He wasn't bluffing. I knew unless I obeyed orders he'd wipe me out with no more hesitation than he would have squashed a fly.
There wasn't anything I could think of to say. He had put the cards on the table. It was now up to me. Come to think of it, there wasn't anything to say. I turned and went out of the room, closing the door gently behind me.
The blonde still pounded the typewriter. Pepi and Benno had gone. Without pausing or looking up, she said, "Sweet type, isn't he? Can you wonder he hasn't any friends?"
Even to her I hadn't anything to say. I went on out, down the long corridor to the elevator. When I reached the street I spotted Benno across the way. He strolled after me as I made my way back to the gym.
V
For the next four days and nights Benno or Pepi followed me wherever I went, not letting me out of their sight for a moment. I played with the idea of slipping out of town and making my way to Miami as best I could, but I soon discovered there was no safe way of doing it. Those two stuck to me like an adhesive bandage.
I kept the set-up to myself. It was only when Tom Roche told me he was going to bet his shin on me that I gave him a hint of what was in the wind.
"Don't do it, and don't ask questions," I said. "Don't bet either way."
He stared at me, saw I meant it, started to say something, but changed his mind. He was no fool, and must have guessed what was brewing, but he didn't press me.
I didn't tell Brant that I had seen Petelli, but he knew all right. He avoided me as much as he could, and when we did run into each other he seemed nervous, and didn't appear to like the way I was working to get into some kind of shape.
Waller didn't ask questions either, but he did everything he could to get me fit. By the evening of the third day I was picking my punches, and my breathing no longer bothered me. I could see both Waller and Brant were impressed by my speed and hitting power.
Petelli certainly made a swell job of the advance publicity. He had the local papers working on it, and a string of loud-mouthed guys going around the bars shouting my praise. This concentrated drive soon began to influence the betting, and by the morning of the fight I was a four to one on favourite. With ten thousand on the Kid, Petelli stood to pick up a bundle of money.
Neither he nor his muscle-men had anything further to say to me. Our little talk in his office seemed to them to be enough. Well, it was. I had to dive in the third round or it'd be curtains, and I had made up my mind to dive. An outfit like Petelli's was too big and tough to buck. If I obeyed orders I was set to make a good start in Miami, and that was what I really cared about. Anyway, that's the way I tried to kid myself, but below the surface I was seething with rage. I was thinking of the little mugs who were putting their shirts on me. I was thinking that after Saturday night I'd be just another crooked fighter, but what really bit deep was taking orders from a rat like Petelli.
On the morning of the fight, Brant and I went down to the gym for the weigh-in. There was a big crowd to welcome me, but I didn't get any kick out of the excited cheers as I pushed my way through the double swing-doors. I spotted Tom Roche and Sam Williams, and gave them a feeble grin as they waved to me.
Petelli stood near the scales, smoking a cigar. Pepi stood just behind him. Near by a fat, hard-faced man in a fawn suit propped up the wall and grinned at anyone who looked at him. He turned out to be the Miami Kid's manager.
I ducked the back-slappers and went into one of the changing booths. By the time I had stripped off the Kid was on show. I looked curiously at him. He was big and powerful, but I was quick to spot he was a little thick around the middle. As I joined him he looked me over with a sneering little grin.
I was four pounds heavier than he, and had the advantage of three inches in reach.
"So what?" he said in a loud voice to his manager. "The bigger they come the harder they bounce."
The crowd seemed to think that was the most original and witty thing they had ever heard, to judge by the laugh it got.
As I stepped off the scales, the Kid, still with his sneering grin, reached out and grabbed my arm.
"Hey! I thought you said this guy was a puncher," he cried. "Call these muscles, chummy?"
"Take your hands off me!" I said, and the look I gave him made him take two big, quick steps back. "You'll know whether I've got muscles or not by tonight."
There was a sudden silence, then as I walked away, a babble of voices broke out.
Brant came running after me, and as I went into the changing booth, he said excitedly, "Don't let him rattle you. He's a great kidder."
I didn't have to be a mind reader to know what he meant. He was scared the Kid had opened his mouth too wide and I'd sock him for it when we got into the ring. He wasn't far from the truth, either.
"Is he?" I said. "Well, so am I."
The first instalment of Brant's pay-off arrived in the afternoon. He brought it himself.
"Thought you'd better look smart, Farrar," he said, looking anywhere but at me. He took off the lid of a box and showed me a white linen suit, a cream silk shirt, a green and white tie, and white buckskin shoes. "You'll knock them dead in this outfit," he went on, trying to be at ease. "Better see if it fits."
"Shove them back in the box and get out," I said.
I was lying on the bed in the little room Roche had lent me. The curtains were half drawn, and the light was dim. I had seven hours before I entered the ring: seven hours that stretched ahead of me like a prison sentence without parole.
"What's the matter with you?" Brant demanded, flushing. "Isn't this what you want?" and he shook the suit at me.
"Get out before I throw you out!"
When he had gone I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but I kept thinking of Petelli. I thought, too, of all the little mugs who were betting on me. I tried to convince myself there was nothing I could do about it, but I knew I had walked into this with my eyes open. I had kicked around in the fight racket long enough to know just how crooked it was. That was why I had quit, and yet the first offer that came along had tempted me back. If I hadn't had big ideas about getting to Miami in a car with money in my pocket this wouldn't have happened.
Suppose I double-crossed Petelli? What chance had I of avoiding a bullet? Petelli wasn't bluffing. He couldn't afford to let me double-cross him and get away with it. If he did, his grip on the other fighters would be weakened, and, besides, he wasn't the type to allow himself to be gypped out of forty thousand dollars without settling the score.
I was hooked, and I knew it, and I cursed myself. I lay on the bed in the half light and sweated it out, and the hands of the clock crawled on and on. I couldn't make up my mind what I was going to do. I was still at it when Roche put his head around my door.
"Seven-thirty, Johnny; time to be up and doing. Are you okay?"
I got off the bed. "I guess so. Will I get a taxi?"
"I'll drive you there myself. I'm just going to have a wash. I'll be ready in five minutes."
"Fine."
I splashed water on my face, combed my hair and then put on the clothes Brant had brought. They fitted me all right, but I didn't get a kick out of them. If my own clothes hadn't been so shabby I wouldn't have worn this outfit. A tap came on the door, and Alice looked in. "Why, Johnny, how smart you look."
"I guess that's right."
I wondered what she would have said if she knew the price I was paying for this rig-out. "Tom's getting the car. Good luck, Johnny."
"Thanks. I'm glad you won't be there."
"Tom wanted me to go, but I don't like fights. I'll have my fingers crossed for you."
"You do that. Well, so long. Thanks for all you've done."
"But you'll be coming back, won't you?"
Would I? I wished I knew.
"Why, sure, but thanks all the same."
"Put this in your pocket. It's brought me luck, and I want it to bring you luck, too."
I looked at the sliver medallion she placed in my hand. It showed the head of some saint, and I looked at her, surprised.
"Thanks, Alice, but maybe I'd better not have it. I might lose it."
"Put it in your pocket and forget about it. It'll bring you luck."
And that's what I did. I put it in my pocket and forgot about it. As I ran down the steps to the street, Petelli's big Cadillac pulled up. Benno was at the wheel, and Brant was sitting at the back.
"Thought we'd pick you up," Brant said, leaning out of the window. "Feeling okay?"
"Yeah. I'm driving up in Roche's car."
"You're driving up in this one," Pepi snarled, coming up behind me. "We're not losing sight of you until the fight's over."
Roche hadn't appeared. There was no point in making trouble.
"Tell Tom I've gone with the boys," I called to Alice, who was watching from the cafe door.
I got in beside Brant. We drove rapidly through the deserted streets. Practically the whole of Pelotta's population had turned out for the fight. As we neared the blazing lights of the stadium, Pepi said without looking round, "The third, Farrar, or it's curtains."
"Save your breath," I said. "I heard it the first time."
We drove up the broad concrete drive-in. It was already packed with cars, but Benno weaved his way through without reducing speed.
Brant said in an undertone, "As soon as it's over I'll have the dough for you in cash. The car's parked at the back. It's full of petrol and rearing to go. Okay?"
I grunted.
Benno swung the Cadillac into the vast parking-lot, and we all got out. We walked quickly across the tarmac to a side door. As Pepi pushed it open, a blast of hot, sweat-stinking air came out to meet us.
"It's packed solid in there," Brant said. "Not a seat to be had."
We climbed a flight of concrete steps, meeting people as they moved to their seats. Some of the guys recognized me and slapped me on the back, wishing me luck. At a gangway I paused to look into the arena. One of the preliminary fights was on. The ring, under the dazzling white lights, looked a mile away, and the roar of the crowd seemed to shake the whole building.
"Some house," Brant said. "Better get changed, Farrar."
There was the usual mob of pressmen and hangers-on waiting outside my dressing-room, but Brant wouldn't let them in. He got the door shut with difficulty, leaving Pepi outside to talk to them.
Waller was waiting to take charge of me.
"Don't wait," I said to Brant. "Henry can do it all."
"Now, look . . ." Brant began, but I cut him short.
"I don't want you around, and I don't want you in my corner. Henry can do all that's necessary."
Brant shrugged his fat shoulders. His face turned crimson.
"Well, okay, if that's the way you feel. But there's no need to get sore at me. I can't help it."
"Maybe you can't, but you got me into this, and I don't want you in my comer."
As he turned to the door, he said, "Don't pull anything smart, Farrar. You're in this now up to your ears, and there's no out for you."
"Dust!"
When he had gone I began to strip off. Waller stood around, a worried expression on his ebony face.
"You relax, Mr. Farrar," he said. "This ain't no way to go into the ring."
"Okay, okay, don't bother me, Henry," I said, and stretched out on the rubbing-table. "Lock the door. I don't want anyone in here."
He locked the door, then came over and began to work on me.
"Are you going to win this fight?" he asked presently.
"How do I know? Your guess is as good as mine."
"I don't think so." He went on kneading my muscles for a while, then he said, "Mr. Petelli's been around too long. I reckon he's done a lot of harm to the game in this town. Is this another fixed fight?"
"You know it is. I should have thought the whole damned town knows it by now. What else can you expect when Petelli lays ten grand on the Kid? I've been told to go in the third."
Waller grunted. We didn't look at each other.
"You shouldn't get sore with Mr. Brant," he said. "He's a good guy. What can he do against Mr. Petelli? If Mr. Petelli says for you to dive in the third, what can Mr. Brant say? If he says no, those two gunmen will fix him. Mr. Brant's got a wife and kids to think of."
"Lay off, Henry. Maybe Brant can't help it, but I'd just as soon not have him around. You can take care of me, can't you?"
"If you're going in the third, you don't need taking care of," Waller said sadly.
There was some truth in that.
"Suppose I don't take a dive?" I said. "Suppose I fight the Kid and lick him? What chance have I got of getting out of here alive?"
Waller looked uneasily around the room as if he feared someone might be listening.
"That's crazy talk," he said, his eyes rolling. "Get that idea, out of your head."
"No harm in wondering. Where's that window lead to?"
"You relax. There's no sense talking this way."
I slid off the table, crossed the room and looked out of the window. A good thirty feet below me was the car-park. I leaned out. A narrow ledge ran below the window to a stack pipe, leading to the ground. It wouldn't be difficult to get down to the car park, but that didn't mean I could get away.
Waller pulled me from the window;
"Get back on the table. This ain't the way to act just before a fight."
I got on to the table again.
"Think those Wops would shoot me, Henry, or is it bluff?"
"I know they would. They shot Boy O'Brien for pulling a double-cross a couple of years back. They bust Bennie Mason's hands when he got himself knocked out after Mr. Petelli had bet he'd go the distance. They threw acid in Tiger Freeman's face for winning in the seventh. Sure, they'd shoot you if that's what Mr. Petelli wants them to do."