Page 109 - Just Deserts

The Sirocco Lites 26K Run for the Money

Ace La Manza had no memory for names, but he never forgot a
face. The man approaching him now at the bar in Tony’s Sports
Lounge was not a stranger, not entirely. But not one of the
promoter’s inner circle of cronies, broken-down ex-pugilists and
errand-boys: no, this character, Ace decided, was familiar simply
because he had been in Ace’s vicinity at one or another sporting
event in the recent past. So he could be somebody’s brother looking
for a handout, or somebody else’s brother looking to use Ace’s head
as a punching bag.
The guy was friendly, though, and more than sufficiently
deferential. “Hi, Ace. I’m Boyd Brainard. I’ve got an idea we can do
some business. You got a moment?”
“That depends,” Ace grunted. “If you know me, you know I only
do business with people I know.”
“Oh, I know that all right,” said the other man, sliding onto the
stool next to Ace. “Let me give you my card.” He stuck his right
hand into an inner pocket of his mohair sports jacket and pulled out
a business card. “Hey, barkeep: give Ace another one of whatever
he’s drinking and pour one for me, too.”
La Manza took the card and squinted at it in the hazy
polychromatic glow of electric beer signs. Then he scratched his
freckled scalp.
“Says here you are a marketing representative. But I’ve seen you
around town, and not at any markets.”
Boyd grinned, flashing a dentition enhanced by one gold tooth
and a toothpick. He shifted the latter as the drinks arrived. “Well,
you’re a sports promoter, Ace, and I’ve never seen you on a playing
field.”
“Ha-ha-ha! That’s a laugh! How long you think I’d last in any kind
of ball game, buddy? Ha-ha-ha!”
“Aw, heck, Ace,” said Brainard, evidently pleased at amusing La
Manza but making it clear no insult was intended. “I know you’re a
real sportsman, not some dumb jock getting himself knocked silly for
a few bucks. I just wanted to make a little proposition to you. You

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