The Bruiser (17 page)

Sully's manager, Al Wilson, sat with the chief second in a cafe. A one-time acrobat with a circus, he became a spieler for a side-show. He found young Sully, a stake-driver, and developed him as a fighter.

Once muscular, Wilson had grown heavy. He had two chins, and pouches under his eyes. His jovial nature concealed a hard heart. He had but one idea. Money could do anything. He was only surprised at honesty.

“Well, how does it look, Al?” the chief second and trainer asked.

“Oh, so-so. If Sully gets over Rory, we've got easy sailin' for at least four years. There's no man around but Torpedo Jones, and we've drawn the color line,” replied the manager. Then more deliberately, “But Rory's mighty tough.”

“You mean,”—the chief second said no more.

“You get me—if Rory goes in there like he did against Torpedo Jones there's no two men on earth kin lick him.”

“So what?” asked the chief second.

“Nothin',” returned the manager. “We need help—a bolt of lightnin' or somethin'.”

“Well, Sully's a great man,” said the chief second, “a damn great man.”

Al Wilson paused. “The devil of it is, he may be meetin' a greater one.” He lit a match with his thumbnail and puffed a cigarette before he continued. “You can prove anything in the fight game, and if I was on the other side I could come mighty near provin' that Shane Rory could lick any man that ever lived. He cracked Sully with a six-inch left on the windpipe the last round he fought him, and Sully nearly choked to death for an hour after the fight.”

“I know,” said the chief second, “wasn't I there?”

Wilson put the half burned cigarette on the ash tray. “And if we hadn't done business with the referee, he mighta give him the decision.”

“I know,” again said the chief second, “I'm shakin' yet.”

Wilson took another cigarette.

“I've done a lot of thinkin' about fighters in my time—Rory's got everything—perfect synchronization. That's a million dollar word,” he smiled. “His eyes and his feet, his hands, everything moves at once. He's better than Bangor Lang used to be at feintin' with his eyes—he's got that much contol.”

The chief second broke in, “There's only one way to lick him.”

“How?” asked the manager.

The chief second looked around, then answered, “Iron.”

“You mean—”

“You know what I mean.”

“How could you get away with it in a championship fight?”

“Nerve, and maybe a few grand to Blinky Miller,” answered the chief second.

“They'd lynch you if they caught you.”

“I know, but leave that to me.” He raised his eyes. “Is it worth twenty-five grand to you?”

“Sure,” replied the manager,
“if we win.”

“You're funny,” the chief second grinned. “The danger's in the loadin' whether we win or not,” he said. “You can't take a chance on havin' Rory slaughter Sully—besides, I'll have to oil Blinky Miller's palm. Blinky and me are old pals, you know—he's crooked as a corkscrew.”

“But we got the same referee we had in the other fight—Munger's okeh.”

The chief second followed with, “He may be okeh, but he can't fight Sully's fight for him—if he goes down he's got to count ten sometime. And if Rory starts to puttin' him down, he'll stay there.”

“That's right,” said Al Wilson. “But he'll take a lot of chances on a long count for a hundred grand. He'll have to.”

“It'll have to be a hell of a long count—and Rory'll murder the referee if he catches him.”

The chief second took a kerchief from his pocket. Inside of it was a round piece of steel, about an inch in diameter and nearly three inches long.

The manager looked at the steel and asked, “Is it heavy enough?”

The chief second sneered, “Even if
you
had that in a glove you could kill a Percheron stallion—and just think what Sully'd do with it.”

He wrapped the steel quickly in his kerchief. “They're all new gloves thrown in that ring, ain't they—well, you leave the rest to me.” He paused—“
after you gimme the twenty-five grand
.”

“That's a lotta dough,” Wilson said crisply.

“Sully's end'll be over a million,” as crisply returned the chief second, “besides I'll have to pay Blinky.”

“Suppose you get it in the wrong glove.”

The chief second laughed, “Don't worry.”

“All right,” agreed the manager, “I'll come across.”

“When?”

“Why after the fight—when we collect.”

“No, no, now—I may not live till after the fight—if I get caught—Blinky'll want his in advance too. He's that smart.”

“Well, what do you want me to do?” The manager was impatient.

The answer came quickly. “Go over to the bank with me and transfer twenty-five Gs to my account.”

“Suppose it leaks out?”

“It'll be good publicity—you're givin' me that much to train your fighter.”

The manager smiled, then wiped the perspiration from his forehead.

“You're fast, Billy,” he said.

“I gotta be to get this over.” His wrinkled face became set.

The chief second had been a featherweight fighter, but gave it up when the going got rough. His audacity earned him a national reputation as trainer and second.

The money turned over to him at the bank, he said
quickly, “Now, I want five Gs in the referee's pool.”

Taken by surprise, the manager said, “All right.”

A noted gambler on horses, the referee, Al Wilson, and several others had for years operated a gigantic betting scheme. “A guy's got half the breaks with the referee in his corner,” Wilson always said.

When he found a referee who could not be “reached,” Wilson was always fearful that the other side had got to him first.

Everything arranged, they returned to their apartment hotel. A bell-boy handed Wilson a package. It was for Sully.

“Open it,” Wilson ordered the boy. The manager watched everything. A bomb might be sent to his fighter.

It was a new pair of green tights from Sully's sister. A skeleton head was woven on each leg.

“I've been thinkin', Billy,” he threw the tights on a chair, “you've got to be prepared if you can't use the iron.”

“Sure—that's all okeh—I got the plaster of Paris last week in Buffalo.”

“Well, I got some too,” put in the manager.

“Better hide yours,” suggested the chief second.

Wilson went to a drawer and took out a small can. “You take care of it.” He handed it to the chief second.

“I'll peek in on Sully,” said Wilson.

“All right then—I'll look up Blinky Miller.”

“Hello, Champ—how's tricks?” asked his manager.

“Oh, so-so.”

Nude to the waist, his enormous muscles bulging, Sully was playing solitaire. “I nearly beat it the last time.” He laid more cards on the table.

“How's the bettin'?” Sully asked.

“Ten to eight on you.”

The champion chuckled. “There's still saps in the world who believe in that guy.”

“Don't take him too easy,” advised Wilson. “You gotta remember Torpedo Jones.”

“Huh.”

“And Bangor Lang,” Wilson added.

“I softened Lang up for him.”

“But who softened Jones up?”

“That's one of them things,” answered Sully. “Rory's his jinx—and I'm Rory's— I'll bounce so many gloves off his chin he'll think it's hailin' rocks.”

“That's the spirit.” Wilson patted Sully's bare shoulders. “Better throw something over you.”

Shane's mind was in a whirl.

He would soon enter the ring for the heavyweight championship of the world. Silent Tim's words came to him, “And the world's damned big—there's a lot of good men in it.” His hands went up and down the heavy ridges of muscles at his sides. His feeling of physical power was immense. He rose and stood before a long mirror. “I'll win, by God—” he said to himself, “all Hell can't stop me this time.”

Sully had beaten him twice. It would never happen again. He threw his arms above his head. His muscles writhed.

“The first time was a fluke—the second was another—this is the rub-off.” The words went through his mind.

“We're on our way, Champ,” Blinky told him. “We can't lose now—remember how we took the powder out of Torpedo's keg—I just knew we'd take him.”

All was plural with Blinky in connection with Shane.

Shane crossed to a divan; stretched motionless and stared at the ceiling.

Blinky sat in a huge chair, his hands gripping the side, his one good eye in Shane's direction.

“It's our big day, Blinky.”

“That's right, Champ—I've got everything fixed.
The boss'll be here soon—you don't care if I take a little cat snooze—I gotta be in shape this afternoon.”

“Go ahead, Blink.”

Shane stood up, his wide shoulders towering above his trainer. “It's been a long road, eh Blink—but here we are.” Their eyes roved around the elegant suite.

“All we need's ribbons, Champ,” Blinky smiled, “and we'll get them after the fight—then the old gang can come here an' kiss us.”

Blinky went to the room adjoining, “Now call me any time.”

“Okeh, Blink.”

The door closed.

He could hear the slight rumble of the city far below. Closing his right fist and hitting the palm of his left hand, then alternating, he walked about the room.

His greatest quality had always been the coördination of overwhelming courage with a will that could not accept defeat. He remembered as a road-kid watching a fox listen to the call of quails in a nearby meadow. It cocked its ears, and remained motionless as long as the quails called.

“A fox doesn't do that,” an old Idaho trapper told him.

“But this one did.”

Amazed at the boy's certainty, the trapper commented, laughing, “Well—it thought them quails was hoboes.”

Shane applied the same quality to the ring. He knew by experience that under certain circumstances Sully was “a sucker for a right.” He knew that Sully knew
that he knew it. That Sully would train for weeks to overcome the weakness that no one was aware of but his greatest antagonist—Shane also knew. The plans of battle revolved in his mind. They would change under stress. “But I'll land that right.” He practiced delivering the blow before a mirror.

One—two—one—two—one—two—swift and straight as bullets the blows swished through the air. But how to fool Sully. His brain was swifter than his muscles. So were Sully's. He knew.

Man to man, he could beat Sully. He felt it. But he had felt it twice before and lost. “To hell with those fights!”

Shane smiled grimly, remembering what Silent Tim had said to Hot and Cold Daily, “It's the last step that counts when you're climbin' a mountain—and Shane has the last step.”

“If he don't stumble,” bantered Hot and Cold Daily.

“He won't stumble—there's men who kin go so far—and there's them that can go the one step more—and that's Shane.”

It would take the last step to beat Sully. He walked about the room.

Tim Haney knocked at the door.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

Shane, hardly looking at him, said, “Yes.”

Tim turned to the man with him. “Order breakfast from your room—they don't know you're with us—we'll take no chances on anyone slippin' dope in the food. Then bring it in here.”

A glass of wine had brought Shane restful sleep
through the night. He knew instinctively that he was “on edge,” but not overtrained.

“Well, how do you feel?” asked Silent Tim as the third man left.

“Never better,” was the answer, slowly drawing a deep breath.

He threw a silk robe over Shane's muscular body.

Shane ate in silence, while Silent Tim glanced through the morning newspapers he had brought.

“The odds are even,” he said, “It's a fool who wouldn't make you the favorite.”

“I don't care who's favorite,” Shane snapped. “No guy ever lived can lick me three times.”

“But he didn't lick you the other times,” Silent Tim cajoled.

“Well, they've got it that way in the record books—that's what counts.” Shane's eyes roved over the city below.

“Where's Blinky?” his manager asked.

“He's getting a little sleep. He'll be here soon,” Shane answered gruffly.

Silent Tim was pleased at Shane's mood.

“You can't lose, Shane.” Old Tim was silent for a moment. “There's no man on earth can beat you this day.”

As usual he hummed the same words:

He turned to Shane, the wraith of a smile around his battered and hard old mouth, “Funny—I can niver git that line outta my head—‘the dawn comin' up like thunder'—the very idea—how can it?”

“It'll thunder today.” Shane moved his shoulders.

Silent Tim glanced at the newspaper nearest him.

“Here's your measurements,” he said. “You weigh 202 and Sully 204—his reach is 77, yours 78—”

“Huh,” Shane grunted, “I've got it on him there.”

Silent Tim read on. “His chest normal is 42—and yours 43½—more room for your lungs, me boy—and listen to this from Hot and Cold Daily's column.

“‘After watching the two fighters in training and considering those things that indicate one of the greatest contests of all recorded time, it is the opinion of this writer that it's either man up, and take your pick in the heavyweight championship of the world brawl this afternoon. No matter how terrible the pace set by either mighty antagonist, the other man will meet it. The writer concedes that Rory has lost twice to the champion in earlier days. He was then carefree, willy-nilly. There is now something else in his eyes. And who can ever forget his slashing and terrific defeat of Torpedo Jones?

“‘It is true that Sully has never been a flashy gymnasium fighter. He lacks the suppleness, the writer might even say the beauty, the grace and the glaring daring of the great and dauntless Rory—but it must be conceded that his training before the fight with Bangor Lang did not impress the onlookers. Yet he won the heavyweight championship of the world.

“‘A five mile run completed Rory's training yesterday, after punching the bag and shadow-boxing for twenty minutes.

“‘Both men are on edge. Both dislike and respect the other. Both are savage, gruelling, ruthless, relentless, brutal and terrible men. Both have brains as quick as a pickpocket's fingers. Both are primal and bitter. It is not likely that two such men will ever again meet at their peak. When I consider all the factors—I call it even-Steven—they are as evenly matched as two bullets in the same revolver.'”

Silent Tim shook his head in admiration. “Two bullets in the same revolver. He's not agin us, anyhow. If he could think like he writes he'd be a Harold Bell Wright—he can sling the words, indeed he can. But he'd steal your left eye and sell it for a marble.”

He read another opinion.

“‘Great as the Rory attack will be—Sully's will be greater. If Rory could not whip the champion when they were both younger, how can he expect to do it now with the confidence and prestige of a championship behind Sully?'”

Silent Tim crumpled the paper. “What a fool he is to write that way.”

“Who wrote it?” asked Shane.

“Joe Slack's name's signed to it, but never mind-he's a fool—now Hot and Cold Daily's a smart man-he thinks before he writes.”

Shane picked up the paper.

“‘The vaunted Rory attack—with its wild flurry of
leather will not withstand the terrific assaults of the champion. Rory is a great heavyweight—ranking in the very first flight. But Harry Sully is greater. No man in the world can rate an even break with Sully fighting as he will fight today.'”

“We'll see,” said Shane.

“The devil with that—what does a high school boy know about fights—even under Joe Slack's name?” Tim was indignant. “But this is better.” He read aloud,

“‘Heavy demand for tickets to title bout— Gate expected to go beyond two million dollars.'” He put the paper down, saying, “I'll be leavin' you on a sweet note—you can rest a while before you weigh in—here's Blinky.”

“Gosh, Champ—I couldn't sleep, so I went down in the lobby. I just heard Hoten Cold Daily bet ten dollars over in Jack's ticket office there wouldn't be a knockout inside of ten rounds.”

“It was someone else's money,” snapped Tim.

He looked at his watch, as Blinky went on, “It ain't eleven yet, and they're beginnin' to crowd out at the stadium already thicker'n thieves at a lawyer's funeral.” He glanced at Shane's shoulders. “The sun's blazin' but that old beef brine in your hide'll turn it away.” His voice rose as though he had just seen Shane, “How do you feel, Champ?”

“Never better.”

“That's the stuff—take it easy—” Blinky's hand went over Shane's three days growth of beard. “Thataboy—they'll turn bullets.”

“They'll have to,” Silent Tim commented dryly.

“Gosh—you'd think the boss was in the other corner.”

“I am—with a knife.”