The Bruiser (14 page)

Berniece leaned over Hot and Cold Daily. “I got your message, Big Boy—here I am.”

“That's swell, Pal—better beat it back to your seat—he's got a lot on his mind right now.”

“Will he win?” she asked anxiously.

“I don't know—it'll be a great brawl. He's fightin' the greatest man in the world—he's got to be right—beat it, Kid—they're coming.”

Waves of cheering followed.

His face immobile as an ebony mask, the Negro was first to enter the ring. His green silk bathrobe removed, his powerful bronze muscles slid, smooth as quicksilver and ominous as doom.

He worked his tremendous shoulders before the robe was thrown across them.

Blinky Miller jumped into the ring and held the ropes apart. Shane followed.

His eyes rested on Torpedo Jones.

Silent Tim's hand was on his shoulder. Belying the turmoil in his heart, he smiled, “Just go in, boy. I'm in your corner.” Though his words expressed invincible faith, he bit his lower lip to keep it from twitching.

Oblivious of all around her, Berniece watched Shane.

How different he was now. He looked downward
as the gloves were laced on his hands. From then on, he looked at nothing but his antagonist.

“Good luck, Shane,” Hot and Cold Daily shouted. Shane's head went up and down. His eyes did not move. They were still set when the cameras clicked.

Blinky Miller, with Shane's name knitted in large yellow letters on the back of his red sweater, was busy in the ring. “I'm not goin' to let 'em think I'm with the other guy,” was his explanation.

After instructions were given, a man yelled, “Where's your machine gun, Haney?” Hot and Cold Daily smiled.

Shane went to his corner.

“Go right-hand crazy like we told you,” said Blinky Miller, “but only when the goin's so rough he'll think you're too tired to punch. Get all you got behind it.”

Silent Tim nodded.

The gong rang. Bullet-swift, Rory turned, and faced his mighty chocolate-colored foe. The Negro's hands were hardly up before Rory's gloves struck with the hiss of angry snakes.

“He's got him! He's got him!” Mighty shouts went up. The great Negro danced from the avalanche of punches like a dummy on a string.

The thud of blows could be heard many rows from the ring.

In flashing seconds, the Negro was rubber-legged and bloody. He could not get set. It was the Rory of old before him. His gloves, the color of Torpedo's body, sank into it. The Negro's knees sagged from the
fury of the punches. He circled around in the roaring clamor. The furious Rory was upon him. Hot and Cold Daily was oblivious of everything but the whirling brown and white bruisers. Rory's gloves were everywhere.

“He's down! He's down!” the audience screamed. Rory was in his corner before the echo of the gong died away.

“Good work, Champ—he can't take 'em and live.” Blinky Miller held Shane's tights loose around his muscle lined body.

“Stand right up at the gong,” commanded Tim, “Get set and wait—he'll come like a cyclone.”

Torpedo dashed from his corner. Rory met him. For thirty seconds blows were traded even. Gloves missed each other and connected in a wild delirium.

Torpedo missed an uppercut. With tremendous effort he stopped the sizzling blow before it had traveled six inches upward. It was too late. For a half-second his guard was open. Swift as a maniac farmer swinging a scythe, Rory chopped a right. Cracking Torpedo in the solar plexus, it doubled his body to the shape of the letter U, and sat him on his haunches so hard he bounced.

“Oh, my God!” A reporter slapped Hot and Cold Daily on the back.

“Cut that stuff. We're not in the ring,” snapped Daily.

Shane rushed to a neutral corner. Relentless as destiny and cruel as fire, the murderous Negro was upon
him. His muscular brown back glistened with water. Frenzy rose in waves on the fury that followed.

Silent Tim's hands were tight shut. Hot and Cold Daily stared as though chaos had come. Was this the merciful Rory?

Berniece leaned forward, lovely as dawn, her eyes clear as early dew.

Neither man backed up. Eighteen inches apart, they volleyed and rolled with punches.

“Oh, oh.” A man at the ring collapsed, clutching at his heart.

“A doctor here,” yelled a reporter.

They carried the collapsed man away.

Suddenly Rory stopped and held both gloves to his chin. Torpedo lashed with a right and a left. Swishing around and downward went Rory's right again like a madman. Jones took the body-crushing blow, doubled up, and came back slashing.

“He didn't get him, he didn't get him! Lord, what now!” Hot and Cold Daily might have been yelling against the wind.

Now began that measured something that is beyond description, that made of the two magnificient bruisers the most perfect machines on earth. Blows went through openings narrow as cracks, swift as light. Each face was firm set, the eyes fixed. Masters of the art of destruction—one had to give way.

A left and a right caught Rory. Shaken as a lightning-shivered oak, he went back. Whirling blows, jabs and hooks followed. Rory was against the post of the ring.
With legs firm as rods, he slashed back at the terrible brown bruiser before him.

Blood-bespattered, he broke clear, danced to the right, skipped to the left, and was inside the Negro's guard. Torpedo retreated before the wild and terrible tornado. The audience was numbed into silence, as the furious givers and takers of pain, with lips tight shut, stood toe to toe, and battered each other with blows that shook the ring.

“It can't last—it can't last!” Hot and Cold Daily eased his heart with the words.

The gong rang fiercely. Neither man heard. The referee dodged low between and broke them. The fighters dashed to their corners.

They came out swiftly, chins low, mighty shoulders bowed, wet and blood-soaked, sledge-hammer fists ready to strike.

As though each were jerked by the same wire, they began at once to volley. Rory suddenly shifted, weaved in and out. When Torpedo made ready to counter, he was upon him again.

“Now watch Torpedo!” shouted Hot and Cold Daily.

They whirled madly into Rory's corner. “Break his heart—break his heart, Shaney.” Tim's words went through the ropes— “The scythe, the scythe, the scythe—the scythe!”

Like tops spun madly, they whirled into the center of the ring. Both went to their knees, got up, volleyed, and went down again. They got up again, connected with blows and went down with trembling knees.

The referee began to count between them. At seven, Torpedo struggled and squirmed and got one knee off the floor—then sank again.

Tears came to the eyes of Silent Tim Haney.

“Ah, Mother of God, Mother of God—” he muttered.

“Take it easy, Tim, take it easy.” Daniel Muldowney touched his arm.

Blinky Miller gripped the lower rope.

Rory was up at nine, staggering weakly. The indomitable soul of the great Negro struggled within him on the floor. His arms moved, his legs jerked spasmodically. His body was unequal to the call of his unconquerable spirit. Taking the full count, the mighty, proud, swaggering black man was carried to his corner still unconscious.

Blinky Miller hugged Shane. Silent Tim mumbled something to Daniel Muldowney.

“It's the greatest upset in years,” said the radio announcer. “It was a spectacle for the gods.”

“Well, a guy can't pick 'em all,” Hot and Cold Daily smiled as he entered Shane's dressing-room with a group of other reporters.

“He didn't do bad for a two-to-one shot, did he, Daily?” Silent Tim Haney adjusted Shane's silk scarf.

“Not at all, Tim,” replied Hot and Cold Daily.

“It was that right that circled around and down that got him,” a reporter commented.

“We thought it would,” smiled Shane, looking at Blinky Miller.

“What do you think of Torpedo?” asked Hot and Cold Daily.

“He's a fine fighter—the best yet,” answered Shane.

“Better than Sully?” followed Daily.

“I don't know,” returned Shane, “Sully's champ.”

A white-bearded old man touched Shane's arm.

“You don't remember me, do you?” he asked.

“No, I don't,” replied Shane.

“You came to my hotel after you fought Harry Sully. You were very ill—and I took care of you.”

“Is that so?” Silent Tim Haney listened indifferently.

“Well, what can I do for you?”

“Oh, nothing,” replied the old fellow—”You forgot to pay your bill and you had no baggage.”

“What was the bill?” Silent Tim Haney asked.

“Four dollars.”

“Well, here's ten.” Tim handed him a bill.

“Thank you indeed. So honest a man's sure to have good luck.” The old man walked away.

“Are you sure he runs a hotel?” Silent Tim's tone was sarcastic.

“What's the difference?” asked Shane. “He needed the dough bad enough to ask for it.”

A half-dozen men emerged from the dressing-room of Torpedo Jones. Walking slowly, with heads down, the light slanting across them, they were weary and slow-moving. The last to pass Shane was Torpedo Jones. He looked at his conqueror.

“Ain't I seen you before?”

“Sure,” replied Shane, touching his arm, “that rainy night in the railroad yards.”

“Oh yeah, and you give me fifty cents—Lawdy, boy, you took it back tonight. So long.”

He moved away with the sinister and powerful grace of the young victor in the battle royal.

It was his first defeat.

Blinky Miller was long silent. “I never saw nothin' like it, Boss,” he said at last to Silent Tim, as though Shane were not present. “A guy thinks nobody kin beat a guy and along comes a better guy. I don't think no one ever lived could beat Torpedo but him. I couldn't believe it after he was out.”

“Neither could I,” smiled Shane. “Every time I started that right it seemed like it burned his eyes with matches.”

“Well, if we ever fight him again they'll put a million on the line for a guarantee.”

Shane put an arm about the frowning Tim.

“Sure—if
we
ever fight him again,” he laughed.

“Well, his punches hurt me too—every time he landed I could feel the pain.”

Daily and Berniece joined them.

Shane bowed bashfully and smiled. Blinky Miller did likewise.

“Your sweater fascinated me, Blinky,” Berniece laughed. “How'd you ever come to pick yellow and red?”

“Tim done it—I wanted lavender, and he said I wouldn't look good in lavender.”

“Let's all have a snack,” suggested Hot and Cold Daily.

“Sure—I'll sing for you.” Berniece took Silent Tim's arm. He drew back as though she were a hornet.

“No,” he said, “We'd better turn in—the boy's had a hard day.”

“But you can stay up a little later now,” she looked toward Shane, “his hardest day's over.”

“All but one,” put in Hot and Cold Daily. “Come on, Tim, my story's in. I call you the greatest manager of all time—let's go.” He motioned for a taxi.

“But you ribbed us hard before the fight—readin' you, a fellow'd of thought Torpedo threw mountains around like pebbles.”

“It built the fight, didn't it—and it's all forgotten as yesterday's headline tomorrow—the only privilege a newspaperman has is to contradict himself— We've both got to get by, Tim. You wouldn't see Daily starve, would you?”

“Well not all at once,” Silent Tim's lips curved.

Blinky, his mind still on the fight, looked at Silent Tim and said again as though Shane were not present, “Sully can't beat him the way he fought tonight, Boss.”

Silent Tim took up the words, “Of course Sully can't beat him. The man to beat him isn't in the world right now—and it's a big doubt that he was here before us. They say too much of the old timers—it makes talk for schoolboys—Shane would of knocked John L. Sullivan's head over a cloud—and Bob Fitzsimmons—ho-ho—a man that a rassling mauler like Jeffries could whip would have no chance with Shane.”

Silent Tim turned his eyes from Hot and Cold Daily to Shane. “There's never been but one man who could
fight like Shane. They called him the Dublin Slasher. He was square all over like a man carved out of rock. He never stopped swingin', never backed up—and he had his own science in the ring. He knew every inch of rope, and every foot of canvas. He could tell within thirty seconds when the bell would end the round. And in them thirty seconds he could whip a bull.

“He was a graceful fighter, and his gloves were swords. In the ring there was nothin' like him—a kind of genius when the gong rang—always he came shufflin' to you, his right foot scrapin' the floor—he knew it was to brace himself. He could of found an opening in a crack for his fist to smash through. He was always on top of you like a shadow with gloves. I've seen him make great fighters cry. If you got an advantage for a minute, he'd top you in time to take the round. He was just a cyclone that moved like a slow wind—it's something you can't explain. You couldn't make a move but that he'd beat you to it. And he was never tired or flustered. I watched his hair when he fought. If the other fellow mussed it up he'd smooth it down with his glove when the gong rang.

“I brought him over here and the New York bunch tried to steal him. He was loyal, for an Irishman”—Hot and Cold Daily smiled—”and when he wouldn't break with me they began to frame him on a trumped-up charge that he wasn't no more guilty of than a baby. But one lawyer's enough to hang a saint—and they had five.

“If he wouldn't fight under their control, he
wouldn't fight at all. It was too bad—but it's the game they call the manly art.

“His mother was a very proud woman, God rest her soul. He didn't seem to care about himself—just her. She was pious and proud, a bad combination—she cracked and died—and something died in the Dublin Slasher too—but he was strong in his head like his body—and it came to life again—there's men that walk when they're dead, and the Dublin Slasher's one of them. And so—with many thousands of dollars—we beat the rap—and the Dublin Slasher went right on slashin'.”

Hot and Cold Daily looked out of the taxi window. “It's a great story, Tim—I want to write it some day.”

Silent Tim chuckled. “When your grandmother becomes a virgin again.”

“Why Tim—you wouldn't imply that I wasn't honest?”

“No—not that—you just contradict yourself.”

A faint smile touched Shane's eyes, as, with folded arms and tight lips, he gazed straight head.

Blinky Miller looked at Berniece.

“Ah yes,” went on Tim in half reverie, “He was a broth of a boy—as weak as water and strong as a broken dam.”

His eyes were softer as they strayed to the girl, “Always a ladies' man was the Slasher. He'd follow a skirt all day—and now, where he is, they're as useless as a pocket in a shroud.” A slight twinkle came to his eyes, “But I wouldn't be sure. On a warm night, when the moon is soft and lingers with its shadow on the grave
of a pretty maiden—well, the Dublin Slasher may find his way there—for he'll always be walkin' through the valleys at night with his boxin' gloves on his hands, lookin' for a rose about to bloom in the mornin'.

“When he was a lad in Enniskillen, he was loved by a lass—before he went on his thunderin' way—he didn't take her with him—bein' confident he could pick up another girl when he got there. She cried a little. The tears mended her heart so it could break again. Her name was Ruby.

“The Slasher wanted to go to a little place in the West where the mountains rolled away like ridges on a custard pie when it's old.

“The waters would help him, he said—it was like the lightnin' goin' to a garage for new batteries—but I said nothin'.

“Time hung heavy as a loaded glove in the place—for the peace was in the mountains and not in the poor Slasher's heart. And God help us till the day we die-there was a girl there—and that was enough for the Slasher. She was the sweetheart of some Eytalian warbler who played music in the dining-room so the guests couldn't eat too much—but the Slasher didn't believe that other men owned women. He just thought they were put around the world like roses—and the man up first got them before the dew fell off their petals. So he was cavortin' just like the big Saint Bernard puppy he was with the young maiden—when the Eytalian sees them—and may God never allow any more misery in the world if what I tell you is not true—that Eytalian shot the great Slasher with a little Flobert rifle. You
wouldn't have thought it possible—such a tiny bullet endin' such a mighty man—like a rain-drop floodin' a mountain.

“I took him to New York, as lonesome a trip as a man ever had. At such times a man wonders what the meaning of it all is.

“When I got him to New York the very men who'd framed him were givin' him a send-off. I was wishin' that God would lift him out of the coffin to smack them over.

“The undertaker met us, and I'll never forget him. He was sympathetic as a second in the other corner. He was runnin' for some office in the gift of the people. Undertakin' wasn't his reg'lar business any more except when a big shot died and he'd get his name in the papers along with the dead. His face was like a lamp with no light and as empty of oil as a gourd. He had the mock reverence of a cat when it's killed the wrong mouse.

“We all sat around in the room with the undertaker sayin', ‘Make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen,'—and all of us starin' at the box that was loaded with him that would niver get out—

“And Joe Slack says, ‘He was a good fighter—almost as good as the men of the old days.'

“‘Ah nuts,' says I, ‘Joe, you're always talkin' of the old days. Wasn't it you and me that fought four times long before this dead lad was on the way to his mother's womb— You know in your very soul that this boy would of fought us both in the same ring till our ears dropped off—don't let your mind get old by sayin'
there's no good men walkin' the earth in these days.'

“And Joe said, ‘Have your own way—I didn't agree with you in the old days, and I don't now.'

“‘It wasn't us that made the decisions—it was the referee'— But I said no more—after all, it's not fair to fight old battles over the great dead.

“Then a drunk reporter comes in, and ‘God rest the soul of the immortal Slasher,' says he.

“‘God rest your own soul,' says I—'it was you that helped to break his heart.'

“The reporter starts to laughin'— ‘Why, Tim,' says he, ‘not even God can give rest to what a man ain't got'— He staggered towards the coffin— ‘Suppose we see what the Dublin Slasher looks like—after all.'

“The undertaker has two young undertakers with wing collars and black ties open the box.

“While they were takin' the lid off, the reporter says to me, ‘Tim, you better have someone warn Jack Dolan'—and everybody laughs.

“Jack Dolan was the good fighter the Dublin Slasher beat so bad—rockin' his ribs so loose he was never the same again—

“And when we were all quiet the reporter says, ‘Don't let nobody ring a bell when the lid's off—he'll hop right outta that coffin and sprinkle us all with embalmin' fluid.'

“Well, when the lid's off, we all look down—I'd seen him so often when the blood was runnin' in his veins like fire—but I'd never seen him quite like this before—

“His fists were closed over his breast together like a
young priest prayin'. His head was square as a block and his jaws were so tight together you could see the muscles bulge. It was just like he was sayin': ‘They'll never hold me here.'

“A crucifix and a rosary was wrapped around his hands like they was afraid he'd start hittin'—and his shoulders just fit into the coffin. And there he was so still a baby could slap him.

“The look of him sobered the reporter. He made the sign of the cross on himself and says something in Latin.

“‘Pray United States,' says Joe Slack—'to hell with all that Greek.'

“We'll let him lie in state here, as it were, for a while,' says the undertaker— ‘He'll rest easier with all your kind thoughts flowin' over him.'

“Handsome Ed Barney'd been his trainer. He had a big nose—and he stood there wonderin' what it was all about, and the tears slid down his nose as he wondered—

“We started the Slasher to the boat at last—and there never was such a congregation of riffraff since the mad world began—men who'd of shot you for a quarter, wept like babies over a lost toy—and forget-me-nots who'd of been nice to a hangman were innocent little girls again. Someone played some music by a fellow called Chopang—and when we got in sight of the boat, Joe Slack said, ‘I'm damn glad it's a big one—if the Dublin Slasher takes a notion to roll over it might list the ship.'

“The band was blarin' and rasslers and fighters and reporters and other thugs mixed their tears and their
laughter with pimps and gamblers and lovers of the manly art—along with saloon keepers and priests and bums and other prominent people.”

Berniece watched Shane.

“It was hot work followin' our fighter on his last journey to Ireland—and I couldn't help thinkin' that out of the roses on his grave, a big tree might grow—for there'd be no use bringin' a man to such perfiction and throwin' him away like a burned stick in the night.

“Well, that was the end of the Dublin Slasher—oh well, it's lovely weather outside—and a short night till morning—peace comes then with bullets in his guns.”

The taxi stopped at a crossing.

“It's hell,” said Hot and Cold Daily, after a long silence.

Berniece glanced sideways at Shane, whose hand went across his forehead.

“It is that,” agreed Tim, “and may the sun never wither the weeds on his grave.”

“Gee—a tough break,” from Blinky Miller.

“He was a great fighter.” Hot and Cold Daily looked at Berniece as if to have his words confirmed.

“He was that,” agreed Silent Tim. “There was never none greater.” His eyes met Hot and Cold Daily's. “But it's all in the game,” he concluded. “The ring's too big for just one referee, else he'd never of counted the Dublin Slasher out so young.”

Silent Tim put a hand on Shane's knee. “And I almost forgot,” he said. “The other girl's name was Ruby.”

Hot and Cold Daily sighed, “I'd say it was a case of too much Ruby—”

Silent Tim looked scornfully at him. “You'd joke in your grave,” he said.