one door he merely heard gentle whispers. So he picked that room and the devil opened the door. There was a room full of people standing in baby dung exactly up to their lips. They were each whispering, 'Don't make waves! Please don't make waves!'”

Matt killed himself with laughter. I grinned to make him feel happy. Then he said, “That's my philosophy—don't make waves. Try to get by as smoothly as possible.”

“That's for you. Now let's stop the jokes and get back to what I asked you.”

“Softly, keep your voice down.”

I whispered, “Damn it, what about Curzio and Magano—were they a couple of the Duce's lads?”

Matt examined his fingernails for a second, found them all there. “Yes.”

“Yes?” I repeated, shocked at his casualness.

He said in a low voice, “Count Curzio was a big apple in this area, sort of top-level payoff man for Rome. Magano may have been one of their goons before he went to America. Don't know much about him, but Curzio was in on the ground floor, took part in the so-called march on Rome. Never heard this Mafia angle before, but could be.”

“You don't seem excited about it!”

Matt blew out a cloud of smoke. “What's there to be up in the air about?”

“That these lousy bastards are back in the saddle!”

Matt got a smoke ring going, after a few attempts, and we both watched it drift across the room. He said, “I'm a reporter, said to be objective—i.e., I merely report. It isn't my job to make news, or what is laughingly called policy. Now that Uncle Sam is on this anti-Commie kick, we make some strange bedfellows.”

“But if these guys were former blackshirts, how can—”

“Don't forget,” Tucker went on, “Musso ruled for some twenty-five years, so everybody in government had to be a member of his gang. Result is, we have to play ball with what we have, the 'best' of the old Musso gang.”

“After we licked them in a war? That doesn't figure.”

“Crazy world, Francine. Sometimes I think we're playing with ghosts. Actually, I think Europe is fed up with black or brown shirts, and although in Italy the new Blackshirts are a very small party, probably end up strictly no place, still you can't write them off in these nervous times. They're playing long odds, and there's always a chance the longshot will come in. There you have Tucker's dope sheet on politics!”

Finishing my drink, I asked, “Speaking of betting, much gambling on the fight?”

“Little among the foreign colony. Man on the street may wager a ten lira note—that's a cent and a half, American. Try to get a bet down on Bud?” Tucker added, grinning wisely.

I dug in my pocket for my pipe. Tucker knew the fight was fixed—so what? We'd practically told him. But if there wasn't any betting, why the fix? “Anything special about Massimo?” I asked, chisling tobacco from Mart's pouch.

“How do you mean?”

“Never saw such a buildup—all the press slop.”

Tucker gave me his lighter and I started puffing. He said, “No, just another pug. And not as dumb as he looks or acts. You know Europeans; got so little to be proud of these days, make a fuss over their athletes. Milo's so strong, such perfect copy.”

He told me some story about an Italian soccer team that was almost worshipped, and somehow we got talking baseball back in the States and finally I said I had to eat. Matt said, “Like to have supper with” you, but I have work to do. Quite an assortment of gentry in town. Lot of land-poor old Italian nobles up from Rome and the south. Two retired Nazi generals blew in from Germany this morning, and a former big Italian admiral who's been sitting things out in Tangiers, is due in tomorrow. Got lot of leg work ahead of me tonight, stories to get out.”

Leaving Matt, I had soup and fried octopus, and ate about two pounds of bread sticks as I put away a quart of Chianti. I was glowing a bit when I got back to our room. Bud was in bed, reading the Daily American. I undressed, did my washing. He didn't say a word. Finally I said, “Okay. Want me to say I acted like a jerk? I've said it.”

Bud put his paper down. “I had a little speech ready myself. Me, I'm always on edge when I'm sharp for a fight. You've been sharp too long—maybe you're stale.”

“Could be. I went to see this girl, this Gina, full of a lot of romantic notions, and, well, she was married.”

Bud laughed. “Knew something was wrong. Glad it's only that.”

“That's it,” I said, climbing into bed. Bud turned off the light and I lay there, telling myself that was it, only I knew I was kidding myself. I wasn't as upset over finding Gina married as I should have been. She was a dream I never really believed would come true. And I really wasn't as upset over Marion's death as I tried to make myself seem.

Sure, I was upset, tense, my nerves coiled like a rattlesnake, but I didn't know why. Could be all the restlessness I'd felt these last years was coming to a head... and that could mean the next stop for me would be a padded cell.

I dozed off on this happy thought and had a dream. I saw Marion walking in a park and then a hand holding an automatic, the barrel clumsy with a silencer, came into view. The gun silently fired and Marion fell gently to the ground, her face calm and blank. It was like watching something on a movie screen, and I tried frantically to stretch my neck, looking into the edge of the screen to see the rest of the gun hand.

The next thing I knew Bud was shaking me. I felt a little sick from the quart of wine, but after a shower I felt up to a long walk. Being the day before the fight, we merely trotted a little, walked, and took a ride in the car I'd rented. I had a lot of coffee and some eggs and had my head on straight again.

Bud bought some shoes for Paquita and a pocketbook, then went back to the room and hit the sack. I got some sleep in myself, and in the afternoon we went to the gym where Bud was going to do five rounds of bag punching.

Massimo was sparring with some hulk, a large crowd of well dressed jokers cheering him on. His admirers seemed to grow each day. Milo was really socking it into this human punching-bag and as Bud went to undress, I asked Magano, “Doesn't he know enough not to spar the day before a fight?”

Magano gave me that tight, cold smile of his that he'd probably stolen from an old Cagney picture. “In this case, what does it matter? Some important men here and they want to see some action.”

The “action” was pitiful. Massimo swung like an old gate, was wide open. He had his sparring partner bleeding from the nose and in a clinch, Milo banged him with his shoulder and the guy began to spit blood. He wasn't wearing a mouthpiece and his lips were badly cut.

The round was extra long as Massimo hacked away at this bloody mess and finally managed to hit him smack on the jaw. The guy sat down—breaking the fall with one hand—then fell back, allegedly stiff.

The fans gave him a big hand and Milo solemnly bowed all around the ring, then started to shadowbox as they dragged the other guy away. Count Curzio in a checkered suit that didn't look too loud, jumped up on the ring apron and told Massimo how to jab. The count was under the illusion that a jab was a light push. Curzio was dancing around and got winded after a moment. A knob-headed man sporting a monocle and a belted jacket stood up and shouted instructions in German. Curzio translated and Massimo nodded and pranced around the ring, blowing through his nose like a whale.

Bud politely waited till Milo went to the showers; then he came out and punched out a tune on the light bag. Massimo's fans gave him the silent treatment. When Bud got into the ring and shadowboxed, moving about easily, this crowd of jokers began making some pretty raw cracks about Bud's color, his sex life, and something about Ethiopian women. This was said in Italian, German, and one or two languages I didn't get.

Fortunately Bud didn't understand either Italian or kraut, but he must have sensed what they were saying because he finished his workout with some fancy rope skipping and “accidentally” let the rope slip out of his hands. It fell among the crowd, the wooden handles giving one of the clowns a smart rap on his polished noggin.

Curzio came running over, almost barked at Bud, “You! Be careful, these are important people!”

Bud grinned at me as he picked up his rope, did some belly exercises, headed for the showers. The count, after making sure that the “important” character wasn't hurt, came over to me and said, “I'll be glad when Massimo takes care of him tomorrow. I have little use for blacks, yellows, or browns.” I guess I was staring at him with my yap open, for he asked, “Does that surprise you greatly?”

“I don't know,” I said. What did make my mouth hang open with surprise was Curzio talking like the bout was on the level. It was impossible he didn't know the fix was in... but then the whole damn setup had crazy angles.

“Francine, after the fight we must have a long talk. We can use a man like you, big and hard, not afraid. Perhaps you can be our agent in America—in time. It is a shame you are not pure Italian. You could go far in Italy with us.”

“Who's us?”

He nodded at the men standing around the ring. “These men are important... in Rome, Naples, Vienna, Berlin, Cairo, Madrid, other cities. They are very much interested in Massimo. Milo is destined to be a great man in Italian history.”

“Yeah? You mean as heavy champ? Camera already stole his thunder.”

Count Curzio said slowly, “Not merely as a pugilist. He will be greater than that.”

“Going into politics?”

The count grinned, showing very white and perfect teeth. “He will take the fancy of the people because he is strong and a fighter, and at heart the people are cowards. He is strong and they are weak; he will become a symbol to them. It is something I have studied in detail, an approach to mass psychology no one has yet used. In your United States, Louis and Dempsey took the fancy of the people, as did Babe Ruth and the great DiMaggio; they took the hearts of the people as no politician has ever been able to. Yet nothing was done to capitalize on this tremendous appeal.”

“They made quite a few bucks out of it.”

Curzio shook his distinguished head. “Child's play. Power is the real money of the world and mass appeal means complete power—in the hands of those who know how to use it. My guests are leaving. After the fight you will come to my villa. We will talk about this.”

He held out his wiry hand and I shook it and then my legs began to tremble and I tried not to break his hand off as my fingers felt of the ring, the ruby in the golden glove, the ring I'd given Marion.

FOR A MOMENT I couldn't believe it could be my ring... but I could even see the places where I'd bent it to fit Marion's finger.

Curzio held up his slim, elegant hand—the hand that has never been used for work is always elegant. The count asked, “You like it? One of my ring trophies. I must show you the others.”

“Where did you win it?” I was surprised that my voice came out calmly; my mouth was so dry I thought it would crack and crumble with each word.

Curzio thought a moment. “If I remember rightly, I won this ring back in '33. At a military competition. I was a captain then, but I entered the bouts under an assumed name as a private. Licked the lightweight champion of the regiment. Indeed, I remember now, a rugged lad, but rather awkward. We must talk about boxing more—at some other time. I must leave now. See you tomorrow—a big night.”

I watched him walk away, kept telling myself even though they'd handed out dozens of rings in the Golden Gloves that year, the ring Curzio was wearing was mine. Of course that cock-and-bull story he handed me was slop. A new kind of tension began to tighten inside me—a good feeling of impatience, of wanting to get going, of knowing at last what I had to do. Heading for the dressing room, I passed Magano washing his hands. He'd just rubbed Massimo down and stunk of liniment. I asked casually, “Who was Bud fighting when you and the count saw him in Paris?”

“Some lousy French heavy with a fair left. It was Nice, not Paris.”

“We fought several times in Paris—some town.”

Magano dried his hands, smelled them, and soaped his mitts again. “Last time I was in Paris was when you screwed our deal. Paris doesn't mean a thing. Anything you find in Paris I can show you within ten minutes of this gym.”

“Curzio gets around. Bet he's the type goes for the Paris chicks.”

“Paris chicks—lot of bunk. Got girls here that out-Paris anything you ever saw,” Magano said, drying his hands. “What's all this interest in the count? Francine, don't pull anything here—this will be different than in Paris. You won't push nobody around.” He walked away.

As a detective I was a pork and beaner.

In our dressing room Bud was pulling on his shirt. I lit my pipe and tried to figure out what I was going to do. Sure, I know what I had to do—get Curzio. The big question was how? Bud said, “This is a crummy outfit, almost sorry we made the tank deal. Like to bat a few of these clowns around.”

“Want to play it straight?”

“And pass up the chunk of salting dough we got? Not Mrs. Stewart's son Bud. What were they saying about me out there?”

“I don't know—nothing. Let's eat and take in a movie.” Bud was right, he was in this for the dough. Curzio was strictly my business. I had no right involving Bud.

Only how was the count to be handled? I could kill him, trust to luck I didn't get picked up by the police. But that was the hard way. If I could prove Curzio killed Marion, then I could have the authorities do the killing. But how could I prove it?

We saw Martin & Lewis with Italian dialogue dubbed in and it was such a good job I'd have sworn they were speaking Italian. I guess I was the only one in the movie house who wasn't hysterical with laughter. My brain kept grinding in deep thought. What was Marion to Curzio? She usually went in for younger guys, not the smooth sharpies. And why would he kill her? Or did he? Assuming it was my ring, the count could have bought it—he undoubtedly had a room full of boxing “trophies" he'd bought in some rundown hock shop.

Shreds of ideas kept floating around in my mind, as if looking for something to latch on to. Gina's story... Marion said she was reading pre-war Italian and Nazi papers... Curzio full of lies, like the one about Oran... the 'important' men around Massimo... Massimo his dumb self.

As we left the movies, Bud still laughing over some screwy Lewis gag, things suddenly jelled in my noggin, like a TV picture coming clear. I wasn't sure, but I had a damn good idea why Marion was killed, what her big story really was.

Driving Bud to the hotel, I told him I wanted some air and drove over to the Excelsior. I knocked on Mart's door, pushed it open. He was dressing for a party—evening clothes. He said, “Don't ever bust in like that. I'm sure that babies don't come from cabbages now, and sometimes I even have a girl friend.”

I came right to the point. “Tucker, without asking why, can you get me a gun? None of these Italian pea-shooters; I want an army .45.”

He stopped working on his black silk bow-tie.

“No questions. Best that way,” I said before he could speak.

“Anything I should know about—as a reporter?”

“Might be. Maybe a few days after the fight I might let you in on a story that cost another writer her life.”

“Her life? Now you interest me. Would I be getting warm if I ask whether this has anything to do with a deal I suspect is cooking right here in Milano?”

“I'm not sure about a thing yet. What about the gun?”

He went on working on his tie, got it cock-eyed. “You look like a fellow who can handle a gun. There's a .45 in the center drawer of my dresser, and some loaded clips. I have a permit for it. You know, I never can tie a bow-tie right except in the bathroom. Silly complex. A guy who has a gun legally has to be careful it isn't stolen from him.”

As he headed for the John I told him, “I'll pay for—”

“Bad to sell a gun, always be traced back to the owner of record. In a few days I'll look for something in the drawer—and of course if I find the gun missing, I'll do my duty and report the loss at once. Now excuse me, I'm in a bit of a dash. Curzio is throwing a spread for the hungry press.” He shook his head and laughed at me. “Count Curzio, isn't it? I could make a slow living playing poker with you—your face is a give-away.”

He went into the bathroom and I took the gun and the loaded clips and walked out. Back in our hotel room, Bud was sleeping soundly. I examined the gun: Tucker had given it a lot of loving care. Putting the gun away, I undressed slowly, watching Bud's sleeping face. I knew there wasn't any other out—I'd have to involve him. Leaving him here would be worse. And I knew then what I had to do—what I'd known for the past several hours: I had to stop Massimo from winning, and then I had to kill Curzio and take my chances on getting clear. If Massimo won, even though the count was killed, their plan might go on and that's why Marion had died—to spike their plan.

It was a relief to get that clear. My brain was too tired to think any more. Somehow I'd get to Curzio after the fight, break his neck, and then—I even knew how I'd escape.

I slept the solid sleep of a drunk that night. In the morning I felt terrific, as though I could do anything in the world. We took a long walk and one of the things I couldn't do was figure out a way to tell Bud, make him want to play my way. I kept raking over a lot of ideas, but how do you ask a guy with plans for the future to take a chance on dying?

We played cards most of the afternoon, when Bud wasn't dozing, or idly talking over how he'd let Milo slam him on the shoulder, then go down. We had supper at four but I wasn't hungry. While Bud was eating I went back to the room to pack his ring clothes. I packed both our bags, checked out. I drove through the slum section and tossed out all our clothes except Bud's heavy sweater and the GI shoes he used for roadwork. At a garbage dump, I took out our bags and burnt them. I still didn't have any definite plan for tonight, only a vague idea of what I would do. Somehow it didn't worry me.

When I got back to the restaurant, Bud was sore. “What kept you? Been sitting here instead of walking this meal off.”

“Trouble with the car.”

“Better straighten out what we owe the car company; we'll catch the first train out in the morning. Let's walk. Like to be back at the hotel for a nap by six.”

“Take in a movie instead.”

“Ken, you know I like to get some ear-pounding in before a fight.”

“Relax. This is in the bag, remember?”

“Sure, only I'll give you odds that chump Massimo don't know it. He'll be swinging for keeps all the time. Movies aren't good for the eyes the day of a fight. Dull your timing. You take in a show, I'll go back to the room.”

“Let's take that walk, first,” I said. The fight was only a few hours off, no stalling. I had to tell Bud.

We drove to the nearest garage and left the car to be gassed and oiled, as we took a walk. As we headed back to pick up the car, Bud was in a good mood, said, “Maybe we'll play some cards at the hotel instead of sleeping.”

“Forget the hotel. I checked us out.”

He stopped and stared at me. “Why?”

“Bud, you want to win tonight?”

“What's cooking with you, Ken? Acting batty since last night. Mean give back the two grand? Too late for that anyway.”

“We keep the dough and still win. Won't be easy, but I'm handy with this.” I took his hand, put it inside my coat, around the .45 stuck in my belt.

“So that's the way it is,” Bud said.

“Might not be a lead party.”

“Ken, stop talking in circles. What's in it for us if we cross them—outside of trouble?”

“Nothing, in a money way. Curzio is wearing the ring I gave Marion. No—wait till I've finished my say. You don't have to be a part of this, and I wouldn't ask you if I could think of any other out. Only I know what I got to do, and when the fireworks start, you'll be safer with me. I know how you and Paquita are set now, and I'm not asking you to chance getting killed to revenge Marion. That's my job. Bud, this is a hell of a deal we've stumbled on, that we're part of. May sound crazy, but it's true.”

“What's true? Ken, talk straight.”

“Okay. The reason we're getting all this dough, the big guarantee, the splash money, is—”

“A betting setup. I know that, but—”

“Betting my can! No more betting here than in Paris. Real reason is Curzio, Magano, those other creeps at the gym—they're all for making Massimo into another Mussolini! Gina told me that, and I didn't believe it then, but it has to be true. That's why Marion was bumped. She got to know Curzio and stumbled on the story.”

Disbelief was in Bud's eyes. “But Milo is such a dummy—even for a dictator.”

“He's the front, to catch the public's eye. Curzio told me that much. Bud this is a big-time racket—if they can get off the ground. They aren't planning merely to run Italy, but all Europe! Saw those antiques in the gym yesterday, some of Hitler's former goons, high brass, and others. Why for Christ sakes, Curzio even gave me a slight pitch about I might be useful in the States. These slobs are out to work the world. May sound like a movie, but we're up to our ears in an international plot!”

We walked in silence for a moment and I knew Bud was watching me. Maybe he thought I was crocked. I said, “I'm going to get Curzio, somehow. And I also want to spoil their party. That's where you come in, and why if I leave you here you get the dirty end of the stick. If you don't want to take Massimo, I get Curzio—and that's it. You know me, Bud. I never messed with politics before, but you see what deal they're trying to put down. You heard those cracks in the gym yesterday—the race stuff.”

“Thought that's what they were saying. But how did we get into this deal?”

“Gina says they picked you because you're an American and you're... colored. Fits in with their old racial sales talk. I'm no hero, but this is one time where we got to act.”

“You don't have to spell it out for me,” Bud said. “I'm a Negro, can smell those types a mile away. Suppose we cross them. Magano don't look like no amateur bad man. How do we get out of here? And how about the cops?”

“Forget the cops; these guys are in no spot to be exposed. That's why they killed Marion.”

“No; I mean why not tell all this to the cops and let them act?”

“Act on what? I can't prove a damn thing! Even the ring isn't proof of anything. No, it'd all end in a lot of yak-yak, we'd be in a jam over taking the dive money, and Curzio would lay back and pull the same thing a year from now. As for Magano, I got a plan.”

“Better be a good one.”

“The good thing about it is it's simple,” I said. “You flatten this bum fast as you can—in the first round, if possible—before they get wise. They won't dare pull anything in the open; they'd wait till we return to the dressing room. Only we're going straight from the ring to the car. I got your clothes there. Then we make a run for it. I know a way out of here we can use. If they start pumping lead, you hit the ground—be strictly my play. Without bragging, I'm a sharp joe with a rod. Sound okay?” As a plan it stunk, but I couldn't tell Bud that somehow, before we left Milan, I was going to take care of Curzio.

Bud was sweating a little and I thought he was going to give me the brush, when suddenly he laughed nervously, said, “Hell, Ken, as the saying goes—we only live once. We cross 'em!”

“Knew you'd see it.”

He rubbed his knuckles as though ready to fight that moment. “Your plan is good; they won't dare try anything with all the fans streaming out of the joint. And if these creeps ever did get in power, Europe would be no place for me and Paquita, so I have more at stake in this mess than you.” He shook his head and laughed bitterly as he added, “Wouldn't it be something if just when I'm set to retire, I get plugged?”

“Don't talk like that. We can pull this off.”

The arena was packed, I figured over 10,000, and they roared when Massimo, in a gold bathrobe that hurt the eyes, was introduced. They gave Bud a polite hand. Magano was sitting at ringside, near our corner, and he nodded at me. I wondered why he wasn't in Milo's corner. The count was sitting on the other side of the ring with his crowd. I waved to him, then winked at Magano and nodded toward the count and shrugged. Magano looked at me, his hard face puzzled, as I wanted him to be. A little added insurance he wouldn't start blasting as soon as he saw Milo get hit I shrugged at Magano again, then turned and massaged Bud's shoulders. We had some kid working as our second and when the ref called us to the center of the ring for instructions, the mob cheered, and I saw what Magano or Curzio were playing as another publicity gag—Massimo didn't have any seconds. Not a stool or even a water bucket—-he was strictly alone in the ring. He looked good as he took off his robe, threw it down to some sleek babe sitting near Curzio, then turned and waited for the bell.

I grabbed a towel from our second, took the .45 from inside my shirt, and held it under the towel as the bell rang.

It was really a comic fight, but I was in no mood to giggle. Massimo was so clumsy he fell over his feet as Bud went under a wild right and danced away. Milo jumped up, mad, came running in again, a scowl on his handsome face. He bulled Bud to the ropes and his idea of infighting was pitiful. Bud got in three hard, fast wallops to the gut before the ref broke them. On the break Massimo tried another roundhouse right, and Bud must have been expecting it—I saw him dig his feet into the canvas as he pulled his head a fraction of an inch out of the way, countered with a terrific left hook to the chin and a solid right over the heart that hurt. Milo looked puzzled.

I didn't dare turn around to look at Magano, and I didn't feel happy with my back exposed to him as I crouched by the ring steps.

Massimo came in like a crab, trying to clinch, and Bud feinted with his left, but the big ape was too dumb to fall for it, so Bud sidestepped, jabbing him twice on the right eye, drawing blood. When Milo raised his hands to protect his face, Bud came weaving in and crashed a right and left to the guts, and it sounded like the dull booming of distant cannons.

Massimo's eyes turned glassy as marbles, his mouth fought for air, his powerful arms hung at his sides, as he started sinking to the canvas in slow motion. Bud's right crossed to that big chin and Massimo pitched forward on his face, out cold... all those great muscles, the bright blond hair, quivering on the dirty canvas.

The arena was in an uproar—to my surprise the fans were cheering Bud. The ref counted Massimo out, counting slowly it seemed to me, but he could have counted for ten minutes instead of ten seconds and Milo would still be rubbing canvas. His robe on, Bud waved to the cheering crowd, and we ducked through the ropes and started up the aisle before the startled ref and announcer could stop us. I still had the towel over the gun in my right hand.

I felt a gun in my back before I heard or saw Magano. The gun jabbed my side and he was walking next to me, hand in coat pocket like a movie ham. He grunted, “You bastards! You dumb crumbs! That wasn't smart for—businessmen!”

“It hurt Bud's dignity to lose to a bum like Massimo,” I said, forcing myself to smile. I had to stall for time now, so I told him, “Why the rod? Curzio told us to win in the first.”

“What are you handing me?” Magano's eyes got so hard I thought they'd crack.

“Why, sure! Just as we were leaving the dressing room, the count came up, said there was a switch in the betting odds, and we were to win as fast as possible. How come you didn't know about it?”

“You're a damn liar!”

“Ask the count. Get him here,” I said innocently. We were at the tunnel that led under the seats to our dressing room. I guided Bud the other way, toward the street. Magano almost put his coat pocket through my kidney as he growled, “This way!”

I'd made one error in my plans—an error that could mean our lives. We'd left the ring too soon! The fans were still in their seats, and the tunnel was quiet and empty of people except for half a dozen rough jokers following us. Bud glanced at me out of the corner of his eye: sweat was rolling down his face. Down mine too.

At the door of our dressing room Magano made a mistake—he stepped aside to let me go through the door first, and for a split second his gun pocket wasn't pointing at either Bud or me. I conked him with my “towel” and pushed him into the room as his feet buckled. Bud slammed the door shut as I kicked Magano's wrist, then took his gun out of his pocket.

He sat on the floor, his head bleeding a little. Bud asked me, “Now where are we?”

“No place—yet. But we'll get out of here. I have a better idea that will work.”

Bud shook his head sadly as Magano got to his feet, held on to the rubbing table for a moment, then snarled, “You lousy rats! You'll die a—”

I kicked him in the shin and he sat down again, groaning. I said, “Cut the talk and do what I tell you. You're going to the door, stick your head out and tell one of your goons to bring Curzio here—bring him in a hurry, and bring him alone. Tell the goon this all nice and easy, like things are okay. Remember, I understand Italian better than you do, and if I have to start blasting, you get number one.” It was a lousy thing to do. I was sort of crossing Bud, but I knew only two things: maybe with the count and Magano I could make them take us out of the arena... and if we were trapped and going to get it, I wanted to be sure Curzio got his.

Yanking Magano to his feet with my left hand, I wiped the blood from his head with my sleeve. Then I spun him around so he was facing the door, jammed the gun into his groin: He started to scream and I clapped my left hand over his mouth—hard.

I told him, “Go to the door and stick your head out, and you make your little speech to the boys. And you're going to smile, keep your hands at your sides or in your pockets—look natural. If I have to fire this close, a .45 will rip you to shreds.”

His face went white and I took my hand from his mouth, said, “Now make with that tight smile you love so damn much!”

He grinned sickeningly and I told Bud to open the door a little and stand back. When Bud got the door open, I pushed Magano's head and shoulders out. I stood behind him, against the wall and out of sight. Vincent told them to get the count at once, get him alone. He said it with his usual nasty bark, and I pulled him back in and Bud locked the door, his gloves making his hands clumsy.

I took the gun out of his crotch and Magano fell back against the table. He really was a rugged banana; it only took a second for him to get control of himself, sneer, “You'll never leave the city. The railroads, the airport, everything will be closed! This ain't no two-bit gang stuff you're bucking...”

“Don't worry about us. When Curzio knocks, you stick your head out and you know where the gun will be. You ask him in. One phony word, one false motion of your eyes, and you get it.”

I wanted to get the gloves off Bud but I couldn't do it and hold a gun on Magano, and I was afraid Magano would try using Bud for a shield if I told him to untie the leather gloves. “Bud stand back of the door, shut and lock it soon as Curzio comes in—and get out of the way. Magano, if the count has anyone with him, tell them to wait outside.”

“You'll never—”

I kicked his feet out from under him and he went down again. I jerked him to his feet, said, “I'll tell you when to talk.”

Bud shivered and drew his bathrobe around him. I said, “Sorry if you're getting cold, but...”

“Cold! I'm burning with sweat!”

There was a knock on the door and I spun Vincent around, put the business end of the .45 between his legs. I called out, in Italian, “Who's there?”

“Count Curzio.”

I nodded to Bud and he opened the door and I pushed Magano half out. Before Vincent could say a word, Curzio said, “The world has tumbled on us!” slapped Magano across the face, then marched into our dressing room.

As Bud locked the door, I threw Magano at the count, knocking him to the other wall. I ran over and quickly frisked the count—he was clean. As I stepped back, Curzio shook himself, brushed his coat, glared at Magano and screamed, “Gutter rat! Common—”

Magano said coldly, “He says you told him to win in the first.”

“Of course he lies,” Curzio said, pronouncing the words slowly and clearly. “This is your handiwork, Vincent! This is what we get for dirtying our hands with a common thief, a pimp.

“Me?” Magano gasped. “He crossed us!”

“We shall pay you for this, Vincent. We have ways of dealing with traitors. You will die so painfully you will regret to your last breath you turned on us!”

Curzio was talking in Italian and Bud asked, “What's he saying?”

“Thinks Vince crossed him,” I said, glad the count was still wearing the ring.

Bud said, “Let's cut the chatter and start doing something.”

“You black idiot, you'll never—” Curzio began. Bud rapped him gently in the guts and Curzio doubled up and then got sick.

The count was very neat; even sick he remembered to get his feet out of the way. Bud was right. We had to get out, and fast; now that I had Curzio, if I could only get to the car, things would be set.

When he finished puking, I said, “Curzio, get this and get it fast. I...”

He looked tragic and ridiculous as he drew himself up, said, “Count Curzio, you mongrels! I am descended from the noble—”

“Far as I'm concerned you're descended from that,” I said, pointing to the mess on the floor. “And if you want to live, shut up! Magano is going through his act again. Tell his goons to take a powder, that we're all first-rate chums. Then the four of us are going to walk out of here—Bud first, and we three arm in arm. One wrong move and Magano gets the first blast, you stop the second slug.”

Curzio said, “You're mad if you think you can...”

“Told you to shut your noble yap! Bud, keep a glove over his mouth. Come on, Magano, let's do our number again. One false peep and I'll make a shooting gallery out of what makes you a man!”

With his left hand around Curzio's neck, the glove over his mouth, Bud managed to get the door unlocked with his right—after a few tries. I told Magano to open it, my gun buried in his rear. He stuck his head out, told his men, “You can go; everything is all right.”

I added, “There was a misunderstanding, but it is cleared up. Now we go to our hotel to dress, then to the airport.” I stuck my head over Magano's shoulder—out of butting range—slipped them my most charming smile, said, “Move, boys. Police might be interested in too large a crowd.”

They hung around for a moment, sullen faces uncertain. I moved the gun—like a doctor moving his finger to see if you're ruptured—and Magano gasped, “Go on! Scram!”

The lads left, and after a moment we started down the tunnel in the opposite direction, toward the street. Bud walked ahead, Curzio and I arm in arm—my left hand around his bent wrist. My right arm was around Magano's shoulder, as if we were boon chums—but my hand disappeared inside his coat and the .45 was pressing against his belly. If the goons rushed us, I could get Magano and disable Curzio, but they'd get us. A chance I had to take.

We were in luck—the tunnel was empty; so was the street, the fans already on their way home. The car was dimly lit by the one street lamp across from it, but it was light enough to see we were alone. Curzio said, “This is ridiculous, you'll never leave the airport. I have influence to...”

“Shut up!” There was the problem of unlocking the car—I had the keys in my pants pocket but Bud couldn't reach them with his gloved hands. I looked at him and Bud asked, “What's the matter?”

“Want to get my keys out. I'll let go of Curzio, you keep a hand on him. Magano is the lad I'm worried about.”

“This makes it easier?” Bud asked, crossing his right to Vincent's chin, dropping him like a rock.

Bud held on to Curzio while I got the keys out, unlocked the doors. Motioning for the count to get in the back seat, I took Bud's gloves off, told him to dress as he sat beside Curzio. I only had a shirt on, and I got my windbreaker out of the backseat, then hauled Magano into the front seat beside me and started the car.

I drove around aimlessly—no car followed us. I made some sharp turns into sidestreets, stopping the car suddenly and listening. We weren't being followed.

Bud asked, “Where's the rest of my clothes?”

“Forget them. Make sure your shoes are comfortable, no wrinkles in the socks, and put on those warm clothes.” Magano was coming to and I laid the .45 across my lap, pointing at him, drove with my right hand. Turning into the side road that would take us to Acosta, I pushed the gas pedal to the floor and the little car sped through the night. Curzio asked, “Where are you taking us?”

“Straight to hell,” I said, pleasantly.

Magano mumbled, “Look, I know when a deal is cold. Let us go and we'll—”

The count had regained his confidence. “No, no, let these blind fools play out their hand. They think they can make the border. Fine, we will see whose word the border guards will take. And once we have you... Vincent, you told me about some American gangster who ice-picked a man to death.”

“You whistle loudly in the dark, Curzio,” I said. “True somebody will die tonight, and I think you can guess who.”

“So, you will add murder to your crime!” Curzio cried.

“What crime?” Bud asked.

I said, “Curzio, murder isn't any novelty to you, nor to Magano. As for the border guards, the police, they'll be happy to get hold of you.” This last was a lie; I knew damn well Curzio would carry more weight with the cops than I would, and we'd be dead ducks before the cops realized their error in leaving us in Curzio's hands. But if I could get to Acosta without running into goons or cops, we were set.

Curzio chuckled. “We shall see. Who paid you to cross us?”

“It was our own idea.”

“One thing I will say for you, you have imagination and the courage to go with it—that's a great weapon. You have set us back a year, but we shall build up Massimo again and...”

“Aw, why don't you shut up?” Bud told him.

We drove in silence for almost an hour. It was a cold windy night, the moon clouding up now and then. I skirted Acosta and turned off into a dirt road and took that to the base of the mountain. The moon was clear for a few moments and in the distance we could see the snow frosting atop Mont Blanc. I drove the car off the road, said, “We're getting out here—but carefully. Aside from my having the gun, Bud and I can take you both with one hand in a rough and tumble, and you know it. So don't get stupid; don't try anything.” I'd made one mistake—leaving Magano's gun back in the dressing room. Should have given it to Bud.

We got out, all of us chattering with the sudden raw night cold. Bud asked, “Now what, Ken?”

“We walk out of Italy, through a little-known pass in these Alps. Take us right into France. I escaped through here once before, during the war.”

“Over these... these Alps?” Bud repeated, doubt in his voice.

“Sure; be in France by morning,” I said, but looking at the mountain towering over us I was far from certain. It had been rough going ten years ago, and I had a guide then.

“What do we do with our guests?” Bud asked.

“They go with us.”

“This is suicide!” Curzio gasped. “I am not dressed for climbing; I'll never make it!”

I grinned at him. “Tell you the truth, I couldn't care less.”

“You fool! I've climbed these mountains, I am an expert mountain climber. There isn't any pass here! None of us will survive!”

Bud came closer, whispered, “Ken, you sure about this? Look at that mountain; hardly cross it in a plane.”

“That's Mont Blanc, we don't even come near it. It won't be any snap, but we can make it. The pass cuts through the range, be a lot of exercise, but not much danger.” I tried to sound positive, but I could easily picture the two of us at the bottom of some crevice, our legs broken, dying a lonely, slow death.

Bud shrugged. “Then let's go. Sure won't be any snap with those hoods back in Milan either.”

I almost forgot the rope. I got this out of the car, tied Magano's left hand to the count's, leaving about ten feet of rope between them. Then I made a bundle of Bud's ring stuff, tied that on Magano's back. We were ready.

Going up the slope was easy and after we'd walked about a mile, I started going around the mountain. Bud was in front, walking where I told him, with Magano and Curzio following, and me bringing up the rear. I was worried; not only could we get lost, be still wandering around on Italian soil by daybreak, but it would be easy for Curzio to kick a stone down on me. But I had the count with me, and that was all that really mattered.

Now we climbed slowly. It was rugged going, crawling on our hands and knees most of the way. I kept looking for this tall, pointed rock: when Gina had left me hidden in the field while she went for rope and clothing, it was at this needlelike rock that I met her, where the pass really started. We finally circled the mountain, but I couldn't see anything that looked like the rock. It had been ten years since I was here; maybe the rock had changed or fallen.

We were all out of breath, cut and bruised. When I called a rest, Bud slid down beside me, whispered, “What are we taking these characters with us for?”

“If we leave them they get the cops or some experienced mountain climbers, and overtake us in a few hours.”

Bud shook his head. “Tough enough climbing, without worrying about them being behind me.”

“If it gets too rugged, we'll leave them,” I said, looking at the .45.

Curzio was about six feet from me and as I talked I saw him digging at a loose stone. I fired over his head and the gun echoed like wild thunder in the mountains, as though I'd shot a cannon. A landslide of rocks came crashing down somewhere in the distance.

Magano stuttered, “W-what y-y-you doing?”

Curzio cursed, yelled, “Idiot! You'll bury us alive!”

“Do that again, Count No-account and you'll be climbing minus an arm. Let's get moving.”

“I cannot. My shoes are torn,” Curzio said.

“Don't let it worry you, things are rough all over. Move!” I said.

We climbed and crawled and jumped and by the time we were pooped again, I still hadn't seen the marker-rock. I was almost certain I was going right, but after all these years I couldn't be sure of a damn thing.

Magano gave out before the count. He fell down, exhausted, and when I kicked him he only sobbed, his breath steaming in the cold night. We rested, then started climbing once more. I knew we should have seen the rock a long time ago. That night it had only taken me ten or fifteen minutes to find it. I let the moonlight hit my wrist watch. The crystal was busted, but the watch was still ticking. We'd already been climbing over an hour.

I didn't know what to do. Death was waiting for us if we were lost, and also waiting if we returned to Milan. The moon clouded up and we staggered over some giant rocks that were like great slabs of sandpaper. I was breathing so hard my lungs hurt—when I gave a cry of relief! There in the night mist stood the rock silently pointing up to the stormy sky like a dark lighthouse!

We rested, all of us sprawled out. I gave us a five-minute break, then we crawled around the rock, which was several hundred yards wide, and there was the pass—lined with jagged stones set like teeth in a cock-eyed saw. Most of the stones were thirty to fifty feet high.

I said, “Now we're set, this is it.”

“A mountain goat couldn't go through there!” Curzio said. “Even with a guide it would be risking death. I demand that you let us go. You took our money, were probably paid handsomely by whoever got you to cross us, isn't that enough? What have you against me?”

Bud gasped, “Hey... look!”

Through the mist I saw this ghost-like figure approaching us. I raised the .45 and was about to yell, “Who's there?” when I began giggling hysterically—for coming out of the haze was Gina, a knapsack of food on her back, coiled ropes over her shoulder, her pale face framed by a dark parka.

She said, “We heard on the radio that you had won. I knew you would be coming here. It is late, let us make haste.”

I RAN FORWARD, hugged her. She smiled at me shyly, then asked, “Who are these three? Be difficult to make time with such a large party.”

She was talking in Italian and Bud asked, “Who is she? What's she saying?”

“This is Gina, the girl I was telling you about,” I began. But Gina came up to him, asked if he spoke French and when Bud said he did, she told him in good French, “You are the fighter. I bless you for beating Massimo. These—” she turned to me—“Magano and Curzio. Why did you bring them?”

“French cops want them,” I said in French, “for the murder of a girl named Marion Severn.” Magano stared at the count, whose face showed no reaction, not even interest, so I knew he was playing dead-pan.

Curzio said, “Of course this is an absurd lie. I never heard of—what was her name?”

Grabbing him, I yanked the ring off his finger. Taking Bud's robe and stuff off Magano's back, I made a fire of them. They burned brightly for a few seconds. Inside the ring I saw, as I knew I would, the words: open heavy champ, 1941.

I slapped Curzio across the face, knocking him down. “One of your ring trophies! Know who won this? I did! And Marion was wearing it the day she was shot!”

He sat up, rubbed his red face. “I admit I lied; I bought it in a pawn shop,” he said calmly.

“Where?” I shouted.

“Why, in Oran, the time I saw Bud fight,” Curzio said. “Check on that, if you like. There is a pawn shop run by a Turk on the...”

I laughed in his puss. “Another lie. Bud never fought in Oran! Now tell me why you shot Marion!”

“I have nothing more to say. Take me to the police, if you wish. I insist I bought this ring in a...”

Grabbing Curzio by his collar, I dragged him to the edge of the rock we were on, held him right on the edge of a dark abyss. “Now talk fast or I'll let you drop! Why did you shoot Marion?”

“His collar tore but it was still choking him and he spluttered and foamed at the mouth. Bud suddenly grabbed him, rolled me away, got Curzio back on the rock. “Don't third-degree him, Ken. Won't get at the truth—anybody would lie to save their life.”

Gina looked down at Curzio, her dark eyes expressionless. She asked me, “This Marion was your girl?”

I nodded. Curzio got his breath back, suddenly whined, “Magano gave me the ring.”

“Sonofabitch! You came from Paris with the ring!” Magano screamed.

Curzio shrilled, “Swine!”

Magano made for him, but the rope on his hand hit a rock and he fell heavily. Gina touched my arm, “This is no place for this. Later we talk; now we must climb,” she said in French.

“Right,” Bud said. “I'm wet with sweat; we'll freeze to death with all this chatter.”

With Magano and the count cursing each other, we started out, Gina at the head of our column. We climbed for what seemed a lifetime but actually was only an hour—an hour of bursting lungs and numbed feet, clawing and scratching our way up and down rocks. The air became raw-cold and now and then my bleeding hands touched ice. She finally called a halt on a narrow plateau. We flung ourselves on the icy rock and lay there, exhausted.

Gina passed a flask around; it tasted like plain alcohol, but a tiny sip put fire in my veins. Magano got his breath back, sat up and told me, “I prove he lies. I know nothing of this killing of a girl. Here...” He dug into his inside pocket with bleeding, cracked hands, pulled out his wallet and some papers. “Make a light,” he said. “I read about the case in the Milano papers. Here is my passport, it will prove when I last entered and left France. I left Nice day after Bud's fight. This proves I wasn't in France when the girl was killed!”

Magano stood up, yanked on the rope and jerked Curzio to his feet. As he came up, the count hit Magano full in the face with a rock. Magano swayed in the wind like a drunk, then sat down and fell over. The blood on his face became red ice and his head was all out of shape. There was no doubt about his being dead.

As I picked up the wallet and the passport, Curzio screamed, “The swine lies! Would you take the word of a common thug against mine? It is simple to cross the border. And he has a forged passport!” His hysterical voice was nearly lost in the high wind.

Bud bent over Magano, then slowly untied the rope around the dead man's wrist.

I said, “Curzio, now you have a second murder to answer for.”

In the dim light reflected from where the moon was casting pale rays on the peaks above us, Curzio was gesturing like a drunken actor in his big scene as he bent against the wind. “Fools!” he screamed, speaking in English. “Here we die like trapped animals, and I could make you masters of the world! We had the supreme plan, not the stupid goose-stepping of Hitler or the vainglorious acts of Mussolini. A United Europe, a United World will be ours! With power at your grasp, you have to be idiots, like that whore, Miss Severn. When I found out she was writing an article, I offered her the rule of any country she wanted. But she laughed at me, she had to be killed!”

I jumped at him, his words stinging my face like acid. Curzio stepped backwards, his scream lost in the raging wind as he disappeared from sight. Bud tackled me, bringing the both of us crashing down on the edge of the rock—if he hadn't I would have fallen over on top of the count.

Gina came over, said, “Enough! Save your strength for climbing.”

We crawled back from the edge of the plateau. Bud got to his feet as if he was punchy and I was lightheaded when I managed to stand. I felt both cheated and relieved—sorry I hadn't avenged Marion myself, but at the same time glad I hadn't killed. If I felt confused, for the first time in years I also felt good—as though I'd dropped a weight I'd been lugging around for too long.

Above the whine of the wind, we all heard this sharp sound, like the moan of a person in high pain. Gina took a stick from her pack. It was soaked in petrol and formed a blazing torch. Crawling to the edge of the rock, she motioned for us to follow. There on a ledge about two feet wide, and some twenty feet below us, Count Curzio lay on his back. By torchlight, his face was a pale mask, and both hands were raised, as if pleading with us. He tried to sit up and his mouth formed an O and a second later we heard the scream of pain.

Bud said, “Gina, hitch your rope to... something, lower it to him.”'

Gina crawled back and we followed her. She rolled the lighted wood on the rock with her foot and everything became pitch-black. I blinked to get used to the darkness. I saw Bud reach for her rope and she pulled away, “It is no use. His back is undoubtedly broken.”

“But we just can't leave him there to die,” Bud said.

“Nor can we afford to carry him across the pass,” Gina said calmly.

We heard Curzio scream again, for some reason the sound cut through the noise of the wind, seemed clear as a bell. Bud said, “Damn it, we can't leave him, and do nothing. Ken, talk to her!”

“Yeah, guess we should...” I began.

“Do what?” Gina cut in. “I will not risk my life to go down to him. And you two could never make it. Besides, it would be useless.”

“But—he's dying!” Bud said.

“Yes he will die within a few minutes, and not suffer as much as he should. Life—another person's life—was always held cheaply by men like Curzio. For me, his life is of little matter. I will not risk my life for him, nor will I help you do it. Come, let us go on, it is getting late. Our sweat will freeze if we don't move soon.”

Bud looked at her, his mouth open. He said one word. It sounded like, “Wow!”

“What about Magano?” I asked. “Shall we push his body over? Suppose it's found?”

“Little chance of either bodies being found here. Maybe months or years before this pass is used again. Even the cigarette smugglers do not know of this route. And if the bodies are found and connected with us, we tell the truth; there was a fight and Curzio fell after killing Magano. Now let us stop talking and go. Their world has been dead for a long time; our world would have been a brighter one if they had never been born.”

Gina drove us hard the rest of the night, as though to make up for lost time. Bud and I were in fighting shape, yet we puffed and stumbled along, muscles aching, lungs numb, eyeballs frozen. But Gina kept moving with expert ease, never seeming to tire.

It was only when we were descending and the sky was streaked with dawn, that she gave us a long rest. We ate and even slept a little, the three of us curled together like animals for warmth.

But as the sun came up Gina made us move, and finally we were on the last slope and a village lay below us. She said, “You go on. I will rest and start back in the evening. From this village you get a bus to Albertville, then to Grenoble where you can take the Paris train. Your passports do not show any entry into France—a rubber stamp can be made to take care of that. How did you reach Acosta—by car?”

“Yes.”

“Give me the keys. I will have the car returned.”

I gave her the keys, the name of the company and some money we owed for the rental.

Bud said, “Why can't we all wait here, till you're ready to go back?”

“No, no,” Gina said. “Three people are too easy to see. If the border guards spot us, they may return us all to Italy. While we have nothing to hide, we would have much to explain, so be careful what you say to friends.”

Bud and I shook hands with her and I started to burn Magano's Italian passport. Gina stopped me. “No fire here. Later you destroy it.” I took all the dough out of his wallet, a big pile of American and Italian bills, told her to take it.

She shook her head. I held her against me, so she couldn't move, shoved the cash into both pockets of her jacket. I said, in Italian, “You may not believe it, but we Americans have a very old and wise saying: Never turn down a buck. Good-bye, Gina.”

I kissed her and for a moment our lips were warm and strong against each other; then she broke away. She looked very pretty—her pale face red from the wind, her eyebrows two black lines, unpainted full lips a natural lush red.

She smiled and said, “Good-bye to you both. Once more, you have given us something more valuable than all the money in the world... hope.”

Turning, she started back up the slope, was soon lost in the trees.

As Bud and I ran down the slope, he asked, “What did she say?”

“She said... hard to translate it into English. She said... everything will be okay.”

“Thought it was something like that. What a woman!”

“Yeah.”

“Think of her going back through those mountains tonight, alone, stepping over Magano. I mean—she's pretty, got courage and...”

“Let's cut the chatter. And don't go so fast, we can still break our necks going down this slope.”

Bud and I were eating in the railway station at Grenoble, waiting for the Paris train. We'd slept around the clock after soaking in a hot tub. I'd phoned Matt Tucker, telling him what I could. He said, “That's about what I figured the Massimo buildup was for. Not much of a story now, but might do a book on it some day.”

“Why—it must be a sensational story!”

“Would have been if Massimo had won, a real front-page expose. By flattening Milo, you boys about ruined the news value. Don't worry about the story; the important thing is you ruined their plans. Maybe I'll try a piece about it, sort of hinting what would have happened. Hope Count Curzio doesn't start a libel suit.”

“He won't.”

“Phoned his villa last night. Know where he is?”

“No. Probably someplace where it's warm,” I said, laying on the corn.

“You mean on the Rivera?”

“I wouldn't know.” Matt's laughter at the other end of the line told me he'd guessed but wouldn't talk. Of course I hadn't mentioned Gina, the pass, or Marion.

Bud chewed the lemon peel from his vermouth as he examined the cuts on his hands. “Think of it, no more training grind for me. Sleep late, get fat running my hotel. Get a mate for Ernest, start raising poodles too. Then there's Tony; the kid ought to make out over here, in time. I'll be a regular business tycoon.”

“You're set; can't miss.”

“You have half of Tony.”

“I hereby make you a gift of my share of the kid.”

Bud hesitated, said, “Why don't you come in with us? Might even teach you how to cook.”

I shook my head, finished my beer and ordered another. For the first time since the war I felt completely at ease, relaxed as a drunk, only I was very sober.

Bud said, “You'll have to apply for a carte d'identite soon, have to show some means of income, so an interest in the hotel will...”

“You can shove the carte d'identite. This is getaway day for me. I'm taking the first boat back to the States.”

“You're what? What would you do back there? Slats will see to it you don't get any pugs or....”

“Hell with Slats. Since when did he get to be the USA? I don't know what I'll do. Wash dishes, even be a bouncer if I have to. But whatever it is, it will be back in the States where I belong.”

Bud shook his head. “I don't get it. You came over here to get away from the States.”

“But that was before. Now, well—I've snapped out of my daydreaming. Stopped running from shadows, living in dreams. I've been like a kid, thinking I was in love with Marion, with Gina. I wasn't. I wasn't a lot of things. One thing I know, I no longer feel like an outsider. I'm going home. I'm Johnny Banana again, one of the bunch.”

“I don't know,” Bud said slowly. “Home isn't a place, it's where you're happy.”

“Exactly. Paris may be home to you, but I was always a foreigner. I got a terrific longing for the States. Don't know quite how to say it, but somehow all we've been through has given me confidence in the people, all the people, including myself. Marion never had that confidence. You—I don't know about you. But for me, everything will be okay in the States. I mean, I got this feeling strong and sure. I want home.”

“Words tumble out of your mouth, but they don't make sense,” Bud said.

“Maybe because it's something not meant for words. It's a feeling, a hell of a feeling right from the heart—for me.”