The Bruiser (5 page)

Rory went down the aisle.

“It's one of those things,” Gill said to his manager. “That kid's got a bulldog's heart—and he's fast as a greyhound—watch.”

Other sparring mates from Gill's camp attended Shane. Maley was contemptuous.

“Gunner Maley,” he bowed to the introduction, “meets Shane Rory—ten rounds—moved up from six for your benefit. Rory, lest we forget, is a protégé of Jack Gill's—five thousand dollars is wagered on the result of this fight. Three to one—if there's a knockout, Rory will land it.” The announcer clapped his hands. The referee stepped to the centre of the ring.

Maley, with bull neck, and powerful shoulders, the gloves already on his hands, stepped from his corner.

A hush came over the gathering.

Rory came to meet him.

Lithe, his body sun-burned about the shoulders and neck, his ribs wash-board indented, a few freckles across his nose, his lips tight set, his hair a mass of packed curls, he slapped one glove against another while the referee gave instructions.

The referee stopped.

“Are you through?” Maley asked.

“Yes.”

“No fouls now—everything goes—this is a fight.”

“Yes,” snapped Rory— “This is a fight.”

Scowling, Maley dashed to his corner. The gong rang.

Maley rushed. His blows failed to bring Rory from his shell. A few cracked against the top of Shane's head hard enough to drive it between his shoulders.

Rory came forward, ignoring Maley's head. He stamped with his left foot, feinted with right and left hand, drew back, then planted his right foot deep in the canvas.

Maley charged.

An ox would have fallen under the battering. So did Maley. So swift and terrible were the blows that Maley caught them on the way down.

The audience groaned from the sudden finish.

“I knew it, by God, I knew it,” Jack Gill said— “throw some clothes on him—rub him off later—I'll stall in the ring till he comes.”

Before final instructions were given, Shane crawled through the ropes. Roars of applause followed.

“Bow, Kid, bow”—Gill snapped.

Shane acknowledged the applause.

Gill, not so fortunate as Shane, received a close decision over his opponent.

“You were up against a better man than me,” Shane consoled.

“Not at all, Kid—it's the game—a woman's liable to lick you the night you think you can whip an army. You were
right
tonight—you could of licked Stanley Ketchell—that's all—but I will say—that louse I fought's nobody's stumble-burn.”

“I'll say he's not,” said Shane, “He don't stumble even when you hit him.”

“If he does,” smiled Gill, “it's back for more. I
thought my hands were bone dust, I hit him so hard and often.”

“Oh well,” said Shane, “better luck next time.”

“There's no next time for that bird—he's harder to lick than a champion—and he might lick a champion, and I'm goin' to be the world's champion.”

Shane remembered his last fight with Garcia, and wondered until, rubbed down, he left the building with Jack Gill and his manager.

“Come along to Chicago with us,” said Gill, “we've got two weeks in burlesque.”

“Nope—I don't like burlesque.”

“But you won't have to see it, Sap—you'll be workin' with me.”

“Nope, Jack, I'm headin' for Omaha.”

“All right—say hello to Buck Logan out there for me—that guy's heart's in the right place.”

“Another fellow told me about him—Mankerlitz out of Phoenix.”

“So you know Mank, do you—he's okeh—some good people in this racket—but don't miss Logan. He's worth a round trip. He was a fighter when he was a kid. He knows what it is to get belted around. Get him to talkin' sometime. You know a lot of them writin' saps are mighty dumb—they think because they can string words together they got the world by the tail, when all the time it's got them. But they wouldn't know what to do with a coupla cracks on the jaw. Everybody's got somethin', Kid—even that manager of mine—but I ain't found out what it is—but go to Logan-he's the bishop of us guys. He hears all our confessions.
Get him to tell you about the time he fought the dinge in Winnipeg—and how he said to his second, ‘Throw in the towel, I'm retirin' from the fray'—and the second says, ‘That wasn't a hard wallop you took—just think what Battlin' Nelson would take'—and Buck says—'Well, Nelson would have quit had he took that one—you fight the next round—I'm through—' Well, so long, Shane—drop me a line any time, care of the
Chicago Tribune
— you're damn good people—you shoot square dice.”

His green silk shirt wide open at the throat, his muscles bulging the shoulders, the wind blowing through his hair, Gill sat at the wheel. His manager climbed in beside him. The rear seat of his powerful car was loaded with many traveling bags. The car roared in the direction of Chicago.

Shane watched the luxurious sixteen-cylindered car until it faded from sight.

He was lonesome for Gill. He had learned a lot from him. He remembered his saying,

“You're the best man in the camp, Kid—don't you never forget it. You're growin' or I'd have to fight you some day—and I'd hate that—you might lick me—and if I was mad enough to lick you I'd be sorry.”

Gill had never taken a drink in his life—had never used tobacco— “I just didn't—that's all.”

The words impressed Shane.

“I wanta meet you again, Jack.”

“We will—it's in the cards—if it ever comes rough, let me know.”

“You're a pal, Jack.”

“I like you, that's all—you take it and lash it out—and you don't whimper—a guy who can tear Maley to pieces is aces up with me—and I've never heard you say a word about it.”

Shane never had so much money before. Remembering Gill's swagger and the powerful car, he walked about the streets of Wichita.

The lad who had bought trinkets in Mexico City that he did not need was soon buying a large wardrobe trunk and loading it with clothes.

He took a Pullman out of Wichita.

It was filled with men who had attended the convention.

All wanted to entertain the conqueror of Gunner Maley.

Shrewd men, who had gone far in the world, they had not learned what Shane and Gill knew by instinct—to be temperate with food and liquor.

To their amazement they observed that he who had been brutal as a strong wind against Maley was now bashful and awkward in his plush surroundings.

“I'd give a million to be in your shape,” a bloated man said, “I wish you'd take me in hand. Too much flesh is like too much money—it makes you tired to carry it around.”

“I wouldn't know about that,” Shane returned unconsciously.

The rich man smiled. “You're a nice fellow. I thought fighters had horns.”

“We need 'em,” Shane said.

Reaching Omaha, he made his way to Buck Logan.

“Sure, Jack Gill wired me about you—so you got Maley in a round, huh—good work—I'll bet that Gill carried his man—he's a fox—lot of brains. Well, you oughta stay here a while. I'll smoke you up for some good matches.”

“Another fellow wanted me to see you.”

“Who's that?”

“Joe Mankerlitz—Phoenix.”

“Oh yeah—he did write me about you—that's been some time ago—a good fellow, Joe—shady as a woods—but a honey if he's on your side.”

Buck Logan had an immense head, large ears, square teeth, and bulging eyes. His body, once muscular, was now flabby. His delicate hands belied the rest of his body. His short fingers tapered. He wore thick glasses, against which his eyelashes rubbed. A wrinkle of neck fell over his collar.

Around sixty, his hair was thick gray.

He peered at Shane.

“What do you weigh—about 165—you'll fill out yet—you've got the frame for a heavyweight. Come up and see me any time. Where you staying? Better go to the Avon—nice quiet place—I'll get you set there-twelve a week. It pays to look flush. If people think you're in the money they give you more—unless you're a newspaperman—then all hell won't give you any money.”

Through Logan's influence he was matched with Barney McCoy at a “smoker” given by the Elks Lodge.

He won the decision. The verdict helped make him a “card” in Omaha.

A match with Blinky Miller in Council Bluffs followed.

“He's supposed to be Eddie Turner from Chicago—but he's a ringer,” Buck Logan explained. “You can take him. I'll use it after you lick him—it's a better story.”

A “ringer” was a successful pugilist who used an assumed name and wagered money on himself against a less able bruiser.

After he knocked Miller out, Shane went to his dressing-room.

“You can hit, my boy,” said Miller, rubbing his jaw, “You surprised me— I'm clean as a whistle—bet my whole end of the purse.”

“Here's a hundred,” said Shane.

The defeated fighter took the money. “Thanks, Pal, I'll remember this—I'm Blinky Miller.”

“Sure,” smiled Shane, “I was on from the first.”

By a quirk of compassion, Buck Logan did not use the story. A rival paper told of Miller's identity.

Miller called on Buck.

“Thanks, Buck—you're real people. You can't blame me for losin' to that boy. I knew the first round I was up against it. He cracked me on the jaw so hard it was like someone run a sword in my ear. It was lucky I lasted as long as I did. I bet everything I had on myself.”

“That's tough,” said Logan, “Can I help?”

“No—the kid comes to my dressin' room and kicks in a hundred.”

“Who—Rory?” exclaimed Logan.

“Sure—it come near knockin' me out agin—those things ain't done this year.”

Buck wiped his heavy glasses. “Well I'll be damned.” His eyes roved the clutter of the room. “He's a dead right kid—got all the right instincts.”

“He can fight like hell too—” Blinky Miller added.

“Yeah—the poor devil—I hope he don't go the way all you guys go—it's like Spider Smith used to say—”

Shane greeted Logan. “Here's your enemy,” the writer said.

“Hello,” he shook Miller's hand.

“Blinky just told me a nice thing you did.”

“Who—me?” Shane stammered.

“Yes, it was a damn nice thing,” said Miller.

Shane frowned at him for silence.

Sensing the situation, Logan cut in, “You remember Spider Smith—don't you, Blinky?”

“Sure thing,” answered Miller.

“I wonder whatever became of him?”

“God knows,” returned Miller, “He's faded out somewhere.”

Shane remained silent.

Buck Logan called to an assistant at the next desk. “Get Joe Watkins—we want a picture of this Damon and Pythias—for my collection—not for the paper—it might look bad.”

Joe Mankerlitz came on from Phoenix as the manager of Barney McCoy.

“Give us a break for old times' sake, Shane—let Barney get a draw with you. It'll be all right with Buck when he gets back—there's room for us all—you can make it a fast go—just don't knock him out. You've beat him once—we both know you can do it again.”

He had a more important match in Sioux City.

“You're on your way up,” Buck Logan had said before leaving for New York to report a fight between Jerry Wayne and Bud Fealy.

It might have been different had a telegram not reached him from Jack Gill. Buck Logan died of heart failure on the train.

Since boyhood, death had not touched Shane. He was fond of Logan. For hours the sports' editor would sit at a corner table in “The Rendezvous” and tell him tales of the ring.

Shane's cockiness in the ring, his bashfulness outside, had appealed to Logan. He became his constant companion.

The table was often surrounded by newspapermen. He would listen to their talk with deep attention.

Logan's assistant was Ted Braly.

“I've got an idea, Ted. I wanta do something for Buck. Suppose we start a collection. I'll lead it off with a coupla hundred—he's got an aunt—she might need something.”

“No, Shane—Buck's okeh—he had some money—the only thing you can do for him is carry him in your heart.”

He was still depressed when Mankerlitz came to his hotel.

“Buck'll understand wherever he is,” said Mankerlitz.

Shane consented to let McCoy stay the limit.

He realized too late that he was double-crossed. He lost the decision to McCoy—who replaced him on the card in Sioux City.

He remembered Logan's words about Mankerlitz—“shady as a woods.”

He pleaded for a return match.

“I'd like to give it to you, Shane—but you know how it is—you can't blame Barney and me for makin' the most of things. Another win now over you wouldn't help us none—we're movin' out of here for a while.”

The full force of his predicament came to Shane.

“So that's it, huh.”

“Sure, Shane—that's it—you oughta knowed better.” Joe Mankerlitz was not unkind. He laughed quietly.

The memory of Buck Logan and his own chagrin made him leave Omaha. The double-cross embittered him for weeks. He never again took the word of another in the ring.

For several months Shane was too indifferent to seek matches. He had two thousand dollars, a large diamond ring, a half dozen silk robes, many suits of clothes, three trunks, and two watches.

As a road kid he had seen railroad employees look at watches of an expensive make. He paid a hundred dollars for one. “It's a twenty-five year gold case and twenty-one jewels,” the salesman said.

“I know,” returned Shane, putting the money on the glass case.

All found their way to pawn shops. He had paid five hundred for the ring. “A diamond's as good as money any day,” the jeweler explained when he bought the bauble.

He pawned it for sixty dollars. “No more of these damn things for me,” he said to the pawnbroker.

“Sixty dollars is better than no money,” the dealer in lost vanity said.

“But it's not as good as five hundred,” Shane pocketed the money.

“Look at the fun you had wearin' it.” The pawnbroker looked at the stone.

He reached Cheyenne a year later where Jackie Connors, a one time bantamweight, was promoting fights.

“I'd like to fight Barney McCoy,” he said to Connors.

The shriveled little promoter looked at Shane. “Just why McCoy?”

“Well, we'd draw some money— I licked him once, and he licked me, and it's not too far from Omaha.”

“Are them the only reasons?”

“No—he put the double-o on me.”

“He's goin' like a house afire now, you know,” said the manager shrewdly.

“All right—all I want's expenses if I don't lick him—his manager'll think I'm a cinch now—and you can slip the word along I'm a set-up— Look here—” Shane handed a package of newspaper clippings to Connors.

“That's all right—I know you're a fighter,” said Connors.

“Thanks—you don't know nothin' if you ain't seen me go. I carried that guy like a sap. My second kept sayin' that he was edgin' up on me—and I went clear screwy when the referee raises his hand—believe me, from now on I wouldn't even trust Jesus on a white horse.”

“How long you been fightin'?” asked Connors.

“Oh, I don't know—three years maybe.”

“I used to battle some myself.”

“I know that—and you were good—you licked Willy Forbes, didn't you?”

“Yeap—got him in four—a good man, Willy.”

“He musta been—got killed later, didn't he?”

“Yeap—One Round Riley got him—it was bad luck
—canvas wasn't padded where he went down. He died from concussion of the brain.”

“Gee,” from Shane.

“The racket ain't what it used to be,” the one-time bantamweight commented.

“No, I guess not,” returned Shane, “But do I get this fight— I'm right here, you know—you don't have to bring a guy in—you can tell the papers you sent for me from Chicago—you know—smoke it up—a grudge fight—then sneak it over to McCoy's gang I'm all through—you know how—”

The wrinkled promoter chuckled.

“You're tellin' me how—why, I was throwin' leather before you could crawl.”

“I know that, and you were good, I know, but I can fight some. I wanta square things up with Buck Logan.”

“He's dead,” said Connors.

“Not for me he ain't dead—he's just as alive as I am.” Shane patted his heart. “I can feel his eyes on me—‘You get McCoy'—and Buck Logan's ghost can strangle me if I don't win.”

“All right.” The weazened promoter looked Shane up and down, “I'm goin' to put you on with McCoy-Pioneer Day's a month off— I'll fix you up—leave it to me—you might even get a grand out of it—but you know—McCoy's better than he was—he beat Slippery Markowitz.”

“So'd I—”

“All right, Buddy—I'll take you over to the Good Luck Restaurant so you kin scoff.”

“That suits me.”

Shane kept pace with Connors, who said, “There's a little dame over there. She's kinda sweet on me”—he looked at Shane's physique— “She's nuts about fighters, and she may go for you—but that's okey. I play the field—they're doin' me a favor when they don't marry me. I wouldn't hold her if I was big as John L. Sullivan.”

“What's her name?”

“Interested, huh,” Connors grimaced crookedly. “It's a funny name—Dilly Dally—last name's real, so her mother called her Dilly.”

“Kind of cute.” Shane stepped faster.

“Wait'll you see her.” Connors kept pace. “Tell her you've been in Hollywood. She'll go for that—she's crazy to get in the movies.”

Facing the depot was a restaurant. Above the door was painted a large red, white, and blue horse-shoe. Beneath were the words, “Good luck.”

Connors opened the door.

“Hello there, Jackie,” said Dilly.

Shane followed.

The girl stared.

“Brought along a pal of mine, Dilly. He fights here in about a month.”

“Really—” her eyes opened.

“Yeap—agin Barney McCoy.”

“Is that so?” Her eyes were still on Shane.

“Yeap—.” Connors looked at one and then the other, much as a referee would at two pugilists. “Dilly Dally—meet Shane Rory.”

She bowed politely and made an affected gesture. Shane nodded. “Glad to know you.”

“He'll be eatin' here right along now—tell the boss I'm good for it.”

“Oh, that's okeh.” Dilly smiled. Her teeth were even as pearls in a row, her eyes large and brown, her hair tinged with gold. Her close-fitting waist, open low at the throat, revealed the form of her breasts.

As they seated themselves, she leaned over Shane and said, “What'll it be?” Her breast touched Shane's shoulder.

“Give us both some ham and eggs, coffee and toast,” Connors spoke quickly.

“All right.” She stepped gracefully to the kitchen. Their eyes followed.

“Could you go for that?” Connors grinned crookedly at Shane.

“I'll say—any time. She's beautiful.”

Connors' voice rose. “She is beautiful—that kid'll get some place just as sure's a preacher goes to church on Sunday.”

When she returned, Connors said, “Be nice to Shane here, won't you, Dilly—he'll have to be in good shape to lick McCoy.”

Dilly placed the food on the table. “Sure I'll be nice to him.” She touched his shoulder. “I'll bet McCoy won't get no place fast with him—I know a good man when I see one.”

“That's more'n most women do,” chuckled Connors.

“Well, I'm not
most women
.”

“That's right, Dilly—you don't belong in Cheyenne.”

Shane's eyes did not leave her.

“How long you been here?” he asked.

“Too long,” was the answer, “I've only got fifty-one more years if I live my full time out. I've spent forty of them here.”

“You've only been here four months,” put in Connors.

“Well, that's forty years the way I figure.” All three laughed.

“It won't seem so long if you're nice to him here.” Connors nodded toward Shane.

“I'll be nice. I don't have to have a brick house fall on me to take the hint.” She looked at Shane. “Will you take me to see you fight?”

“Sure.”

“I'll be prayin' for you,” she said. “Do you want your coffee now?”

“Yes, please,” returned Shane.

“Mine later, Sis,” said Connors.

“Take it easy,” he cautioned Shane, as she left. “Don't fall too hard for a dame in a railroad restaurant.”

In spite of Connors warning, Shane was infatuated with Dilly. For the next few weeks she saw no one else.

Her home was in Grand Island, Nebraska. She was working her way to Hollywood. “I've had a lot of
chances to go,” she explained to Shane, “but I wanta get there honorable—I don't wanta lot of strings on me”.

“Why not let's go to Frisco after the fight—I'll have six or eight hundred dollars.”

“How far's that from Hollywood?” she asked.

“Oh, about five hundred miles—I'd send you down—the game's good in Frisco. I'll get by McCoy, then I'll be a card.”

“Just think,” she said admiringly, “all that money in one night. Gee, you must be smart. I'd sling hash a year for that much.”

“Well, it's different,” Shane was earnest, “All I've got to have is a strong jaw and a weak mind.”

“Your mind's not so weak, dear.” Her hand touched the muscle of his arm. “It would be nice to leave here—you know how it is—you can't turn sideways in a town like this but what they'll talk about you—and a girl can't stay home all the time twiddlin' her thumbs.”

“That's right,” agreed Shane.

“It wouldn't be so bad, but I have to send my stepfather money. He's not much good, but my mother used to like him before she died.”

“That's too bad—I mean,” Shane was confused.

“That's right—it was too bad—she done everything for him—but that's the way it goes. If you don't kick a man first, he will you.”

“That's right,” Shane agreed.

With such talk, the hours passed.

She would hold his hand in the movies, and sigh at
the tribulations of the heroine. The love scenes enthralled her. Above the silence her breath would come quickly.

Intent on the coming fight and vengeance, the days flew swiftly. The wind purring the sand down the streets of Cheyenne did not sound lonely to him. Dilly Dally was in town.

“Now listen, Shane,” Connors said two days before the fight, “I've tried to steer you right—don't go nuts on that kid. She's smart as salt in a fresh cut. Never trust a dame in a railroad restaurant. She's too purty. Have all the fun you want—but don't get that calf look in your eyes. I'm not sayin' anything against her—it's not that—I used to have a bird dog. If anybody picked up a gun around it, it'd go nuts—it couldn't help it—it was anybody's dog who'd go huntin'.”

“You don't mean she's not on the square?”

“Now, what would you think—she took me for a hundred before I got next—said the baby was mine.”

“I don't believe you—you're kiddin',” said Shane.

The talk still worried him.

“You've never done nothin' wrong in this town, have you, Dilly?”

Her eyes raised. “I should say not—nor no other town—we've been together a long time—
I'm straight with you and I like you.”
She became fretful. “I just knew they'd talk about me if I ever met some boy I liked.” Her eyes were tearful.

Shane was ashamed.

“Now don't let on to anybody—we can get out of
here when the fight's over—when I do find the man I love, that'll be different.”

“Is it me?”

She huddled close. “Can't you guess?”

Shane looked straight ahead and saw nothing.

He was in his dressing-room while the first preliminary was being fought.

Two men entered without knocking.

He was carefully rolling the tape over his knuckles.

“Hello there, Rory,” said the heavier man. “You look in good shape—how long's the fight gonna last?”

“Oh,” Shane shrugged, “you can't tell—he's a good boy—anything can happen in there.”

“That's what we wanta talk to you about—to keep the record clear—you understand.”

“What's there to understand?”

“Plenty,” was the answer. “You're a good-lookin' kid—we don't even know where your mother lives—if you've got one—and we don't wanta be mean and send you to her in a box—”

The heavier man fondled a revolver.

“I get it,” said Shane. “You're on McCoy to win.”

“That's it.”

“McCoy's got to win, huh.”

“You guessed it again. The bank roll's on him.”

“Why can't we make it a nice draw?”

“We can't use a draw—it's got to be a knockout.”

Shane loosened his shoulder muscles. “Connors has been good to me—I promised him a good fight for this chance—you wouldn't want me to let him down.”

“Well, it's too bad—but there's no way out.”

“Well, I guess you've got me—give me five or six rounds.”

“Seven's the limit.”

“All right.”

As Shane entered the ring he glanced through the ropes at the gamblers. Each had his right hand in a coat pocket.

Neither fighter spoke when receiving instructions. Rory went forward slowly at the gong, moving his gloved left hand up and down a few inches, his eyes narrow, his chin buried. A full minute passed. Each time McCoy led, his opponent stepped aside. Suddenly Rory stepped in. McCoy was between him and the gamblers. Rory's left shoulder was low. McCoy's chin might have been fastened on it. Rory's right moved three times, not over eight inches, trip-hammer fashion.

McCoy's jaw went sideways. His eyes turned glass. His mouth flew open. He fell as suddenly as a shot bull.

Men stood dumfounded about the ring. The count over, Rory went to his dressing-room without looking in the direction of the gamblers.