The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Six (30 page)

Darby got the fog out of his brain as Benny Barros struggled up at the count of nine. McGraw saw the brown man weaving before him and started down the ring toward him. The Portuguese lunged in, throwing both hands, and Darby lifted him to his tiptoes with a ripping right uppercut, then caught him with a sweeping left hook as his heels hit the canvas. Barros stumbled backward and Darby stepped in, set himself, and fired his right—the money punch—just like in the old days when he didn’t know any better. Except now it was perfectly timed and he had the perfect opening. Barros went over backward, both feet straight out. He hit on his shoulder blades, rolled over on his face, and lay still.

The referee took a look, then touched him with a hand, and walking over, lifted Darby McGraw’s right hand. Darby wobbled to the ropes and stood there hanging on and looking.

There was a wild turmoil at the ringside that suddenly thinned out, and he could see men in uniforms gathered around. Then Dan was leading him to his corner and Darby shook the fog out of his brain.

“What happened?” he demanded, staring at the knot of policemen. Over the noise of the crowd he could hear a siren whine to a stop out on the street.

Then one of the policemen stepped aside, and he saw Art Renke sitting with his head fallen back and the haft of a knife thrust upward from the hollow of his collarbone. Beside him, Fats Lakey was white and trembling, and there was blood all down his face from a slash across the cheek.

Mary was up in his corner. “Come on! Let’s get you out of here!” Darby gathered his robe around him and she led him, his knees weak and uncooperative, back to the dressing room.

Darby was just getting his focus back when Dan came bursting through the door. “It was the White Fence that got Renke,” he said, “at least that’s what the police think.”

“The man in the cafe!” Mary gasped. “He must have been a friend of the Lopez brothers and called them!”

“Art Renke’s dead,” Dan said. “They just slashed Fats for luck. I’d heard they’d been suspicious, and when Beano was killed, it probably made them more so. Smoke may have told them something, too.”

D
ARBY
M
C
G
RAW LET
Dan unlace his gloves. “Who do I fight next?” he asked.

“You rest for a month now,” Dan said. “Maybe more. Then we’ll see.”

“Okay,” Darby said, smiling, “you’re the boss.” He looked at Mary. “Then we’ll have time for a show, won’t we? Or several of them?”

She squeezed his still-bandaged hand.

“We will,” she promised. “I’ll get the car.”

He stopped her at the dressing-room door and took her chin in his right hand, tipping her head back.

“Thank you,” he said seriously, “I’d thank Beano Brown, too, if I could.” He kissed her quickly then, and headed for the showers.

Making It the Hard Way

U
nder the white glare of the lights, the two fighters circled each other warily. Finn Downey’s eyes were savagely intent as he stalked his prey. Twice Gammy Delgardo’s stabbing left struck Downey’s head, but Finn continued to move, his fists cocked.

As the lancelike left started once more, Downey ducked suddenly and sprang in, connecting with a looping overhand right. Delgardo’s legs wavered, and he tried to get into a clinch.

Finn was ready for him, and a short left uppercut to the wind was enough to set Delgardo up for a second right. Delgardo hit the canvas on his knees, and Downey wheeled, trotting to his corner.

Gammy took nine and came up. His left landed lightly, three times, as Downey pushed close; then Finn was all over the game Italian, punching with both hands. Gammy staggered, and Finn threw the high right again. He caught Delgardo on the point of the chin, and the Italian hit the canvas, out cold.

Jimmy Mullaney had Finn’s robe ready when he reached the corner.

“That’s another one, kid,” Mullaney said. “Keep this up an’ you’ll go places.”

Downey grinned. He was a solidly built fellow, brown and strong, with dark, curly hair. When the crowd broke into a roar, he straightened to take a bow, then he saw the cheers were not for him. Three men were coming down the aisle, the one in the lead a handsome young fellow in beautifully fitting blue gabardine. His shoulders were broad, and as he waved at the crowd, his teeth flashed in a smile.

“Who’s that?” Finn demanded. “Some movie actor?”

“That?” Mullaney said, startled. “Why, that’s Glen Gurney, the middleweight champion of the world!”

“Him?” Downey’s amazed question was a protest against such a man even being a fighter, let alone the champion of Downey’s own division. “Well, for the love of Mike! And I thought he was tough!”

Gurney looked up at Finn with a quick smile. “How are you?” he said pleasantly. “Nice fight?”

Sudden antagonism surged to the surface in Finn. He stepped down from the ring and stood beside Gurney.

So this was the champ! This perfectly groomed young man with the smooth easy manner. Without a scar on his face! Why, the guy was a
dude
!

“I stopped him in the third, like I’ll do you!” Downey blurted.

Mullaney grabbed his arm. “Finn, shut up!”

Boiling within Finn Downey was a stifled protest against such poised and sure fellows who got all the cream of the world while kids like himself fought their way up, shining shoes or swamping out trucks.

Gurney’s smile was friendly, but in his eyes was a question.

“Maybe we will fight someday,” he agreed, affably enough, “but you’ll need some work first! If I were you, I’d shorten up that right hand!”

Eyes blazing, Downey thrust himself forward. “You tell
me
how to fight? I could lick you the best day you ever saw!”

He started for Gurney, but Jimmy grabbed him again. “Cut it out, kid! Let’s get out of here!”

Gurney stood his ground, his hands in his pockets. “Not here, Downey. We fight in the ring. No gentleman ever starts a brawl.”

The word “gentleman” cut Finn like a whip. With everything he had, he swung.

Gurney swayed and the blow curled around his neck as men grabbed the angry Downey and dragged him back. And the champ had not even taken his hands from his pockets!

Mullaney hustled Downey to the dressing room. Inside, Jimmy slammed the door and turned on him.

“What’s got into you, Finn? You off your trolley? Why jump the champ, of all people? He’d tear your head off in a fight, and besides, he’s a good guy to have for a friend!”

Downey closed his ears to the tirade, all the more irritated because there was justice in it. He showered, then pulled on his old gray trousers and his shirt. Getting his socks on, he worked the tip of the sock down under his toes so that no one could see the hole.

He was angry with himself, yet still resentful. Why did a guy like Gurney have to be champion? Well, anyway…when they fought he would put his heart into it.

The fight game must be going to the dogs, or no snob like Glen Gurney could ever hold a title.

Of course, there were ways of getting there by knocking over a string of handpicked setups. That, however, meant money and the right sort of connections. With money improving the challenger’s odds, no wonder Gurney was champ.

Mullaney pulled out bills and paid him eighty dollars.

“That’s less my cut and the twenty you owe me. Okay?”

“Sure, sure!” Finn stuffed the bills into his pocket.

Jimmy Mullaney hesitated. “Listen, Finn. You’ve got the wrong idea about Gurney. The champ’s a good egg. He never gave anybody a bad break in his life.”

Downey thrust his hands in his pockets.

“He’s got a lot of nerve telling me how to throw a right! Why, that right hand knocked out seven guys in a row!”

Mullaney looked at Downey thoughtfully. “You’ve got a good right, Finn, but he was right. You throw it too far.”

Downey turned and walked out. That was the way it was. When you were on top everybody took your word. His right was okay. Only two punches in three rounds tonight, and both landed.

He fingered the bills. He would have to give some to Mom, and Sis needed a new dress. He would have to skip the outfit he wanted for himself. His thoughts shifted back to the immaculate Glen Gurney and he set his jaw angrily. Just let him get some money! He’d show that dude how to dress!

It wouldn’t be easy, but nothing in his life had been easy. From earliest childhood all he could remember were the dirty streets of a tenement district, fire escapes hung with wet clothing, stifling heat and damp, chilling cold.

Never once could he recall a time when he’d had socks or shoes without holes in them. His father, a bricklayer, had been crippled when Finn was seven, and after that the struggle had been even harder. His older brother now was a clerk for a trucking firm, and the younger worked in the circulation department of a newspaper. One of his sisters worked in a dime store, and the other one, young and lovely as any girl who ever lived, was in high school.

“Hey, Finn!”

Downey glanced up, and his face darkened as he saw a fellow he knew named Stoff. He had never liked the guy, although they had grown up on the same block. These days Stoff was hanging around with Bernie Ledsham, and the gambler was with him now.

“Hi,” he returned, and started to pass on.

“Wait a minute, Finn!” Stoff urged. “You ever meet Bernie? We seen your fight tonight.”

“How’s it?” Finn said to Bernie, a thin-faced man with shrewd black eyes and a flat-lipped mouth. Finn had seen him around, but didn’t like him either.

“How about a beer?” Bernie said.

“Never touch it. Not in my racket.” Downey drew away. “I’ve got to be getting on home.”

“Come on. Why, after winnin’ like you did tonight, you should celebrate. Come with us.”

Reluctantly, Finn followed them into a café. Norm Hunter, a man he also knew, was sitting at a table, and with him was a short, square-built fellow with a dark, impassive face. When Finn Downey looked into the flat black eyes, something like a chill went over him, for he recognized the man as Nick Lessack, who had done two stretches in Sing Sing, and was said to be gunman for “Cat” Spelvin’s mob.

“You sure cooled that guy!” Norman Hunter said admiringly. “You got a punch there!”

Pleased but wary, Finn dropped into a seat across the table from Nick Lessack.

“He wasn’t so tough,” he said, “but he did catch me a couple of times.”

“He got lucky,” Bernie said. “Just lucky.”

Downey knew that was not true. Those had been sharp, accurate punches. The lump over his eye was nothing, for black eyes or cut lips were the usual thing for him, but it bothered him that those punches had hit him. Somehow he must learn to make them miss.

Stoff had disappeared, and Finn was having a cup of coffee with Hunter, Bernie, and Nick Lessack.

“That blasted Gurney!” Bernie sneered. “I wish it had been him you’d clipped tonight! He thinks he’s too good!”

“I’d like to get in there with him!” Finn agreed.

“Why not?” Bernie asked, shrugging. “Cat could fix it. Couldn’t he, Nick?”

Lessack, staring steadily at Downey, spoke without apparently moving his lips. “Sure. Cat can fix anything.”

Finn shrugged, grinning. “
Okay!
I’d like to get in there with that pantywaist.”

“You got to fight some others first,” Bernie protested. “We could fix it so you could fight Tony Gilman two weeks from tonight. Couldn’t we, Nick? After he stops Gilman, a couple of more scraps, then the champ. Anybody got any paper on you, kid? I mean, like this Mullaney?”

“He just works with me.” Downey felt shame at what that implied, for whatever he knew about fighting, Jimmy had taught him. “I got no contract with him.”

“Good!” Bernie leaned closer. “Listen, come up and have a talk with Cat. Sign up with him, an’ you’ll be in the dough. Tonight you got maybe a hundred fish. Cat can get you three times that much, easy. He can give you the info on bets, too.”

“Sure,” Hunter agreed. “You tie up with us, and you’ll be set.”

“Let’s go,” Nick said suddenly. “We can drop the kid by his home.”

Bernie paid the check and they went outside where there was a big black car, a smooth job. “Get in, kid,” Nick said. “Maybe Cat’ll give you a heap like this. He give this one to me.”

W
HEN THEY LEFT
Finn Downey on the corner, the street was dank, dark, and still, and he kicked his heel lonesomely against the curb. He was filled with a vague nostalgia for lights, music, comfort, and warmth, all the fine things he had never known.

Spelvin had money. Bernie and Hunter always had it, too. Finn was not an innocent; he had grown up in the streets, and he knew why Bernie and Hunter had always had money. When they were kids, he had watched them steal packages, flashlights, and watches from parked cars or stores. Twice Bernie had been in jail, yet they had more and better clothes than he’d ever had, and they had cars and money.

Finn’s sister, Aline, was waiting up for him.

“Oh, Finn! You were wonderful! The rest of them had to get up early, so they went to bed, but they told me to tell you how good they thought you were!”

“Thanks, honey.” He felt for the thin wad of bills. “Here, kid. Here’s for a new dress.”

“Twenty dollars!” She was ecstatic. “Oh, Finn, thank you!”

“Forget it!” He was pleased, but at the same time he felt sad that it took so little money to make so much difference.

He would give Mom forty for rent and groceries. The other twenty would have to carry him until his next fight. If he fought Gilman, he’d get plenty out of that, and a win would mean a lot.

Yet there was a stirring of doubt. He wasn’t so sure that beating the hard-faced young battler would be easy. Yet if Spelvin was handling him, he would see that Finn won….

I
N THE MORNING
, Jimmy Mullaney was waiting for him at the gym. He grinned. “I’m going to get you lined up for another one right away if I can, boy.”

“How about getting me Tony Gilman?”

“Gilman?” Jimmy glanced at him quickly. “Kid, you don’t want to fight him! He’s rugged!”

“Cat Spelvin can get him for me.” Finn squirmed as he saw Jimmy’s face turn hard and strange.

“So?” Jimmy’s voice was like Finn had never heard it before. “He’s a sure-thing man, kid. You tie in with him an’ you’ll never break loose. He’s a racketeer.”

“I ain’t in this game for love!” Downey said recklessly. “I want some money.”

“You throwin’ me over, kid?” Mullaney’s eyes were cold. “You tyin’ in with Spelvin?”

“No.” The voice that broke in was even, but friendly. “Let’s hope he’s not.”

Finn Downey turned and faced Glen Gurney.

“You again?” he growled.

Gurney thrust out a hand and smiled. “Don’t be sore at me. We’re all working at this game, and I came down to the gym today on purpose to see you.”

“Me? What do you want with me?”

“I thought I might work with you a little, help you out. You’ve got a future, and a lot of guys helped me, so I thought I’d pass it on.”

Downey recognized the honesty in the champion’s voice, but flushed at the implied criticism of his fighting ability. “I don’t need any help from you,” he said flatly. “Go roll your hoop.”

“Don’t be that way,” Gurney protested. “Anything I say, it’s coming from respect.”

“He don’t need your help,” drawled another voice behind them.

Gurney and Downey turned swiftly—and saw Cat Spelvin, a short man with a round face and full lips. Beside him were Bernie and the inevitable Nick Lessack.

“We’ll take care of Finn,” Cat said. “You do like he said, champ. Roll your hoop.”

Coolly, Gurney looked Cat over, then glanced at Nick. “They’re cutting the rats in larger sizes these days,” he said quietly.

“That don’t get you no place,” Spelvin said. “Finn’s our boy. We’ll take care of him.”

Finn felt his face flush as he looked at the champion. For the first time he was seeing him without resentment and anger. In Gurney was a touch of something he hadn’t seen in many men. Maybe that was why he was champion.

“Downey,” Gurney said, “you have your own choice to make, of course, but it seems to me Mullaney has done pretty well by you, and I’m ready to help.”

“I promised Spelvin,” Downey said.

Gurney turned abruptly and walked away. Jimmy Mullaney swore softly and followed him.

Spelvin smiled at Downey. “We’ll get along, kid. You made the smart play…. Bernie, is the Gilman fight on?”

“A week from Monday. Finn Downey and Tony Gilman.”

“You’ll get five hundred bucks for your end,” Spelvin said. “You need some dough now?”

“He can use some,” Bernie said. “Finn’s always broke.”

Finn turned resentful eyes on Bernie, but when he walked away there was an advance of a hundred dollars in his pockets.

Then he remembered the expression on Mullaney’s face, and the hundred dollars no longer cheered him. And Glen Gurney…maybe he had been sincere in wanting to help. What kind of a mess was this anyway?