“Nope.”
“He was almost light heavyweight champ once,” said Kelly.
“That right?”
“Yes, sir. Ya heard o’ Dimsy the Rock, ain’t ya?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Well, Dimsy the—”
Kelly stopped and glanced over at Pole who was shifting irritably on the seat.
“Dimsy the Rock was number three in the light heavy ranks. Right on his way t’the top they all said. Well, my boy put ’im away in the fourth round. Left-crossed ’im—bang! Almost put Dimsy through the ropes. It was beautiful.”
“That right?” asked the driver.
“Yes sir. You get a chance, stop by t’night at the stadium. You’ll see a good fight.”
“Have you seen this Maynard Flash?” Pole asked the driver suddenly.
“The Flash? You bet. Man, there’s a fighter on his way. Won seven straight. He’ll be up there soon, ya can bet ya life. Matter o’ fact he’s fightin’ t’night too. With some B-two heap from back East I hear.”
The driver snickered. “Flash’ll slaughter ’im,” he said.
Kelly stared at the back of the driver’s head, the skin tight across his cheek bones.
“Yeah?” he said, flatly.
“Man, he’ll—”
The driver broke off suddenly and looked back. “Hey, you ain’t—” he started, then turned front again. “Hey, I didn’t know, mister,” he said. “I was only ribbin’.”
“Skip it,” Pole said. “You’re right.”
Kelly’s head snapped around and he glared at the sallow-face Pole.
“Shut up,” he said in a low voice.
He fell back against the seat and stared out the window, his face hard.
“I’m gonna get ’im some oil paste,” he said after they’d ridden a block.
“Swell,” said Pole. “We’ll eat the tools.”
“Go to hell,” said Kelly.
* * *
The cab pulled up in front of the brick-fronted stadium and they lifted Maxo out onto the sidewalk. While Pole tilted him, Kelly squatted down and slid the base wheel back into its slot. Then Kelly paid the driver the exact fare and they started pushing Maxo toward the alley.
“Look,” said Kelly, nodding toward the poster board in front of the stadium. The third fight listed was
MAYNARD FLASH
(B-7, L.H.)
VS.
BATTLING MAXO
(B-2, L.H.)
“Big deal,” said Pole.
Kelly’s smile disappeared. He started to say something, then pressed his lips together. He shook his head irritably and big drops of his sweat fell to the sidewalk.
Maxo creaked as they pushed him down the alley and carried him up the steps to the door. The base wheel fell out again and bounced down the cement steps. Neither one of them said anything.
It was hotter inside. The air didn’t move.
“Refreshing like a closet,” Pole said.
“Get the wheel,” Kelly said and started down the narrow hallway leaving Pole with Maxo. Pole leaned Maxo against the wall and turned for the door.
Kelly came to a half-glassed office door and knocked.
“Yeah,” said a voice inside. Kelly went in, taking off his hat.
The fat bald man looked up from his desk. His skull glistened with sweat.
“I’m Battling Maxo’s owner,” said Kelly, smiling. He extended his big hand but the man ignored it.
“Was wonderin’ if you’d make it,” said the man whose name was Mr. Waddow. “Your fighter in decent shape?”
“The best,” said Kelly cheerfully. “The best. My mechanic—he’s class-A—just took ’im apart and put ’im together again before we left Philly.”
The man looked unconvinced.
“He’s in good shape,” said Kelly.
“You’re lucky t’get a bout with a B-two,” said Mr. Waddow. “We ain’t used nothin’ less than B-fours for more than two years now. The fighter we was after got stuck in a car wreck though and got ruined.”
Kelly nodded. “Well, ya got nothin’ t’worry about,” he said. “My fighter’s in top shape. He’s the one knocked down Dimsy the Rock in Madison Square year or so ago.”
“I want a good fight,” said the fat man.
“You’ll get a good fight,” Kelly said, feeling a tight pain in his stomach muscles. “Maxo’s in good shape. You’ll see. He’s in top shape.”
“I just want a good fight.”
Kelly stared at the fat man a moment. Then he said, “You got a ready room we can use? The mechanic ’n’ me’d like t’get something t’eat.”
“Third door down the hall on the right side,” said Mr. Waddow. “Your bout’s at eight thirty.”
Kelly nodded. “Okay.”
“Be there,” said Mr. Waddow turning back to his work.
“Uh … what about—?” Kelly started.
“You get ya money after ya deliver a fight,” Mr. Waddow cut him off.
Kelly’s smile faltered.
“Okay,” he said. “See ya then.”
When Mr. Waddow didn’t answer, he turned for the door.
“Don’t slam the door,” Mr. Waddow said. Kelly didn’t.
“Come on,” he said to Pole when he was in the hall again. They pushed Maxo down to the ready room and put him inside it.
“What about checkin’ ’im over?” Kelly said.
“What about my gut?” snapped Pole. “I ain’t eaten in six hours.”
Kelly blew out a heavy breath. “All right, let’s go then,” he said.
They put Maxo in a corner of the room.
“We should be able t’lock him in,” Kelly said.
“Why? Ya think somebody’s gonna steal ’im?”
“He’s valuable,” said Kelly.
“Sure, he’s a priceless antique,” said Pole.
Kelly closed the door three times before the latch caught. He turned away from it, shaking his head worriedly. As they started down the hall he looked at his wrist and saw for the fiftieth time the white band where his pawned watch had been.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“Six twenty-five,” said Pole.
“We’ll have t’make it fast,” Kelly said. “I want ya t’check ’im over good before the fight.”
“What for?” asked Pole.
“Did ya hear me?” Kelly said angrily.
“Sure, sure,” Pole said.
“He’s gonna take that son-of-a-bitch B-seven,” Kelly said, barely opening his lips.
“Sure he is,” said Pole. “With his teeth.”
“Hurry up,” Kelly said, ignoring him. “We ain’t got all night. Did ya get the wheel?”
Pole handed it to him.
* * *
“Some town,” Kelly said disgustedly as they came back in the side door of the stadium.
“I told ya they wouldn’t have any oil paste here,” Pole said. “Why should they? B-twos are dead. Maxo’s probably the only one in a thousand miles.”
Kelly walked quickly down the hall, opened the door of the ready room and went in. He crossed over to Maxo and pulled off the covering.
“Get to it,” he said. “There ain’t much time.”
Blowing out a slow, tired breath, Pole took off his wrinkled blue coat and tossed it over the bench standing against the wall. He dragged a small table over to where Maxo was, then rolled up his sleeves. Kelly took off his hat and coat and watched while Pole worked loose the nut that held the tool cavity door shut. He stood with his big hands on his hips while Pole drew out the tools one by one and laid them down on the table.
“Rust,” Pole muttered. He rubbed a finger around the inside of the cavity and held it up, copper colored rust flaking off the tip.
“Come on,” Kelly said, irritably. He sat down on the bench and watched as Pole pried off the sectional plates on Maxo’s chest. His eyes ran up over Maxo’s leonine head. If I didn’t see them coils, he thought once more, I’d swear he was
real. Only the mechanics in a B-fight could tell it wasn’t real men in there. Sometimes people were actually fooled and sent in letters complaining that real men were being used. Even from ringside the flesh tones looked human. Mawling had a special patent on that.
Kelly’s face relaxed as he smiled fondly at Maxo.
“Good boy,” he murmured. Pole didn’t hear. Kelly watched the sure-handed mechanic probe with his electric pick, examining connections and potency centers.
“Is he all right?” he asked, without thinking.
“Sure, he’s great,” Pole said. He plucked out a tiny steel-caged tube. “If this doesn’t blow out,” he said.
“Why should it?”
“It’s sub-par,” Pole said jadedly. “I told ya that after the last fight eight months ago.”
Kelly swallowed. “We’ll get ’im a new one after this bout,” he said.
“Seventy-five bucks,” muttered Pole as if he were watching the money fly away on green wings.
“It’ll hold,” Kelly said, more to himself than to Pole.
Pole shrugged. He put back the tube and pressed in the row of buttons on the main autonomic board. Maxo stirred.
“Take it easy on the left arm,” said Kelly. “Save it.”
“If it don’t work here, it won’t work out there,” said Pole.
He jabbed at a button and Maxo’s left arm began moving with little, circling motions. Pole pushed over the safety-block switch that would keep Maxo from counterpunching and stepped back. He threw a right at Maxo’s chin and the robot’s arm jumped up with a hitching motion to cover his face. Maxo’s left eye flickered like a ruby catching the sun.
“If that eye cell goes…” Pole said.
“It won’t,” said Kelly tensely. He watched Pole throw another punch at the left side of Maxo’s head. He saw the tiny ripple of the flexo-covered cheek, then the arm jerked up again. It squeaked.
“That’s enough,” he said. “It works. Try the rest of ’im.”
“He’s gonna get more than two punches throwed at his head,” Pole said.
“His arm’s all right,” Kelly said. “Try something else I said.”
Pole reached inside Maxo and activated the leg cable centers. Maxo began shifting around. He lifted his left leg and shook off the base wheel automatically. Then he was standing lightly on his black-shoed feet, feeling at the floor like a cured cripple testing for stance.
Pole reached forward and jabbed in the FULL button, then jumped back as Maxo’s eye beams centered on him and the robot moved forward, broad shoulders rocking slowly, arms up defensively.
“Christ,” Pole muttered, “they’ll hear ’im squeakin’ in the back row.”
Kelly grimaced, teeth set. He watched Pole throw another right and Maxo’s arm lurch raggedly. His throat moved with a convulsive swallow and he seemed to have trouble breathing the close air in the little room.
Pole shifted around the floor quickly, side to side. Maxo followed lumberingly, changing direction with visibly jerking motions.
“Oh, he’s beautiful,” Pole said, stopping. “Just beautiful.” Maxo came up, arms still raised, and Pole jabbed in under them, pushing the OFF button. Maxo stopped.
“Look, we’ll have t’put ’im on defense, Steel,” Pole said. “That’s all there is to it. He’ll get chopped t’pieces if we have ’im movin’ in.”
Kelly cleared his throat. “No,” he said.
“Oh for—will ya use ya head?” snapped Pole. “He’s a B-two f’Chrissake. He’s gonna get slaughtered anyway. Let’s save the pieces.”
“They want ’im on the offense,” said Kelly. “It’s in the contract.”
Pole turned away with a hiss.
“What’s the use?” he muttered.
“Test ’im some more.”
“What for? He’s as good as he’ll ever be.”
“Will ya do what I say!” Kelly shouted, all the tension exploding out of him.
Pole turned back and jabbed in a button. Maxo’s left arm shot out. There was a snapping noise inside it and it fell against Maxo’s side with a dead clank.
Kelly started up, his face stricken. “Jesus, what did ya do!” he cried. He ran over to where Pole was pushing the button again. Maxo’s arm didn’t move.
“I told ya not t’fool with that arm!” Kelly yelled. “What the hell’s the matter with ya!” His voice cracked in the middle of the sentence.
Pole didn’t answer. He picked up his pry and began working off the left shoulder plate.
“So help me God, if you broke that arm…” Kelly warned in a low, shaking voice.
“If I broke it!” Pole snapped. “Listen, you dumb mick! This heap has been runnin’ on borrowed time for three years now! Don’t talk t’me about breakages!”
Kelly clenched his teeth, his eyes small and deadly.
“Open it up,” he said.
“Son-of-a—” Pole muttered as he got the plate off. “You find another goddamn mechanic that coulda kep’ this steam shovel together any better these last years. You just find one.”
Kelly didn’t answer. He stood rigidly, watching while Pole put down the curved plate and looked inside.
When Pole touched it, the trigger spring broke in half and part of it jumped across the room.
Kelly stared at the shoulder pit with horrified eyes.
“Oh, Christ,” he said in a shaking voice. “Oh, Christ.”
Pole started to say something, then stopped. He looked at the ashen-faced Kelly without moving.
Kelly’s eyes moved to Pole.
“Fix it,” he said, hoarsely.
Pole swallowed. “Steel, I—”
“Fix it!”
“I can’t! That spring’s been fixin’ t’break for—”
“You broke it! Now fix it!” Kelly clamped rigid fingers on Pole’s arm. Pole jerked back.
“Let go of me!” he said.
“What’s the matter with you!” Kelly cried. “Are you crazy? He’s got t’be fixed. He’s got t’be!”
“Steel, he needs a new spring.”
“Well, get it!”
“They don’t have ’em here, Steel,” Pole said. “I told ya. And if they did have ’em, we ain’t got the sixteen-fifty t’get one.”
“Oh—Oh, Jesus,” said Kelly. His hand fell away and he stumbled to the other side of the room. He sank down on the bench and stared without blinking at the tall motionless Maxo.
He sat there a long time, just staring, while Pole stood watching him, the pry still in his hand. He saw Kelly’s broad chest rise and fall with spasmodic movements. Kelly’s face was a blank.
“If he don’t watch ’em,” muttered Kelly, finally.
“What?”
Kelly looked up, his mouth set in a straight, hard line. “If he don’t watch, it’ll work,” he said.
“What’re ya talkin’ about?”
Kelly stood up and started unbuttoning his shirt.
“What’re ya—”
Pole stopped dead, his mouth falling open. “Are you crazy?” he asked.
Kelly kept unbuttoning his shirt. He pulled it off and tossed it on the bench.
“Steel, you’re out o’ your mind!” Pole said. “You can’t do that!”
Kelly didn’t say anything.
“But you’ll—Steel, you’re crazy!”
“We deliver a fight or we don’t get paid,” Kelly said.
“But—Jesus, you’ll get killed!”
Kelly pulled off his undershirt. His chest was beefy, there was red hair swirled around it. “Have to shave this off,” he said.
“Steel, come on,” Pole said. “You—”
His eyes widened as Kelly sat down on the bench and started unlacing his shoes.
“They’ll never let ya,” Pole said. “You can’t make ’em think you’re a—” He stopped and took a jerky step forward. “Steel, fuh Chrissake!”
Kelly looked up at Pole with dead eyes.
“You’ll help me,” he said.
�
��But they—”
“Nobody knows what Maxo looks like,” Kelly said. “And only Waddow saw me. If he don’t watch the bouts we’ll be all right.”
“But—”
“They won’t know,” Kelly said. “The B’s bleed and bruise too.”
“Steel, come on,” Pole said shakily. He took a deep breath and calmed himself. He sat down hurriedly beside the broad-shouldered Irishman.
“Look,” he said. “I got a sister back East—in Maryland. If I wire ’er, she’ll send us the dough t’get back.”
Kelly got up and unbuckled his belt.
“Steel, I know a guy in Philly with a B-five, wants t’sell cheap,” Pole said desperately. “We could scurry up the cash and—Steel, fuh Chrissake, you’ll get killed! It’s a B-seven! Don’t ya understand? A B-seven! You’ll be mangled!”
Kelly was working the dark trunks over Maxo’s hips.
“I won’t let ya do it, Steel,” Pole said. “I’ll go to—”
He broke off with a sucked-in gasp as Kelly whirled and moved over quickly to haul him to his feet. Kelly’s grip was like the jaws of a trap and there was nothing left of him in his eyes.
“You’ll help me,” Kelly said in a low, trembling voice. “You’ll help me or I’ll beat ya brains out on the wall.”
“You’ll get killed,” Pole murmured.
“Then I will,” said Kelly.
* * *
Mr. Waddow came out of his office as Pole was walking the covered Kelly toward the ring.
“Come on, come on,” Mr. Waddow said. “They’re waitin’ on ya.”
Pole nodded jerkily and guided Kelly down the hall.
“Where’s the owner?” Mr. Waddow called after them.
Pole swallowed quickly. “In the audience,” he said.
Mr. Waddow grunted and, as they walked on, Pole heard the door to the office close. Breath emptied from him.
“I should’ve told ’im,” he muttered.
“I’d o’ killed ya,” Kelly said, his voice muffled under the covering.
Crowd sounds leaked back into the hall now as they turned a corner. Under the canvas covering, Kelly felt a drop of sweat trickle down his temple.
“Listen,” he said, “you’ll have t’towel me off between rounds.”
“Between what rounds?” Pole asked tensely. “You won’t even last one.”
“Shut up.”
“You think you’re just up against some tough fighter?” Pole asked. “You’re up against a machine! Don’t ya—”
Steel: And Other Stories Page 2
