Chapter 9 Chapter 9: The Black Knife
When I woke up the next morning, I had an idea in my head.Bosheng City only has about 40,000 residents, so it shouldn't be difficult to spread a message.At ten o'clock I was already on the air.
Pool rooms, cigar shops, speakeasies, drink shops, and street corners—anywhere I can find a guy or two hanging out with nothing to do, I spread out.
I have a knack for spreading news like: "Excuse me...thanks...going to the game tonight?... I hear Ike Bush is going to fake his death in the sixth round..the inside story, I heard it from the Whisperers... yes, they all."
People like inside information, and in Bosheng City, any information with Thaler's name on it is considered a first-class secret.The word spread smoothly, and half the people who heard it from me worked almost as hard as I did to show they knew something.
When I first started spreading the word, the odds were 4/7 for Ike Bush to win, 3/2 for a knockout.At two o'clock, there was no longer a casino that offered better odds than even money.And at 3:30, the odds of Cooper kid winning were 2 to 1.
My last stop was a restaurant.Over a hot beef sandwich, I spread the word to the waiter and two customers.
When I walked out of the restaurant, I found someone waiting for me at the door.He had bow legs and a pointed, jutting jaw like a pig.He nodded at me and followed me, squinting at my face with a toothpick in his mouth.When he turned the corner he spoke.
"I know that's not the case."
"What?" I asked.
"Ike Bush is going to lose - I know that's not the case."
"Then you don't have to worry about it. But smart people are betting money on Cooper winning 2 to 1. He is not that good unless Bush releases water."
The pig's jaw spat out a chewed toothpick and smacked its yellow teeth at me.
"He told me that the Cooper thing was arranged, he said it last night, but he wouldn't do that — he wouldn't do that to me."
"Is he your friend?"
"Not really, but we know—hey, listen! Did the Whisperer really tell you that? No lie?"
"No lie."
He cursed viciously. "I took that dead rat at his word and poured the last thirty-five dollars in my pocket on him. Well, that might make him—" He broke off abruptly, looking down the street.
"What could he possibly do?" I asked.
"Lots of things," he said, "nothing."
I make a suggestion.
"Since you have something on him, maybe we should talk. To me, I don't care about seeing Bush win. If you have something in your hand, why don't you go and make it clear to him?"
He looked at me, then at the sidewalk, fumbled in his breast pocket for another toothpick, put it in his mouth, and muttered, "Who are you?"
I gave him a random name, Hunter, Hunter, or Huntington, and asked what his name was.He said his name was McSwain, Bob McSwain.I can't find anyone to ask if the name is real or not.
I said I believed him and asked, "What do you think? Shall we push Bush?"
A cold gleam appeared in his eyes, then faded away.
"No." He swallowed. "I'm not that kind of person. Never—"
"Never do anything, just wait for others to trick you. McSwain, you don't have to come out and sing against him, tell me the news, and I will do it—if the news is good enough."
He thought for a while, licked his lips, and let the toothpick fall off, sticking to the front of his coat.
"You won't say that this matter has something to do with me?" He asked, "I belong here, and if this matter is exposed, I won't get mixed up. You won't reveal his matter either, Just make him punch well, right?"
"right."
He grabbed my hand excitedly and said, "Swear to God?"
"I swear to God."
"His real name is Al Kennedy. Two years ago, he participated in the robbery of the Cornerstone Trust Company in Philadelphia. Haggerty's men killed two messengers on the spot. Al didn't kill anyone, but he made the trip Water. Everyone else got caught, and he was a coward in Philly, so he got out. That's why he ran here and hid, and didn't let them put pictures in newspapers or flyers. Although he was a top player, he Can only pretend to be mediocre. Do you understand? This Ike Bush is the cornerstone case that the Philadelphia police wanted to catch Al Kennedy, understand? He was involved in--"
"Understood, understood." I interrupted his endless repetition, "The next thing to do is find him. Where are we going to find him?"
"He lives in Maxville on Union Street. I guess he's resting there now, getting ready for the fight."
"Why prepare? He doesn't know he's got to do a serious job tonight. But we're going to try."
"We! We? Where's the 'us'? You said—you swore you wouldn't drag me down."
"Yes," I said, "I remember. What did he look like?"
"A dark-haired kid, a little skinny, with a flowered ear and two eyebrows that meet in a line. I'm not sure you can convince him."
"Leave it to me. Where can I find you after that?"
"I'll hang around Murray. Be careful not to tell me, you promised."
The Maxwell is one of a cluster of hotels on Union Street, its narrow front door wedged between a store and a dark flight of stairs leading to a second-floor office building.The hotel reception occupies only an open space in the corner of the foyer, with a wooden counter in desperate need of repainting and behind it a lattice shelf for keys and mail.On the counter was a brass rattle and a dirty register.nobody. I went back eight pages to find Ike Bush.The notebook reads: Room 214, Salt Lake City.The box next to this number is empty.I climbed a few more flights of stairs, came to the door with this number written on it, and knocked, but there was no movement.I tried two or three more times, then walked back up the stairs. Someone came up, and I stood at the top of the stairs, waiting for someone to catch a glimpse. The surrounding light was just enough for me to see clearly. The comer was a lean, stocky lad in an army shirt, blue coat, and gray cap; black eyebrows formed in a straight line over his eyes. I said: "Hello!" He nodded, didn't stop, and didn't speak. "Can you win tonight?" I asked. "Hopefully," he replied curtly, walking past me. I let him take four more steps toward the door before I said, "I do. I don't want to send you back to Philadelphia, Al." He took another step, then turned his head slowly, leaning one shoulder against the wall, lowered his eyelids, and muttered, "Oh?" "I'd be pissed off if you got beat up in the sixth round or something by an asshole like the Cooper kid. Don't do that, Al, and you sure don't want to go back to Philly." The young man lowered his head and walked towards me, stopped at a place where I could reach me, and turned his left side slightly.His hands hang down naturally, and mine are in the pockets of the windbreaker. He said again: "Oh?" I said, "Remember—if Ike Bush doesn't win tonight, Al Kennedy's going to have to get a ride back East Coast tomorrow morning." His left shoulder rose an inch, and I spun the pistol in my pocket.He said angrily, "how did you know that I can't win tonight?" "Just what I heard. I don't think there's any conspiracy involved, except for a bus ticket back to Philadelphia." "I should have smashed your jaw, you fat pig." "Then take it now," I challenged. "If you win tonight, it's unlikely you'll see me again. But if you lose, we'll meet again, but your hands won't be like they are now." free." I found McSwain at Murray, a pool room on Broadway. "Did you find him?" he asked. "Found it. It's all done—as long as he doesn't actually get knocked out, or talk to his funding boss, or ignore me, or—" McSwain tensed up. "You better be fucking careful," he warned me. "They might try to get rid of you. He—I'm going to find someone on the street." He left me and walked away.
The professional boxing matches in Drug Town are held in a large old wooden casino, located in an abandoned fairground on the edge of the city.I got there at 8:30 and it felt like the whole city was there.The tight rows of folding chairs in the main stadium were filled with people, and the benches on either side of the stadium were filled with more people. The smoke was lingering, the stench was soaring, the heat was unbearable, and it was noisy. My seat is in the third row near the ring.As I walked there, I saw Dan Rolfe sitting not far away on the aisle, with Dinah Bland beside him.She had finally had her hair cut and waved, and there seemed to be a lot of money hidden in her gray fur coat. "Bet on Cooper?" she asked after greeting each other. "No. Did you bet a lot?" "Not as much as I'd hoped. We were going to wait until the odds were better before making big bets, but it didn't turn out like that." "Almost everyone in town knows that Bush is going to pretend to be knocked out," I said. "A few minutes ago, I saw someone bet a hundred dollars on Cooper." I leaned over and put my mouth on the woman The ear hidden in the gray fur collar whispered: "Diving is cancelled. While there is still time, let's make another bet!" Her large, bloodshot eyes are wide open with anxiety, greed, curiosity, and suspicion. "Really?" she asked in a low voice. "certainly." Biting her bright red lips, she frowned and asked, "Where did you get the news?" I refuse to say.She bit her lip again and asked, "Does Max know?" "I didn't see him, is he here?" "It should be." She said absent-mindedly, her eyes were looking into the distance, her lips opened and closed as if counting. I said, "Believe it or not, it depends on whether you have the guts." She leaned forward, looked me straight in the eye, gritted her teeth, opened the handbag, pulled out a roll of bills as thick as a coffee can, and slipped a portion of it to Rolf. "Here, Dan, bet on Bush. Got an hour to see the odds anyway." Rolf staggered away with the money.I sat in his seat, and Dinah put her hand on my forearm, and said, "If you've lost my money, pray to God to help you." I acted like the idea was ridiculous. The preliminaries start, first you come and go for four rounds.I continued to look around for Thaler, but couldn't find it.The girls crowded around me hardly paid attention to the fight, half of their energy was spent asking me where I got the news, and the other half was threatening me that if I caused her to lose the money, I must go to hell and burn to death. When Rolf came back, the semi-finals had already started, and he handed the girl a wad of tickets.As I was about to return to my seat, Dinah, her eyes busy scanning the tickets, said to me without looking up, "Wait for us outside after the game." While I was still making my way to the seat, Cooper Kid was already on the ring.He is a red-haired, stocky young man with a sunken face and a ring of fat showing in light purple shorts.Ike Bush—that is, Al Kennedy—went in through the other side of the rope loop.His figure looked better, strong, graceful, and alive—but pale and anxious. They waited for the host to finish the introduction, walked to the center of the arena and listened to the rules of the game, and then returned to their respective corners, took off their bathrobes, and stretched their bodies by the ropes.The gong sounded and the game began. Cooper is a big, clumsy man who swings around like he's about to hurt someone.Any able-bodied man would avoid him though.Bush is very personable - quick footsteps, smooth and fast left fist, coupled with a crisp right.The skinny boy could have killed Cooper on the spot if he wanted to.But he didn't do that.That's right, instead of thinking about how to win, he was thinking about how not to win, and he did his best for it. Cooper wobbled persistently around the field while throwing his fists around exaggeratedly, targeting everything from lights to corner flagpoles.His strategy is to simply let go and try his luck.Bush kept jumping in and out, and when he remembered, he punched the opponent, but the fist was not powerful. Before the first round was over, the audience began to boo, and the second round even developed into cursing.I don't think so, it looks like our little chat didn't have an effect on Bush.Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Dinah Bland trying to get my attention.She looked pissed off.I was careful not to let her catch my eye. In the third round, the "indoor friendship drama" continued.People in the audience kept yelling "Throw them out", "Why don't you just kiss him", and "Tell them to hit him".In the space of a booing pause, this doggy waltz just jumped into the corner closest to me. I folded my hands into a trumpet shape and yelled, "Al, go back to Philadelphia!" Bush, with his back to me, was tangling with Cooper, and suddenly shoved him onto the ropes, which caused him—Bush—to turn to face me. From some far corner in the back of the arena came another yell: "Al, go back to Philadelphia!" My guess is McSwain. A drunk on the sidelines throws up his fat face and yells the same thing, then laughs like it's a super-funny joke.Others also roared for no reason, seeming to annoy Bush now.His eyes flicked back and forth under his black-striped eyebrows. Cooper's wild swing landed on the side of the skinny guy's jaw. Ike Bush fell at the feet of the umpire. The referee counts to five in two seconds and ends with the sound of a gong. I looked back at Dinah Brand and smiled, there was really no other way.She looked at me too, but didn't smile.Her face was as ugly as Dan Rolfe's, only angrier. Bush's trainer pulled him back into the corner and massaged him to relax, but he didn't take it too seriously.He opened his eyes and looked at his feet.Then the gong sounded again. Kid Cooper shuffled out, pulling up his shorts.Bush waited for the useless hunk to reach the center of the field, and suddenly approached him, extremely fast. Bush's left fist dropped, lifted - and could clearly be seen sinking into Cooper's stomach.Cooper said "Ah," and backed away, curled up in a ball. Bush threw a right fist straight into his mouth, knocking him straight.Then came another left punch.Cooper said "Ah!" again, this time unable to straighten his knees. Bush patted him on the side of the head, first with a right fist, then with a long, careful left hand that knocked Cooper back in the face, and finally with a right from his chin that landed straight on the ground. Cooper's chin. Everyone present felt the power of this punch. Cooper hit the floor, bounced, and stopped.It took the referee half a minute to count ten seconds, but even if he had spent half an hour, the result would have been the same.Cooper Kid is out. The referee finally finished counting the score procrastinatingly, and then raised Bush's hand.Neither looked very happy. A light broke into my field of vision, and then a silver light streaked obliquely from a small box upstairs. There is a woman's scream. The slanting silver light ended on the ring, accompanied by a jingle. Ike Bush's hand slipped from the referee's grasp and fell onto Kid Cooper with a black-handled knife stuck in the back of his neck.
Notes:
The Maxwell is one of a cluster of hotels on Union Street, its narrow front door wedged between a store and a dark flight of stairs leading to a second-floor office building.The hotel reception occupies only an open space in the corner of the foyer, with a wooden counter in desperate need of repainting and behind it a lattice shelf for keys and mail.On the counter was a brass rattle and a dirty register.nobody. I went back eight pages to find Ike Bush.The notebook reads: Room 214, Salt Lake City.The box next to this number is empty.I climbed a few more flights of stairs, came to the door with this number written on it, and knocked, but there was no movement.I tried two or three more times, then walked back up the stairs. Someone came up, and I stood at the top of the stairs, waiting for someone to catch a glimpse. The surrounding light was just enough for me to see clearly. The comer was a lean, stocky lad in an army shirt, blue coat, and gray cap; black eyebrows formed in a straight line over his eyes. I said: "Hello!" He nodded, didn't stop, and didn't speak. "Can you win tonight?" I asked. "Hopefully," he replied curtly, walking past me. I let him take four more steps toward the door before I said, "I do. I don't want to send you back to Philadelphia, Al." He took another step, then turned his head slowly, leaning one shoulder against the wall, lowered his eyelids, and muttered, "Oh?" "I'd be pissed off if you got beat up in the sixth round or something by an asshole like the Cooper kid. Don't do that, Al, and you sure don't want to go back to Philly." The young man lowered his head and walked towards me, stopped at a place where I could reach me, and turned his left side slightly.His hands hang down naturally, and mine are in the pockets of the windbreaker. He said again: "Oh?" I said, "Remember—if Ike Bush doesn't win tonight, Al Kennedy's going to have to get a ride back East Coast tomorrow morning." His left shoulder rose an inch, and I spun the pistol in my pocket.He said angrily, "how did you know that I can't win tonight?" "Just what I heard. I don't think there's any conspiracy involved, except for a bus ticket back to Philadelphia." "I should have smashed your jaw, you fat pig." "Then take it now," I challenged. "If you win tonight, it's unlikely you'll see me again. But if you lose, we'll meet again, but your hands won't be like they are now." free." I found McSwain at Murray, a pool room on Broadway. "Did you find him?" he asked. "Found it. It's all done—as long as he doesn't actually get knocked out, or talk to his funding boss, or ignore me, or—" McSwain tensed up. "You better be fucking careful," he warned me. "They might try to get rid of you. He—I'm going to find someone on the street." He left me and walked away.
The professional boxing matches in Drug Town are held in a large old wooden casino, located in an abandoned fairground on the edge of the city.I got there at 8:30 and it felt like the whole city was there.The tight rows of folding chairs in the main stadium were filled with people, and the benches on either side of the stadium were filled with more people. The smoke was lingering, the stench was soaring, the heat was unbearable, and it was noisy. My seat is in the third row near the ring.As I walked there, I saw Dan Rolfe sitting not far away on the aisle, with Dinah Bland beside him.She had finally had her hair cut and waved, and there seemed to be a lot of money hidden in her gray fur coat. "Bet on Cooper?" she asked after greeting each other. "No. Did you bet a lot?" "Not as much as I'd hoped. We were going to wait until the odds were better before making big bets, but it didn't turn out like that." "Almost everyone in town knows that Bush is going to pretend to be knocked out," I said. "A few minutes ago, I saw someone bet a hundred dollars on Cooper." I leaned over and put my mouth on the woman The ear hidden in the gray fur collar whispered: "Diving is cancelled. While there is still time, let's make another bet!" Her large, bloodshot eyes are wide open with anxiety, greed, curiosity, and suspicion. "Really?" she asked in a low voice. "certainly." Biting her bright red lips, she frowned and asked, "Where did you get the news?" I refuse to say.She bit her lip again and asked, "Does Max know?" "I didn't see him, is he here?" "It should be." She said absent-mindedly, her eyes were looking into the distance, her lips opened and closed as if counting. I said, "Believe it or not, it depends on whether you have the guts." She leaned forward, looked me straight in the eye, gritted her teeth, opened the handbag, pulled out a roll of bills as thick as a coffee can, and slipped a portion of it to Rolf. "Here, Dan, bet on Bush. Got an hour to see the odds anyway." Rolf staggered away with the money.I sat in his seat, and Dinah put her hand on my forearm, and said, "If you've lost my money, pray to God to help you." I acted like the idea was ridiculous. The preliminaries start, first you come and go for four rounds.I continued to look around for Thaler, but couldn't find it.The girls crowded around me hardly paid attention to the fight, half of their energy was spent asking me where I got the news, and the other half was threatening me that if I caused her to lose the money, I must go to hell and burn to death. When Rolf came back, the semi-finals had already started, and he handed the girl a wad of tickets.As I was about to return to my seat, Dinah, her eyes busy scanning the tickets, said to me without looking up, "Wait for us outside after the game." While I was still making my way to the seat, Cooper Kid was already on the ring.He is a red-haired, stocky young man with a sunken face and a ring of fat showing in light purple shorts.Ike Bush—that is, Al Kennedy—went in through the other side of the rope loop.His figure looked better, strong, graceful, and alive—but pale and anxious. They waited for the host to finish the introduction, walked to the center of the arena and listened to the rules of the game, and then returned to their respective corners, took off their bathrobes, and stretched their bodies by the ropes.The gong sounded and the game began. Cooper is a big, clumsy man who swings around like he's about to hurt someone.Any able-bodied man would avoid him though.Bush is very personable - quick footsteps, smooth and fast left fist, coupled with a crisp right.The skinny boy could have killed Cooper on the spot if he wanted to.But he didn't do that.That's right, instead of thinking about how to win, he was thinking about how not to win, and he did his best for it. Cooper wobbled persistently around the field while throwing his fists around exaggeratedly, targeting everything from lights to corner flagpoles.His strategy is to simply let go and try his luck.Bush kept jumping in and out, and when he remembered, he punched the opponent, but the fist was not powerful. Before the first round was over, the audience began to boo, and the second round even developed into cursing.I don't think so, it looks like our little chat didn't have an effect on Bush.Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Dinah Bland trying to get my attention.She looked pissed off.I was careful not to let her catch my eye. In the third round, the "indoor friendship drama" continued.People in the audience kept yelling "Throw them out", "Why don't you just kiss him", and "Tell them to hit him".In the space of a booing pause, this doggy waltz just jumped into the corner closest to me. I folded my hands into a trumpet shape and yelled, "Al, go back to Philadelphia!" Bush, with his back to me, was tangling with Cooper, and suddenly shoved him onto the ropes, which caused him—Bush—to turn to face me. From some far corner in the back of the arena came another yell: "Al, go back to Philadelphia!" My guess is McSwain. A drunk on the sidelines throws up his fat face and yells the same thing, then laughs like it's a super-funny joke.Others also roared for no reason, seeming to annoy Bush now.His eyes flicked back and forth under his black-striped eyebrows. Cooper's wild swing landed on the side of the skinny guy's jaw. Ike Bush fell at the feet of the umpire. The referee counts to five in two seconds and ends with the sound of a gong. I looked back at Dinah Brand and smiled, there was really no other way.She looked at me too, but didn't smile.Her face was as ugly as Dan Rolfe's, only angrier. Bush's trainer pulled him back into the corner and massaged him to relax, but he didn't take it too seriously.He opened his eyes and looked at his feet.Then the gong sounded again. Kid Cooper shuffled out, pulling up his shorts.Bush waited for the useless hunk to reach the center of the field, and suddenly approached him, extremely fast. Bush's left fist dropped, lifted - and could clearly be seen sinking into Cooper's stomach.Cooper said "Ah," and backed away, curled up in a ball. Bush threw a right fist straight into his mouth, knocking him straight.Then came another left punch.Cooper said "Ah!" again, this time unable to straighten his knees. Bush patted him on the side of the head, first with a right fist, then with a long, careful left hand that knocked Cooper back in the face, and finally with a right from his chin that landed straight on the ground. Cooper's chin. Everyone present felt the power of this punch. Cooper hit the floor, bounced, and stopped.It took the referee half a minute to count ten seconds, but even if he had spent half an hour, the result would have been the same.Cooper Kid is out. The referee finally finished counting the score procrastinatingly, and then raised Bush's hand.Neither looked very happy. A light broke into my field of vision, and then a silver light streaked obliquely from a small box upstairs. There is a woman's scream. The slanting silver light ended on the ring, accompanied by a jingle. Ike Bush's hand slipped from the referee's grasp and fell onto Kid Cooper with a black-handled knife stuck in the back of his neck.
Notes: