Free On the Waterfront by Budd Schulberg

dreamed the expug dream of a comeback: maybe he’d get his gear out and fool around in the gym just to get the feel of it. Hell, he was still in pretty good shape, only three four pounds over his best weight, and at twenty-eight—look at Rocky Marciano, Jimmy Carter. They were all around thirty now and seeing more money than they ever knew at twenty.
    “Hey, Terry, watcha doin’ out there? Riley’s makin’ a bum outa that Solari.”
    It was Specs, who had been up there on the roof with Joey, Specs and Sonny. Now they were both inside belting whiskey with beer chasers and watching the fight as if nothing had happened. Specs didn’t look like a pistol, slight and pasty-faced, but he had the guts or the craziness to take men’s lives without flinching, which means without thinking too much about it. He was a nervous man with poor eyesight and he gave Terry the creeps, but he would do anything Johnny Friendly told him, that was for sure. Sonny was just a big meathead who went along, mostly because he had so much respect for Specs. People didn’t realize that it took something extra to go all the way with another guy’s life. The average bruiser like Truck or Gilly couldn’t do it. They could beat you so you died of it, sure, leave you to spit out your life in an alley somewhere. But this other, premeditated thing, the average guy in the mob wasn’t up to that. You had to have something special, something big or sick in your character. Terry knew that. He knew Specs and even Sonny were tougher or more desperate than he was. He himself was just a hanger-on, a crumb-catcher, usually trusted only with the smallest errands, which was perfectly all right with him. Small potatoes were all right with him. The rest of it was too much trouble, like being President. Who the hell wanted to be President? Look at this Ike and all the headaches he was into. Five stars on his shoulder and he’s a hero, George Washington, with the whole world calling him Champ. A year in the White House and he’s a bum and Pegler is calling him all the lousy names he used to save for the Democrats. President, or even delegate of Local 447 like Specs Flavin, who wants it? A couple of clams in his pocket and a good-looking oyster lined up for the night-o, that was for Terry. Only now he was in a little more than he had figured. The hell with the fight and Specs and Sonny. He’d tie on a good one tonight and wash it out of his system. It wasn’t his fault, not as long as he figured they was only gonna be talking to Joey. Of course he knew Specs and the jobs he would do for Johnny Friendly. But it wasn’t his fault if something happened without his knowing it was going to happen.
    In the bar, the same old arguments, the same old bull, the same old aimless talk, the ball games and the fights and which stevedore official was the biggest S.O.B. and whether or not Flat-top Karger would get his old hiring-boss spot back when he got out of the can.
    “Come on over, have a shot,” Sonny beckoned.
    Terry waved them aside and went on into the backroom. The backroom was just an old, stale rectangle with the boxers and the ballplayers and the horses and a few broads on the wall—art studies—and some pictures of the big shots (from Johnny Friendly up) arm-in-arming one another. There was a touching picture of Johnny right in there with International president Willie Givens, Tom McGovern and the Mayor of Bohegan, snapped on the joyous occasion of the last testimonial dinner for Willie, an annual affair given by the Willie Givens Association, with a list of sponsors featuring everybody of importance from the Mayor and the political bosses to Murder Inc.’s Jerry Benasio, who brought business efficiency to murder. Politicians, shipowners and racketeers, that was the axis on the waterfront. They gave beautiful testimonial dinners. Each year Weeping Willie thanked them with a voice full of tears and whiskey and heartfelt clichés.
    The principal piece of