The Big Knock-Out

 

 

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman-with kudos to Raymond Chandler

Every wise guy, every sporting guy, every crippled corner newsie, hell, everybody over the age of twelve, no more, knows, knows to a certainty that boxing, you know guys (and these days gals) beating each other down for the amusement of the blood-lusted crowds is fixed. Is fixed six ways to Sunday even before the first bell is sounded. It is worst now than in the old days when you at least knew that when a champ was crowned he was the one and only champ not like now the World Boxing this, Federated Boxing that, and United Boxing the other thing handing out gaudy belts like they were going out of style. But just so nobody gets all nostalgic about the good old days, gets misty-eyed that only one champ meant only one skinning on the bet line, only one fix, let’s look at our trusty brother tough-edged, hard guy private eye Philip Marlowe as he tried to unravel murder and mayhem on the canvas. And while Marlowe had seen it all, had figured out a few things in his time he almost for a minute believed with this kid, this well-built, scrappy kid that was being groomed for a championship fight was on the up and up. That momentary slip almost cost him his life so listen up.

Philip thought that he really should have passed on the job, should have just walked away and maybe seen if that graveyard shift as the house peeper at the old Taft Hotel was still available. Yes, he was short of dough, short of office rent money, short of room rent but lining himself up with Jacky Craig, the, ah, boxing promoter, and man of many operations, mostly illegal gave him pause. But damn that rent had to be paid and so in the year of our lord 1940 one more gumshoe took a walk on the wild side and he showed up at Craig’s gym to find out what was expected of him. See what Jackie wanted to see him about.

Of course a wise guy, if he wants to stay a wise guy, or at least alive covers himself with layers of protection so Philip was prepared when he was frisked by Frankie Lip, a cheapjack gunsel who had been with Craig for years, before entering his majesty’s office. The nature of Craig’s offer though was pretty straight up, pretty straight up on the face of it, a job for a tough guy private eye and not for some brainless muscle only good for taking shots to protect the boss. What Jackie wanted was for Marlowe to investigate who had been threatening Earl Avery, the best fighter in his stable and a boxer everybody said was slated to take a run for the light heavy-weight championship, when he was ready. Not only had somebody, some punk, Jackie called him been threatening the Earl but also Jean, the girlfriend that Jackie had provided to keep Earl amused, and to keep an eye on him in the sex, drugs, booze department.  No booze, no dope and one girl, this Jean who had Earl under her thumb about two minutes after he saw her.         

This Jean was a looker, the kind of woman Marlowe favored, the kind he would take straight aim at if she wasn’t attached to the Earl, or to Jackie. Hell, taking a second look he thought if things worked out right he might take that run anyway, especially once he got close enough to get a small whiff of that sandalwood perfume she was wearing, wearing just enough to make a guy, a red-blooded guy, jump.  Moreover Jean story, when Marlowe got around to hearing it, included some tough times, some down times. She had come West like a million other frails as she tried to make a go as a singer, along with another  woman doing duos and had finally caught on when Jackie heard her over at the Club Lola near the Santa Monica Pier. Jackie signed them to perform at his club-casino, The Lighthouse, up in Malibu. But enough of Jean, enough for now because Philip Marlowe was on the case to find out what the hell was going on in that murky world of boxing, big time money boxing out on the angel streets of his city.

 

What happened was simplicity itself a guy like Jackie Craig doesn’t take chances, tries to control his environment and so it was the case here too. Jackie tried to control his arena, his boxing business, tried to control the new boxing commissioner, Steve Earle, a former state senator and power in the state capital, who had come in declaring the he was going to “clean the sport up.” So Jackie tried by might and main to buy him off, buy him off good. And Brother Earle turned out to be looking for the main chance, and that had Jackie’s signature all over it. That was what Philip was up against and after a few fists flying, a few off-hand shootings at The Lighthouse, and a few off-hand tosses under the sheets with Jean he closed down Jackie’s operation, closed down Earle’s operation and felt he had done some good work. Even if he got no dough to pay that office rent coming due at the end of the week.                    

Oh yeah, about Jean, about that perfume driving Marlowe crazy very time he came with a mile of her. The Earl Avery thing was strictly as a favor to Jackie, a favor to get her act on his stage and before long Philip and she were roughing up some sheets. Here is the funny thing though this Jean had her own ax to grind, grind against Steve Earle. Her previous performance companion, Ada, had committed suicide after they were forced, after striking out in few mean street gin mills doing opening act duos for third-rate has-beens out in the heartland, to turn a few tricks out on the mean streets to keep body and soul together and she was too ashamed to face that fact. The funny part although obviously not funny is that this Ada was allegedly Steve Earle’s daughter and so Jean had drifted to L.A. to squeeze Earle for some dough, for retribution dough. When Earle tumbled under Jackie’s weight when Marlowe pulled the hammer down on his operation Jean lost her chance for serious dough. But ever the trouper all Jean said when her current partner said that The Lighthouse was closed was “I guess we have to hit the road again.” Nice. Nice too that Marlowe told her to keep in touch, and keep wearing that sandalwood next time they met.