The Bruiser (6 page)

Shane watched the sea gulls fly on the wharf at San Francisco. Dilly Dally had left for Hollywood with the last hundred dollars. Eight hundred had gone in four weeks.

It was time to fight again.

He thought over his life, and wondered about Buck Logan and Spider Smith. His fights with Barney McCoy returned.

It was sunny weather. The white clouds moved slowly in a blue sky across the bay.

Jackie Connors was right about Dilly. She had told him everything. “I think we'd better bust up,” she said. “I ain't worthy of a boy like you—maybe some day I will be.”

“Well-that's that,” he said. “So long.”

“You won't be mad, will you, dear?”

“Who—me—what at? We've both got to get by. I've got to get me some fights. There's nothing doin' here.”

It had been pleasant, he remembered.

He did not feel hurt at her confession. People could only misuse him in the ring.

“You and me's different—I don't know why,” she said one day as they wandered through Golden Gate Park. “I'm just made wrong—but I'll never forget you.”

Spider Smith had talked about women in Mexico City. “The only way to get one dame outta your head's to get another one.”

He did not understand. Girls had never bothered him—except one—a little. And then, he left because he did not want to be in the way.

Once, in a moment of confidence, he had told Dilly about her.

“So her pa owns a big farm,” she sighed, her eyes narrow. “It's a good thing you left before he chased you.”

She had not been the same since.

“Oh, well!”

Silent Tim Haney was in Portland. It was seven hundred miles away.

He had fourteen dollars left. He would have to beat his way.

In three days he was at the gymnasium of the Ideal Athletic Club.

It was crowded with fighters. Old timers, with broken noses, and ears like hunks of gristle, talked with lads still unmarked by the leather of the ring.

Silent Tim Haney was the manager of the gymnasium. He was also the matchmaker for the Ideal Athletic Club. He sat on a rickety chair in his green-painted, pine-board office. On the walls were pictures of fighters and women in tights. In the center of one group was a photograph of George Washington; of the other, Abraham Lincoln.

The manager was in a stormy mood. The directors had held a special meeting. Their object was to determine
why the Ideal Athletic Club was losing money. “They ain't no more good fighters left,” the manager wailed. The battered gathering of elemental ruffians nodded their heads in approval.

A knock came to the door. “Come on in, for God in Heaven's sake—this ain't a church.”

It opened quickly. Shane Rory walked before him.

He carried a small, cheap, ancient handbag. Hatless, his hair straggled in all directions. He wore a faded blue serge suit, a green flannel shirt, and canvas shoes that had once been white.

“Mr. Haney,” the husky young fellow put the bag on the floor in the manner of a bell boy, “My name's Shane Rory—I'd like to fight for you.”

The manager and his gathering looked at the lad.

Shane's eyes were bloodshot. His chin was square and firm. His shoulders were thrown forward. In spite of many gloves, his nose was one a woman might envy.

“What's wrong with your eyes?” the manager asked.

“Nothin's wrong with my eyes,” replied Shane.

“They're all red,” said Silent Tim Haney.

“I got cinders in 'em. Been ridin' the blind baggage all night.”

The manager moved his shoulders, “Road kid, huh.”

“Yeap—I've been tourin' around—and I'm sick of it. I get a little dough—and I spend it in no time and I'm broke again—up and down all the time like an elevator—but I can fight—don't get me wrong. I've just been a sap. I'm on my way now— See these clippin's.” He held a handful of newspaper items toward the manager.

“Any good men among 'em?”

“Plenty—see here—I licked Blinky Miller.”

“Not
the
Blinky Miller—you wouldn't be on the bum now if you could do that.” Silent Tim Haney's voice rose.

“Many a good man's been on the bum—and I'm not a liar—I licked Blinky Miller—it's all here in English—I broke his heart, Mr. Haney—you could hear it snap when I begun to get the range— If Buck Logan was alive he'd tell you plenty about me—if he'd of lived I'd be champion now. I was Jack Gill's sparring partner. I cracked Gunner Maley in the semi to him. You don't hear of him no more. I took Barney McCoy'n a round.”

The manager became more alert.

“What name'd you fight under?” He still ignored the clippings.

“Wildcat Rory.”

“Clawed 'em to death, huh—you talk like a champeen,” the managed bantered. The gathering laughed aloud, as men will at a benefactor's humor.

The lad's eyes went to the circle of the bruisers, and returned to the manager.

“I told you,” he said, “I wanted to fight for you.”

“Any particular place on the bill? The top spot, I suppose,” said Silent Tim Haney. Guffaws followed the manager's words.

When the laughter subsided, the boy answered slowly, “No place in particular, Mr. Haney. Any place'll do me.” He stopped for a second, “And anybody, any size.” His razor lips cut the last words. “You
remember the night I fought the semi to Jerry Wayne—he says to me—'Boy, I'm glad I'm goin' and you're comin''— I liked Jerry after that—he knew I'da took him in a coupla more years—it took a big guy to admit that.”

The manager attempted to remember.

“Was that on Old Settlers' Day?”

“Yes, sir—Jerry Wayne won in four rounds—and I won in one.”

“So you think you'd of took Jerry, huh?”

“Well, we're sayin' nothin' now about them that's worse than dead, for it can't be proved ever—but don't let these palookers around here laugh you outta seein' me go—all you'll ever get outta these stumble bums is the holes in the doughnuts.” He shoved his right hand quickly through his tangled hair, and looked scornfully around.

“What do you weigh?” asked the manager.

“A hundred and sixty-eight, stripped.”

“Wanta put on the gloves with anybody here?” The manager looked about.

“Anybody,” snapped the boy.

“Get Harry Sully,” commanded the manager, “we'll see how good you are.”

Harry Sully, just becoming a prominent heavyweight, came into the room.

“He's got it on you twenty pounds, but you don't mind that, do you?” said the manager.

“Not atall,” said Shane.

The manager, still by way of banter, “Are you sure you kin be a card for me?”

Shane pointed to Harry Sully, “Ask him when we're through.”

“Well, I'm looking for a new face to fight the main bout with him—see what you can do—”

“Well, I'm your huckleberry, Mr. Haney—I was born with my fists closed. They had to pry 'em open.”

“Do you always brag this way?” said the manager.

“I don't brag, Mr. Haney. I've got to get off the bum. Besides, I may as well say it as think it—and I don't believe in lyin'—you can put it down in your little red notebook—I've been foolin' around with the gloves ever since I was seven years old.”

He laid his clothes on an old chair. Standing nude, he jerked a pair of yarn tights from the handbag.

“Ain't you got no protectors—you're liable to get hit low.”

The boy looked at the manager. “They can't hit low when they're busy backin' up,” he said, “now can they, Mr. Haney?”

The manager's eyes opened in amazement.

“Do you know who Harry Sully is?” he asked.

“Sure I know who everybody is—does he know who I am—but anyhow, Mr. Haney—I always remembered you after Butte—I said to myself right then, ‘Some day I'll team up with him.' I knew then you had your hands full with one good fighter—and
Jerry Wayne was good.”

“You admit it, eh?” said the manager, pleased.

“Sure—anyone could see that. I didn't dress till his fight was over that night—I just set in my bathrobe and watched him throw them gloves.”

“Well, you watched a great man at his best.” The manager's eyes lit with happy memory. “A machine gun couldn't throw gloves any faster.”

“And his foot work,” marveled Shane, “He could dance a jig on a dime.”

“Yes, yes, indeed—a wonderful boy.”

“I fought him and won,” Harry Sully said, waiting.

“You fought his shadow,” Silent Tim Haney said, without looking at Sully.

“That night in Butte,” continued Shane, “you were up collectin' the money, I guess, Mr. Haney. I went to see Jerry after the fight, and I said to him, ‘I think you got it on 'em all, Jerry,' and he puts his arm around me and says, ‘You're not so bad yourself, Kid. I watched you in that one round— Snap your left more when you move in for the kill.' I never forgot that. I won my next fight with a short left. I always liked him after that—and I was sorry to hear he got beat.”

He looked across at Harry Sully, who stood, frowning. Sully's shoulders were broad and stooped near to abnormal. Over six feet, he seemed shorter. His hair was clipped close. His nose was large and flat. His ears were small and out of shape. His jaw was undershot, long and square. Beginning at a hundred and thirty, he had fought at different weights. His greatest feat had been in whipping Jerry Wayne.

The gloves on, Shane began to bounce around and throw blows at an imaginary foe.

Harry Sully stepped jauntily toward him when the gong rang.

He was smothered in a flurry of blows. Unable to
keep the newcomer away from him with all his knowledge, he went to his corner at the end of the round with a surprised expression.

“I told Wilson I'd see that you got a good workout,” Silent Tim Haney smiled.

When the gong sounded, Silent Tim looked at Sully and said, “Come on, Harry, this is the last round.”

The youth was on top of him again. At the end of the round, he was still flailing with both gloves.

Silent Tim waited until Sully came to his corner.

“That kid's a wildcat,” he grumbled.

Silent Tim hurried to Shane. “Where are you from?”

“No place.”

“Been fightin' long?”

“Off an' on for quite a while—I never took it very serious—anything to make a livin'.”

“Who was it you fought in Butte?”

“Eddie Flynn.”

“Huh—a good boy.” Tim Haney's manner changed. “I remember now.” He looked around. “Well, you made good here. I'll give you a match with Sully. Al Wilson, his manager, wants me to get him a fight.” He put his hand on Shane's shoulder. “Don't say nothin' to nobody—I may wanta manage you.”

“It's all right with me,” returned Shane, putting on his worn coat, and picking up the small handbag. “I'm sick of floatin' around.”

“Where you livin'?” asked Mr. Haney.

“I don't know,” replied Shane, “some little joint I
flopped in last night. Fellow from Loue-e-ville runs it—down on Post Street—here's his card.”

The manager wrote the address.

“I'll be seein' you,” he said, “an' remember, you're on in the main event a week from this comin' Saturday.”

“All right-where'll I train?”

“I'll phone Lavin's and fix it up—it's only a little ways from where you stay.”

“Okeh,” returned Shane, as he left.

Silent Tim Haney returned to his rickety chair. For a moment he was silent, and stared at the picture of Abraham Lincoln.

Different stooges talked low. The young bruiser's personality still echoed in the room. It had the semi-quiet of a place just raided by the police.

“That guy's a storm, eh, Mr. Haney?” finally came from a stooge.

Silent Tim's eyes moved from George Washington to the picture of a slender woman in tights.

“I'll say he's a storm,” cut in Harry Sully, now dressed—”gimme a cigarette somebody—he tried to lay me out— He kin hit.”

“How'd you like to fight him?” Silent Tim Haney asked.

“Any time.”

“He may take you.” Silent Tim still stared at the lady in tights.

“That's what you thought about Jerry Wayne.” Silent Tim turned suddenly, but said nothing. Sully blew a ring of smoke. “There's nobody lickin' me.”

“How about Torpedo Jones?” Silent Jim snapped the question.

“Fluke decision—I'll knock that Nigger dead if he ever fights me again. I was born to lick him.”

“I didn't see the fight,” pursued Silent Tim, “but from what I hear you fought him wrong—tryin' to counter punch with him.”

“I don't fight none of them palookas wrong—besides I beat him—you can ask my manager. Al Wilson'll tell you I had him woozy in the seventh.”

“Maybe Al's prejudiced, bein' your manager.”

“Who—Wilson prejudiced—you don't know that guy—to hear him talk you'd think I didn't have a chance with anybody. He's always jackin' me up like I was some stumble bum, an' not a comin' champeen.”

Silent Tim, taunting, “It takes more'n nerve to be champeen, Sully—many are called, so the Good Book says, but very few are chosen.”

“Well, I'm called—you hear that.” Sully threw the cigarette from him. “You never give me a chance with Jerry Wayne,” his voice raised, “If you'd had good ears you'd of heard me bein' called that night. You saw me whip Wayne—he was a
good man.”

“Again I tell you, you whipped a good man's shadow.” Silent Tim's words were sharp.

“Shadow—hell—I kin whip an army of shadows like him.”

“Quit talkin' about the dead,” snapped Silent Tim.