The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Six (35 page)

His right thudded home on Ketchell’s ribs with a smash like a base hit, then he hunched his shoulders together and started putting them in there with both hands. Ketchell backed up.

Suddenly Paddy Brennan felt fine again. His head was singing, his mouth was swollen, but he hooked high and low, battering Ketchell back with a rocking barrage of blows. A right snapped out of somewhere, and he barely slipped it, feeling the punch take his shoulder just below his ear.

Then, suddenly, Ketchell was on his knees with his nose broken, and blood bathing his chest and shoulders. The bell sounded wildly through the cheering, roaring crowd.

It was the sixth.

When he stood up, he could see Vino down there. Vino’s eyes were on him, cold and wary. Paddy Brennan remembered Dicer.

He walked out fast, and Ketchell came in, but he could see by Ketchell’s eyes what he was expecting. Paddy feinted and slid into a clinch, punching with one hand free.

“They make it easy for you, don’t they?” he said. “Even murder?”

Brennan broke and saw Ketchell’s face was set and cold. There was a killer in him. Well, he’d need it. Paddy walked in, hooking low and hard, smashing them to the head, slipping short left hooks and rights and all the while watching for that wide left hook of Ketchell’s that would set him up for the inside right cross. Through the blur, he saw Ketchell’s face, and he let his right down a little where Ketchell wanted it and saw the left hook start.

His own right snapped, and he felt his glove thud home. Then his left hooked hard but there was nothing in front of him and he moved back. He could see Tony Ketchell on the floor, and hear someone shouting in the crowd. He could see Bickerstaff on his feet, his face white, and behind him, Vino, his face twisted, lips away from the teeth. Then the referee jerked his arm up, and he knew he had won the fight.

C
LARA CAME RUNNING
to meet him in the dressing room. She had been crying, and she cried out when she saw his face.

“Oh, your poor eye!” She put up her hand to touch it, and then he grabbed her and swung her away…Vino was standing in the door with a gun in his hand.

“You’re a real smart kid, huh? Back up, sister. Lover boy and I are walking to my car. You’ll be lucky if you get him back.”

Brennan lunged with his right in the groove and saw the white blast of a gun and felt the heat on his face. Then his right landed, and Vino went down.

All of a sudden, Clara had him again, and the room was full of people. Sergeant O’Brien was picking Vino up, and Vino was all bloody, and his face twisted in hate.

“Get offa me, copper!” he snarled. “You haven’t got anything on me I can’t get fixed—”

“You’re under arrest for murder,” O’Brien said to Vino. “You and Bickerstaff and Cortina. And when this hits the papers the boys in Brooklyn won’t fix you up, they’re going to drop you like a hot potato.”

Vino’s face turned a pasty white.

“You got nothing but this pug’s say-so,” he declared.

“Oh, yes, we have,” O’Brien said. “We’ve got Farnum’s statement, and Cortina’s. But we don’t need them. We were in the next room when you talked to Brennan. We had a wire recorder microphone hung on the shower partition. It was Paddy’s idea.”

When they had gone, Brennan sat down slowly on the table.

He pulled Clara toward him. “They’re all big money fights from now on, Clara. There’ll be time now…time for us.”

“But we’ll fix that eye first,” she said. “I don’t intend to have my man dripping blood all over everything.”

She hesitated.

“I can’t stand seeing you hurt, but, Paddy—I guess it’s the Irish in me—oh, Paddy, it was a grand, grand fight, that’s what it was!”

Fighters Don’t Dive

N
imbly “Flash” Moran parried a jab and went in fast with a left to the wind. Stepping back, he let Breen get a breath. Then he flicked out a couple of lefts, put over an inside right, and as Breen bobbed into a crouch and tried to get in close, he clinched and tied him up.

They broke, and Breen came in with a flurry of punches that slid off Moran’s arms and shoulders. Then Moran’s hip moved and a left hook that traveled no more than four inches snapped Breen up to his toes. Breen caught himself and staggered away.

The gong sounded, and Flash Moran paused…then he slapped Breen on the shoulder and trotted to his corner.

Two men were standing there with Dan Kelly. He knew them both by sight. Mike McKracken, an ex-wrestler turned gambler, and “Blackie” Marollo, small-time racketeer.

“You’re lookin’ good, kid,” Kelly said. “This next one you should win.”

“You might, but you won’t stop him,” Marollo said, looking up. “Nobody knocks Barnaby out.”

McKracken studied Moran with cold eyes. “You got paper on him?” he asked Kelly.

“I don’t need any,” Kelly said. “We work together.”

“Well, if you had it, I’d buy a piece,” McKracken said. “I need a good middle. Money in that class now with Turner, Schmidt, and Demeray comin’ up.”

“I wouldn’t sell,” Kelly said. “We’re friends.”

“Yeah?” Marollo shot him a glance. “I’d hate to see somebody come along an’ offer him a grand to sign up. You’d see how much friendship matters.”

Flash Moran looked at Marollo, then dropped to the floor beside him.

“You’ve a rotten way of looking at things, Blackie,” he said. “We aren’t all dishonest, you know!”

“You’re pretty free with that lip of yours, kid. Maybe somebody will button it up one day. For keeps.”

Moran turned, pulled his robe around him, and started for the dressing room.

“That kid better get wise or he won’t last,” Marollo said. “You tell him, Kelly.”

“You told him yourself,” Kelly replied. “Didn’t you?”

Dan Kelly turned and walked up the aisle after Flash. Behind him, he heard Marollo mumble.

“That punk. I’ll fix him!”

“You won’t do nothin’ of the kind,” he heard McKracken growl. “We got too much ridin’ on this to risk trouble.”

The voices faded out with the distance, and Kelly scowled.

In the dressing room the trainer spoke up. “Keep an eye on Marollo, kid, he’s all bad.”

“To the devil with him,” Flash said. “I know his kind. He’s tough as long as he has all the odds with him. When the chips are down, he’ll turn yellow.”

“Maybe. But you’ll never see him when he doesn’t have the difference.” Kelly looked at him curiously. “Where you goin’ tonight?”

“Out. Just lookin’ around. Say, Dan, what do you suppose is bringing Marollo and McKracken around to the gym? One or the other’s been down here five days in a row.”

“Probably sizing you up, figurin’ the odds.” Kelly knotted his tie. “Well. I’ve got a date with the wife.”

S
HORTY
K
INSELLA WAS LINING UP
a shot when Flash Moran walked into Brescia’s Pool Room. He looked up.

“Hiya, champ! How’s about a game? I’m just winding up this one.”

He put the last ball in the corner and walked around, holding out his hand.

Moran took it, grinning. “Sure, I’ll play.”

“Better watch him.” The man who Kinsella had played handed Shorty five dollars. “He’s good!”

Moran racked the balls. “Say, what do you know about Blackie Marollo?”

Shorty’s smile went out like a light. He broke, and ran up four, then looked at Flash thoughtfully.

“Nothing. You shouldn’t know anything either.”

Flash Moran watched Kinsella make a three-cushion shot. “The guy’s got me wondering.”

“Well, don’t. Not if you want to stay healthy.”

Flash Moran finished his game and went out. He paused on the corner and peeled the paper from a stick of chewing gum. If even Shorty Kinsella was afraid to talk about Marollo, there must be more behind Blackie than he’d thought.

Suddenly, there was a man standing beside him. He was almost as tall as Moran, though somewhat heavier. He lit a cigarette, and as the match flared, he looked up at Flash over his cupped hands.

“Listen, sonny,” he said, “I heard you askin’ a lot of questions about Marollo in there. Well, cut it out…get me?”

“Roll your hoop.” Flash turned easily. “I’ll ask what I want, when I want.”

The man’s hand flashed, and in that instant of time, Flash saw the blackjack. He threw up his left arm and blocked the blow by catching the man’s forearm on his own. Then he struck. It was a right, short and wicked, into the man’s wind.

Moran had unlimbered a hard blow, and the man was in no shape to take it. With a grunt he started to fall and then Moran slashed him across the face with the edge of his hand. He felt the man’s nose crunch, and as the fellow dropped, Moran stepped over him and walked around the corner.

So, Blackie Marollo didn’t like to be talked about? Just who was Blackie Marollo, anyway?

Up the street there was a Chinese joint, a place he knew. He went in, found an empty booth, and sat down. He was scowling, thoughtfully. There would be trouble. He had busted up one of Marollo’s boys, and he imagined Blackie wouldn’t like it. If a guy had to hire muscle, he had to keep their reputation. If it was learned they could be pushed around with impunity, everybody would be trying it.

Moran was eating a bowl of chicken and fried rice when the girl came in. She was slim, long-legged, and blond, and when she smiled her eyes twinkled merrily. She had another girl with her, a slender brunette.

She turned, glancing around the room, and their eyes met. Too late he tried to look indifferent, but his face burned and he knew his embarrassment had shown. She smiled and turned back to the other girl.

When the girls sat down, she was facing him. He cursed himself for a fool, a conceited fool to be thinking a girl of her quality would care to know anyone who earned his living in the ring.

S
EVERAL TIMES
Moran’s and the girl’s eyes caught. Then Gow came into the room and saw him. Immediately, he hurried over, his face all smiles.

“Hiya, Flash! Long time no see!”

“I’ve been meaning to come in.”

“How are you going to do with the Soldier?”

“Think I’ll beat him. How’re the odds?”

“Six to five. He’s the favorite. Genzel was in, the fellow who runs that bar around the corner. He said it was a cinch to go the limit.”

For an instant, Flash was jolted out of his thinking of the girl.

“Genzel? Isn’t he one of Marollo’s boys?”

“Yes. And Marollo usually knows…he doesn’t know about this one, does he, Flash?”

“Hell no!” He paused a moment. “Gow,” he said. “Take a note to that girl over there for me, will you?”

Hurriedly, Moran scribbled a few lines.

I’D LIKE TO TALK TO YOU
.
IF THE ANSWER IS YES
,
NOD YOUR HEAD WHEN YOU LOOK AT ME
.
IF IT IS NO
,
THE EVENING WILL STILL BE LOVELY
,
EVEN IF NOT SO EXCITING
.

REILLY MORAN

Gow shrugged, took the note, and wandered across the room. Flash Moran felt himself turning crimson and looked down. When he looked up, his eyes met those of the girl, and she nodded, briefly.

He got up, straightened his coat, and walked across the room. As he came alongside the table, she looked up.

“I’m Ruth Connor,” she said, smiling. “This is Hazel Dickens. Do you always eat alone?”

She moved over and made a place for him beside her in the booth.

“No,” he said. “Usually with a friend.”

“Girl?” Ruth asked, smiling at him.

“No. My business partner. We’re back here from San Francisco.”

“Are you?” she asked. “I lived there for a while. On Nob Hill.”

“Oh.” He grinned suddenly. “Not me. I came from the Mission District.”

Ruth looked at him curiously.

“You did? Why, that’s where all those tough Irish boys come from. You don’t look like them!”

He looked at her again. “Well, maybe I don’t,” he said quietly. “You can come a long way from the Mission District without getting out of it, though. But probably that’s just what I am…one of those tough Irish boys.”

For a moment, their eyes held. He stared at her, confused and a little angry. She seemed to enjoy getting a rise out of him but she didn’t seem to really be putting him down. So many times with girls this very thing happened; it was like a test but it was one he kept failing. Her friend stayed quiet and he was unsure of what to say or how to proceed.

The door opened then and three men came in. Flash grew cold all over.

“Sit still,” he told the girls softly. “No matter what happens.”

The men came over. Two of them had their hands in their coat pockets. They looked like Italians.

“Get up.” The man who spoke was short, very dark, and his face was pockmarked. “Get up now.”

Flash got to his feet slowly. His mind was working swiftly. If he’d been alone, in spite of it being Gow’s place, he might have swung.

“Okay,” Moran said, pleasantly. “I was expecting you.”

The dark man looked at him. “You was expectin’ us?”

“Yes,” Flash said. “When I had to slug your friend, I expected there would be trouble. So I called the D.A.’s office.”

“You did what?” There was consternation in the man’s voice.

“He’s bluffing, Rice,” one of the men said. “It’s a bluff.”

“We’ll see!” Rice’s eyes gleamed with cunning. “Tell us what the D.A.’s number is.”

Flash felt a sudden emptiness inside.

“It was…” He scowled, as if trying to remember…“It was seven…something.”

“No,” Ruth Connor said suddenly. “Seven was the second number. It was three-seven-four-four-seven.”

Rice’s eyes dropped to the girl, swept her figure with an appraising glance.

“Okay,” he said, his eyes still on the girl. “Check it, Polack.”

The man addressed, biggest of the three, turned to the phone book, and leafed through it quickly. He looked up.

“Hey, boss,” he said triumphantly. “He’s wrong, the number is different.”

“It was his home phone,” Ruth said, speaking up. “He called him at home. No one is in the office at this time of the night.”

Rice stared at her. “You’re buttin’ in too much, babe,” he said. “If I were you, I’d keep my trap shut.”

The Polack came over, carrying the book.

“She’s right, Rice. It’s Gracie three-seven-four-four-seven!”

Rice stared at Moran, his eyes ugly. “We’ll be waitin’, see? I know your name is Reilly.”

“My name is Reilly Moran,” Flash said. “Just so you know where to look.”

“Flash Moran?” Rice’s eyes widened and his face went white. “…who fights Barnaby the day after tomorrow?”

“Right,” Moran said, surprised at the effect of his name. Rice backed up hurriedly.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said.

Without another word, the three hoodlums turned and hurried out.

For a full minute, Moran stared after them. Now what was up? No man with a gun in his pocket is going to be afraid of a fighter. If they’d been afraid they wouldn’t have come. They could tell by what he did to the first man that he was no pantywaist. Moran shook his head in bewilderment and sat down.

Ruth and the other girl were staring at Moran.

“Thanks,” he said. “That was a bad spot. I had no idea what the district attorney’s number was.”

“So you’re Flash Moran, the prizefighter?” Ruth Connor said slowly. There was a different expression in her eyes. “Why were those men so frightened when they heard your name?”

“They weren’t,” he said. “I can’t understand why they acted that way.” He stood up. “I guess I’d better be taking you home. It isn’t safe now.”

They stood up.

“Don’t bother,” Ruth Connor said. “I’m calling for my own car.” She held out her hand. “It’s been nice.”

He looked into her eyes for a moment, then he felt something go out of him.

“All right,” he said. “Good night.”

He turned and walked swiftly outside.

D
AN
K
ELLY WAS
sitting up in the armchair when Moran came into the apartment that they’d rented; his wife was already in bed. The old trainer looked up at him out of his shrewd blue eyes. He didn’t have to look long.

“What’s the matter?”

Briefly, Moran told him. At the end, Kelly whistled softly.

“Dixie Rice, was it? He’s bad, son. All bad. I didn’t know Rice was working for Blackie. Times have changed.”

Moran looked at him. “I wonder who that girl was?” he mused. “She was beautiful! The loveliest girl I ever saw.”

“She knew the D.A.’s number?” Dan scowled. “Might be a newspaper reporter.”

“Well, what about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? You skip rope three rounds, shadowbox three rounds, and take some body exercise. That’s all. Then rest all you can.”

I
N THE MORNING
, Flash Moran slept late. It was unusual for him, but he forced himself to stay in bed and rest. Finally, he got up and shaved. It would be his last shave before the fight. He always went into the ring with a day’s growth of beard.

He was putting away his shaving kit when there was a rap on the door. Dan Kelly had gone, and Moran was alone. He hesitated only an instant, remembering Blackie Marollo, then he stepped over and opened the door. It was hardly open before a man stepped in and closed it behind him.

“Well?” Moran said. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m Soldier Barnaby, Flash.” For an instant, Flash looked at him, noting the hard, capable face, the black hair and swarthy cheeks, the broad, powerful shoulders, and the big hands. The Soldier pulled a chair over and sat astride of it. “We got to have a talk.”

“If you want to work it, don’t talk to me. I don’t play the game. I just fight.”

The Soldier grinned. “I fight, too. I don’t want a setup. Not exactly.”

He was studying Moran coolly. “You know,” he said. “You’ll make a good champ—if you play it on the level.” He hesitated a moment. “You know Blackie Marollo?”