Strictly For Cash (5 page)

I was still churning it over in my mind when Brant yelled through the door it was time to get down to the ring.

Henry helped me into the scarlet and blue dressing-gown Petelli had sent over for me to wear. It was a gaudy affair, with
Johnny Farrar
stitched in big white letters across the shoulders. At one time I would have been proud and happy to have worn it, but right now it made me feel bad.

As I reached the top of the ramp leading into the arena, they played the Kid in with a fanfare of trumpets. The crowd was giving him a big hand, and when he vaulted over the ropes into the ring, they howled their appreciation.

Brant joined me. He was sweating and worried.

"Okay, let's go," he said. "You first; the rest of us behind you."

The rest of us consisted of Brant, Waller, Pepi and Benno. I walked down the ramp towards the ring. It was a long walk, and the crowd stood up and yelled ail the way. I wondered bleakly what kind of noise they'd be making on my return trip.

I reached the ring, ducked under the ropes and went to my corner. The Kid, in a yellow dressing-gown, was clowning in his corner, making out he was bow-legged, and then pretending to throw punches at his handlers. The crowd enjoyed it more than his handlers did.

I sat down, and Henry began putting on the tapes. The Kid's fat manager stood over me, watching, and breathing whisky and cigar fumes in my face. It was because of his vile breath that I turned my head and looked at the crowd just below me, and it was then that I saw her.

VI

The announcer, a bald-headed little runt in a white suit a little too big for him, was bawling into a hand mike, but I didn't hear what he was saying. Even when he introduced me Waller had to prod me before I stood up to acknowledge the yells of the crowd.

I couldn't keep my eyes off the woman who was sitting just below my corner: near enough, if we both stretched out our arms, for us to touch fingers. Even as I waved to the crowd, I continued to stare at her, and she was worth staring at.

I've seen a good many beautiful women in my time, on the movies and off, but never one like this. Her hair was jet black and glossy, parted in the centre, a thin white line as exact as if it had been drawn with a sharp-edged tool and a ruler in marble. Her eyes were big and black and glittering. Her skin was like alabaster, and her mouth wide and scarlet. She was lean and lovely and hungry-looking.

Unlike the other women sitting at the ringside, she wasn't wearing an evening gown. She had on an apple-green linen suit, a white silk blouse and no hat. Her shoulders were broad, and to judge from her long, slim legs, she would be above the average height when she stood up. Under that smart, cool and provocative outfit was a shape that drove the fight, Petelli and the rest of the set-up clean out of my mind.

She was looking up at me, her eyes wide and excited, and we exchanged glances. The look she gave me turned my mouth dry and sent my pulse racing. Even a Trappist monk would have known what that look was saying, and I wasn't a Trappist monk.

"What's the matter with you?" Waller mumbled as he laced my gloves. "You look like someone's already socked you."

"Could have," I said, and smiled at her, and she smiled back: an intimate, we-could-havefun-together kind of smile that hit me where I lived.

I turned to see who she was with: an expensive-looking item in a fawn seersucker suit. He was handsome enough with his dark, wavy hair, his olive complexion and his regular features, but his good looks were marred by his thin, hard mouth and the viciously angry expression in his eyes as he returned my curious stare.

"Get out there," Waller said, and shoved me to my feet. "The ref's waiting. What's the matter with you?"

And the referee was waiting, and the Kid was waiting too. I joined them in the middle of the ring.

"It's all right, chummy," the Kid sneered. "You don't have to hue your corner that long. I ain't going to hit you just yet."

"All right, boys," the referee said sharply, "let's cut out the funny stuff and get down to business. Now, listen to me . . ."

He started on the old routine I had heard so often before. While he was talking, I asked myself why she had looked at me like that. I don't claim to know much about women, but I knew that smile was an open invitation.

"Okay, boys," the referee said when he was through with the routine stuff, "back to your corners, and come out fighting."

"And, chummy, you'll know you've been in a fight when you leave feet first," the Kid said, slapping me on the back.

And so would he, I thought, as I returned to my corner.

Waller took off my dressing-gown and I turned to get a last look at her.

She leaned forward, her eyes sparkling. "Knock that smug smile off his face, handsome," she called. "It's time someone did."

Her escort put his hand on her arm, scowling, but she shook it off impatiently.

"And good luck ..."

"Thanks," I said.

Outraged, Waller got between her and me.

"Keep your mind on this fight," he said as the bell went.

The Kid came out fast, his chin tucked down into his left shoulder, a cocky grin on his face. He led with a left that was a foot short, weaved away and tossed over a right. That was short too. I moved around him looking for an opening. I wanted to land one hard jolt that would slow him down. I could see he was a lot faster on his feet than I was.

He caught me with a left to the face: not a hard punch. I countered with a left and right to the body. His left jumped into my face again, and he tried a right cross, but I ducked under it and socked him in the body. He got in close and began hammering away at my ribs, but I tied him up, and the referee had to pull us apart. I got in a good left jab to his face as we broke, and he didn't like it. He moved away fast, snorting, then came in again, throwing rights and lefts. I smothered everything he handed out, stepped in and nailed him with a block-buster that sent him down on his hands and knees.

The crowd went mad. A knock-down in the first two minutes of the fight was something they hadn't expected, and they rose to their feet, screaming for me to go in and smash the Kid.

I had gone to a neutral corner while the referee began his count. I was a little worried. I hadn't meant to hit him that hard. He remained on hands and knees, looking up at the referee's arm, a glazed stare in his eyes. But he got up at the count of seven and immediately started back-pedalling. I went after him, hitting him with rights and lefts, but pulling my punches, not wanting to get him into more trouble, but putting up a show to please the crowd.

He finally got his head clear and began to fight back. He was snarling and scared. I could tell how scared he was by the way he threw punches that were yards short. All he was thinking about now was to keep clear of my right. He had had one dose of it and he didn't want another.

The round ended with us leaning on each other and slamming at each other's ribs. At close quarters he was good, and he got in a couple of digs that hurt. The bell went and I returned to my corner. While Waller was working over me, I looked in her direction.

She was staring up at me, not smiling, her eyes angry, her mouth set. I knew what was the matter with her. She hadn't been fooled by those open-glove slaps even if they had fooled the crowd. Waller shoved a sponge of cold water in my face. He was smart enough to see who was distracting my attention, and he moved around so his body blocked her from my sight.

Brant came up as Waller was drying my face.

"What are you playing at?" he demanded in a breathless whisper. His face was white and strained. "Why did you hit him like that?"

"Why not? He's in here for a fight, isn't he?"

"Petelli says . . ."

"Oh, the hell with Petelli!"

The bell went for the second round, and I moved out of my-corner. The Kid came out cautiously, an apprehensive expression on his face. He kept pushing his left out, trying to keep me away, but I had the longer reach. I poked one in his face, stepped in and hooked him high up on the head. He fought back, catching me with a right and left that had a lot of steam in them, and for a few seconds we mixed it, socking each other about the body while the crowd roared its approval. The Kid was the first to break off.

I caught him with a hook as he moved away and opened a cut under his right eye. He was swearing at me now, and I went after him, jabbing at his face with lefts and rights. He kept covering up, trying to protect his damaged eye. I got in close and socked him in the body. It must have dawned on him he wasn't going to get an easy win, and in a frenzy of rage and desperation he suddenly cut loose.

He caught me with a right swing that had all his weight behind it. It was a stunning punch, and it dazed me. As I groped my way into a clinch, trying to get my head clear, he butted me in the face. I reeled back, covering up, and as he rushed, I slammed a left in his face, but he knew he had hurt me, and kept coming, throwing punches from every angle. I rode most of them, smothered the rest. It was a hectic minute, but I kept my head, knowing he was certain to give me an opening, and he did. He slung a wild right that left him as wide open as the ocean, and I stepped in and hung one on his jaw. He went down as if he had been cut off at the knees.

Before the referee could start a count, the bell went. The Kid's handlers rushed into the ring and dragged him to his corner.

I went slowly back to my stool and sat down. Pepi was waiting for me. "Next round, you fixer," he snarled in my ear. "That's orders."

"Get away from me!" I said, and greatly daring, Waller shoved him off the apron of the ring and began to sponge my face. Waller was breathing heavily and grinned excitedly at me as he worked over me.

"You're doing fine," he said. "Watch his right. He can still punch."

I looked across the ring. They were working like madmen on the Kid, flapping towels at him, holding smelling-salts under his nose and massaging the back of his neck.

"Well, I guess this is it," I said. "Last round coming up."

"Yeah," Waller said. "Anyway, he's been in a fight. You ain't cheated anyone."

I looked over my shoulder at her. She was smiling again, and waved to me.

The bell went, and I moved out. The Kid started to back-pedal. He had a gash down the side of his nose, a cut under his right eye, and there were great red patches on his ribs where I had socked him.

I trapped him in a corner and nailed him bang on his damaged nose. Blood spurted from his face as if I'd slammed a rotten tomato against a wall. The crowd screamed itself hoarse as he wilted and fell into a clinch. I had to hold him up or he would have gone down. I wrestled him around, trying to make it look good until he got a grip on himself.

I broke and stepped back. He shoved out a left that wouldn't have dented a rice pudding. I ducked under it and came in, wide open. Somehow he managed to screw up enough strength to let go with an upper-cut. I went down on one knee. I wasn't hurt but if I were going to take a dive I had to prepare the way for it.

I bet the yell that went up from the crowd could have been heard as far south as Miami.

The referee stood over me and began his count. I looked over at the Kid. The relief on his face was comic. He leaned against the ropes, blood dripping from his cuts, his knees buckling.

I shook my head as if I were dazed, and at six I got up. The Kid's face was a study. He had been sure I was going to stay down. Instead of coming in, he began to back away, and that got a jeering laugh from the crowd. His seconds yelled for him to go in and finish me, and with pitiful reluctance he changed direction and came at me. I made out I was wobbly, but I slipped the left he threw at me and landed another jab on his gashed face. At least he was going to earn his victory. Gasping with pain and fury, he lashed out as I dropped my guard. He caught me on the side of the jaw. Down I went.

I had walked right into it, intending to catch it, and I caught it.

For the first three seconds I was out, then I opened my eyes and found myself flat on my face, looking right down at her. She was standing up, her eyes like twin explosions, and as our eyes met, she screamed furiously, "Get up and fight! Get up, you quitter!"

She was so close she could have touched me. Half the ringside; customers were on their feet, yelling at me, but I had ears only for her voice.

"Get up, Johnny!" she screamed at me. "You can't quit now!"

The anger, contempt and disappointment on her face electrified me. It was all I needed. It flashed through my mind I had never intended to obey Petelli's orders anyway, and that scornful, screaming voice and the black, furious eyes clinched it.

I heard the referee call ". . . seven . . . eight . . ."

I got lip somehow, beating his down-sweeping arm by a split second, and as the Kid rushed in, I grabbed his arms and hun on like grim death. I knew by the desperate way he struggled to get free he realized I was going to double-cross Petelli, and he was going to lose the fight unless he could nail me before I had shaken off the effects of his punch.

I hung on in spite of all he did, and in spite of the referee trying to tear us apart. I only needed four or five seconds to get my head clear, and when I did decide it was safe to break, I stabbed my left into the Kid's cut-up face before he could get set to throw a finishing punch.

Panting and wild he came at me, but I weaved away, back-pedalled, and left him floundering. He was as wild as a rogue elephant now, and kept rushing at me while I dodged and retreated until I was good and ready to take him. Then as he came in for the fourth time I stopped in my tracks and brought over the right book. It smashed against his jaw and down he went in a flurry of blood, rolled over and stiffened out.