by Paul Cain
Woodward stood up. “Very well, Mister Kells,” he said. His voice had risen in pitch to the near-falsetto of the telephone conversation. “What you ask is impossible. I’ll say good-day.”
He started towards the door and Kells said: “Hold on a minute.” The big automatic that had been O’Donnell’s glittered dully in his hand. “Sit down.”
Woodward’s blue eyes were wide behind his glasses. He went back towards the chair.
Kells said: “No. Over by the phone.”
Woodward smiled weakly, sat down at the telephone stand. “Now you’d better call up your parties and tell them everything’s all right—that we made a deal.”
Woodward was looking at the rug. He pursed his lips, shook his head slowly.
“There’s a direct line in the other room,” Kells went on, “if you’d rather not make it through the switchboard.”
Woodward didn’t move except to shake his head slowly; he stared at the floor, smiled a little.
“Hurry up.” Kells stood up.
Then the phone in the bedroom rang. Kells could faintly hear Beery say “Hello.” It was quiet for a moment and then the bedroom door opened and Fenner stood in the doorway looking back at Beery.
Beery said: “You sure … ? Just the press and the forms…. All out? … All right, I’ll be right over.” The receiver clicked and Beery came into the doorway. He glanced at Woodward, grinned crookedly at Kells.
“They blew up the joint,” he said. “But nearly all the stuff was out. A hand press and a couple Linotypes were cracked up, and one guy’s got a piece of iron in his shoulder, but they discovered it in time and got everybody else and the sheets out. The originals are in the safe.”
He struck an attitude, declaimed: “The first issue of The Coast Guardian: A Political Weekly for Thinking People, is on the stands.”
Kells turned slowly, sat down. He looked steadily at Woodward for a while and then he said: “As a representative of the Bellmann estate”—he paused, coughed gently—“do you think you’re strong enough to beat charges of coercion, conspiracy to defeat justice, dynamiting, abduction—a few more that any half-smart attorney can figure out?”
Woodward kept his eyes down. “That was a stall about the girl. We haven’t got her, and we don’t know where Rose is….”
“So Rose has got her?”
Woodward looked up, spoke hesitantly: “I don’t know.”
“If you’ve got any ideas, now’s a swell time to spill them.”
Woodward glanced at Beery, Fenner, back at Kells. “My people don’t want to have anything to do with Rose,” he said. “He’s wanted for murder, and if he’s caught he’ll get the works.” He smiled again, went on slowly: “He called up this morning and said you shot O’Donnell—said he could prove it….”
Fenner laughed quietly.
Kells said: “Where did he call from?”
Woodward shook his head. “Don’t know.”
Beery had gone back into the bedroom. He came into the doorway again, pulling on his coat. “I’ll be back in about an hour, Gerry,” he said. He poured himself a short drink, swallowed it and went out making faces.
Kells asked Woodward: “Where can I find you?”
Woodward hesitated a moment. “I’ve got an office in the Dell Building—the number’s in the book.”
“You can go.”
Woodward got up and said: “Good-day, sir.” He nodded at Fenner and went out.
Kells took Fenner’s twenty-five-thousand-dollar check out of his inside coat pocket. He unfolded it and looked at it for a minute and then he said: “Let’s go over to the bank and have this certified.”
They went out together.
Kells slept most of the afternoon. Doctor Janis stopped by at seven. The leg was pretty stiff.
Janis said. “You ought to stay in a couple days, anyway. You’re damned lucky it was the edge of the fan that got you—Dickinson got the middle….”
Kells asked: “How is he?”
“He’ll be all right. He’s too tough.”
Janis put on his coat and hat, finished his drink, and went to the door. “You had a break,” he said. “Don’t press it.” He went out.
Kells telephoned Fenner. There had been several steers on Rose, all of them bad. Sheedy hadn’t been located. The Mexican who had been with Rose was probably Abalos, from Frisco. He lived at a small hotel on Main Street. The hotel was being watched. Reilly was being tailed.
Beery came up about eight. He sat down, grinned broadly, and ordered a highball. “Everything’s lovely,” he said. “All the evening papers carried the Guardian stuff, and I’m the fair-haired boy at the Chronicle office.” He put down his glass. “You want me to keep the Chronicle job too, don’t you?”
Kells said: “Sure.”
Beery stood up, stooped over the low table and mixed himself another drink. “I’m going to the fights. Swell card.”
“So am I.”
Beery squinted over his shoulder. “You’d better stay in the hay,” he said.
Kells swung up, sat on the edge of the bed. “Got your ducats?”
“Yeah. I was going to take the wife.”
“Sure—we’ll take her. Call up and see if you can get three together, close.” Kells got up and limped into the bathroom, turned on the shower.
Beery sat tinkling ice against the sides of his glass. When Kells turned off the shower Beery yelled: “The old lady don’t want to go anyway.”
Kells stood in the bathroom door, grinning.
Beery looked up at him and then down at his glass. “I guess she don’t like you very well.” He picked up the phone and asked for a Hollywood number.
Kells disappeared into the bathroom again and when he came out Beery smiled happily, said: “Okay. She’d rather go to a picture show.”
The seats were fifth row, ringside—two seats off the aisle. The second preliminary was in its last round when Kells and Beery squeezed past a very fat man in the aisle seat, sat down.
The preliminary ended in a draw and the lights flared on. Kells nodded to several acquaintances, and Beery leaned forward, talked to a friend of his in the row ahead. He introduced the man to Kells: Brand, feature sports writer for an Eastern syndicate.
Kells had been looking at his program. He asked: “What’s the price on Gilroy?”
“The boys were offering three to two before dinner—very little business. I’ll lay two to one on Shane.”
Gilroy was a New York Negro, a heavyweight who had been at the top of his class for a while. Too much living, and racial discrimination—too few fights—had softened him. The dopesters said he’d lost everything he ever had, was on the skids. Shane was a tough kid from Texas. He was reputed to have a right-hand punch that made up for his lack of experience.
Kells remembered Gilroy from Harlem; had known him well, liked him. He said: “I’ll take five hundred of that.”
Brand looked at him very seriously, nodded.
Beery looked disgusted. He leaned toward Kells and said quietly, “For God’s sake, Gerry, they’re grooming Shane for a title shot. Do you think they’re going to let an unpopular boogie like Gilroy get anywhere?”
Kells said: “He used to be very good. He can’t have gone as bad as they say in a year. I’ve only seen Shane once, and I thought he was lousy….”
“He won, didn’t he?”
“Uh-huh.”
Beery was looking at Kells sidewise with wide hard eyes.
The man sitting with Brand turned around and drawled: “You don’t happen to have any more Gilroy money, do you?”
“Sure.”
The man said: “I’ll give you eighteen hundred for a grand.”
Kells nodded.
Beery looked like he was going to fall off his chair. He muttered expletives under his breath.
A man crawled into the ring followed by two Filipinos with their seconds. The house lights dimmed.
“Ladies and gentlemen…. Six rounds…. In this corner—John
ny Sanga…a hundred an’ thirty-four….”
Kells said: “I’ll be back in a minute.” He got up and squeezed out past the fat man.
At the head of the corridor that led to the dressing rooms a uniformed policeman said: “You can’t go any farther, buddy.”
Kells looked at him coldly. “I’m Mister Olympic,” he said. “I own this place.” He twisted a bill around his finger, stepped close and shoved it into the copper’s hand, went on.
Gilroy was sitting on the edge of a rubbing table while a squat heavily sweatered youth taped his hands. A florid Jew sat in a chair tilted back against the wall, smoking a short green cigar. He stood up when Kells opened the door, said: “You can’t come in here, mister.”
Gilroy looked up and his face split in a huge grin. “Well Ah’ll be switch’—Mistah Kells!” He got up and came towards Kells, held out his half-taped hand.
Kells smiled, shook hands. “H’are ya, Lonny?”
Gilroy’s grin was enormous. He said: “Sit down—sit down.”
Kells shook his head, leaned against the table. He glanced at the Jew and at the boy who had resumed taping the big Negro’s hand. He looked at Gilroy, said: “You win?”
“Shuah—shuah.” Gilroy’s grin was a shade less easy. “Shuah, Ah win.”
Kells kept looking at, him. Gilroy looked at the Jew, then looked back at Kells. He shook his head slightly. “How long you been out hyah, Mistah Kells?”
Kells didn’t answer. He stared at Gilroy vacantly. The Jew looked at Gilroy and then glanced icily, without expression, at Kells, went out of the room. The squat youth kept on taping Gilroy’s hand mechanically.
Gilroy said: “No. Ah don’t win.” He said it very softly.
“How much are you getting?”
Gilroy’s face had become very serious. “Nothin’,” he said. “Not a nickel.”
Kells rubbed the back of one hand with the palm of the other.
Gilroy went on: “Not a nickel—but Ah get plenty if Ah don’t throw it….”
“What are you talking about?”
The boy finished one hand. Gilroy flexed it, looked at the floor.
“They’ve put the feah of God in me, Mistah Kells. If Ah win, Ah don’t go home tonight—maybe.”
Kells turned to face him squarely. He said: “You mean you’re going to take a dive for nothing?”
“If that’s the way you want to put it—yes, sah.”
The boy started on the other hand. Gilroy went on: “Ah been gettin’ letters an’ phone calls an’ warnin’s for a week….”
“Who from?”
“Don’t know.” Gilroy shook his head slowly.
Kells glanced at his watch. He said: “Do you figure you owe me anything, Lonny?”
Gilroy looked at him and his eyes were big. “Shuah,” he said—“shuah—Ah remembah.”
“This is my town, now. I want you to go in and win, if you can. I’ll have a load of protection here by the time you get in the ring. You can stick with me afterwards.” Kells looked at him very intently, very seriously. “This is important.”
Gilroy was entirely still for a moment. He stared at his hands. Then he nodded slowly without looking up.
Kells said: “I’ll be back here afterwards.”
He went out of the room, closed the door. He found a telephone, called Fenner. Fenner wasn’t in, he had the call switched to Hanline’s room. When Hanline answered, Kells told him to send the two best muscle men he could locate to the entrance of Section R, Olympic Arena, quickly. Hanline said: “Sure—what’s it all about?”
“Nothing.” Kells said. “But what’s the use of having an organization if I don’t use it?”
On the way back to his seat, Kells saw Rainey. They walked together to an archway through which they could see the ring. The Filipinos were locked in a slow and measured dance; the electric indicator above the ring read ROUND FIVE.
Kells asked: “Who’s interested in Shane?”
Rainey shrugged. “His mother, I suppose.”
“Is this so-called syndicate building him up?”
“Sure.”
Kells pointed a finger, jabbed it at Rainey’s chest. “And who the hell is the syndicate?”
Rainey said: “Rose, I guess, and whoever his backers are.”
Kells looked at the ring. “Your guess is as good as mine. Get down on Gilroy.” He walked away with an elaborately mysterious and meaningful look over his shoulder.
Back in his seat, Kells tapped Brand’s shoulder. “If you gentlemen would like to get out from under,” he said, “you can copper those bets now.”
Brand turned to Kells’ wide smile. His drawling friend was engrossed in the last waltz of the Filipinos.
“I have information.” Kells widened his smile.
Brand shook his head, matched his smile, said: “No. Shane’s good enough for me.”
“That’s what I thought. That’s the reason I made the offer.”
Beery was yelling at one of the Filipinos. He glanced at Kells without expression, shouted at the ring: “Ask him what he’s doing after the show.”
The last preliminary was declared a draw. The semi-wind-up came up: six rounds, a couple of dark, smart flyweights, one on his way to a championship. It was a pretty good fight, but it was the favorite’s all the way.
The main event followed almost immediately. The announcer climbed into the ring—the referee, Shane, Gilroy, a knot of seconds. Shane got a big hand. Gilroy got a pretty good reception too—the black belt was well represented and Gilroy was well liked. The disk was tossed for corners, taping was examined and the referee’s instructions passed.
“Ladies and gentlemen…Ten rounds…. In this corner—Arthur Shane—the Texas Cyclone…. Two hundred an’ eight pounds…. In this corner—Lon Gilroy…. A hundred ninety-six….”
The announcer and seconds scrambled out of the ring. Gilroy and Shane touched gloves, turned towards their corners. At the gong, Shane whirled, almost ran across the ring. Gilroy looked faintly surprised, waited, calmly ducked Shane’s wild right hook. They exchanged short jabs to the body, and Shane straightened a long one to Gilroy’s jaw.
Shane’s hair was so blond it was almost white. It stuck straight up in a high pompadour above his round pink face, flopped back and forth as he moved his head. He was thick, looked more than his two hundred and eight pounds. Gilroy had put on fat since Kells had last seen him in action, but it looked hard. His rich chocolatebrown body still sloped to a narrow waist, straight well-muscled legs. He looked pretty good.
Shane came in fast again. Gilroy backed against the ropes, came out and under Shane’s right—they clinched. The referee stepped between them, and Gilroy clipped Shane’s chin as he sidled away. They exchanged short jabs to the head and body, fell into another clinch. Gilroy brought both hands up hard to Shane’s body. Shane danced away, came in fast again and snapped Gilroy’s head back with a long right. They were stalling, waiting for the other to lead, at the bell. The round was even.
The second and third rounds were slow—the second Shane’s by a shade, the third even.
Shane came out fast in the fourth, grazed Gilroy’s jaw with the long right, drove his left hard into Gilroy’s stomach. Gilroy straightened up and his mouth was open; Shane stepped a little to one side, took Gilroy’s weak counter on his shoulder and hooked his right to Gilroy’s unprotected jaw. There was a snap, and Gilroy sank down on his knees. The crowd roared. Several people stood up.
Gilroy took a count of eight, got up grinning broadly. He ducked Shane’s wild uppercut, stepped inside and pounded Shane’s body, but his punches lacked steam. The muscles of his face were taut, his eyes big—he had been hurt. They clinched. The round was Shane’s.
Gilroy held on during the first part of the fifth, but snapped out of it in time to smack Shane around considerably before the bell. Shane was tiring a little. It should have been Gilroy’s round but was declared even.
The sixth and seventh were Gilroy’s by a sma
ll margin. He seemed to have recovered all his speed; Shane brought the fight to him, made a good show of rushing but it didn’t mean much. Gilroy took everything Shane had to give—fought deliberately, hard, well.
The rounds stood two apiece, three even. Kells watched Shane between the seventh and eighth, decided that whatever the frame had been, he wasn’t in on it. He looked worried, but it didn’t look like the kind of worry one would feel at being double-crossed. His backers had evidently let him believe that he would win or lose fairly. As a matter of fact it hadn’t been bribery or a frameup, strictly speaking—they’d simply scared Gilroy and it had almost worked.
Brand turned around, smiled uncomfortably.
Kells whispered to Beery: “The eighth does it.” He looked at Gilroy. Gilroy was lying back, breathing deeply. He raised his head and stared intently at the faces around the ring. Kells tried to catch his eye but the seconds were crawling out of the ring, the gong sounded.
Shane rushed again and Gilroy stood very still, blocked Shane’s haymaker and swung his left in a long loop to Shane’s head. Shane fell as if he had been hit with an axe. Gilroy looked down at him wonderingly for a second, shuffled to a neutral corner. Everyone stood up. The referee was counting but he couldn’t be heard above the roar; his arm moved up and down and his lips moved.
Shane sat up, got unsteadily to his feet. Gilroy came in and put out his two hands and pushed him. Gilroy was smiling selfconsciously. Shane was all right; he shook his head and went after Gilroy, and Gilroy cuffed him on the side of the head, jabbed a short, straight left to his face. Shane stepped in close and swung his right in a wide up-and-down circle, hit Gilroy a good ten inches below the belt, hard.
Gilroy folded up slowly. He held his hands over the middle of his body and bent his knees slowly. His face was twisted with pain. He stumbled forward and straightened up a little and then fell down on his side and drew his knees up.
Shane was leaning against the ropes and his breathing was sharply audible in the momentary silence.
Then the ring filled with people; Gilroy was carried to his corner. The announcer was shouting vainly for silence. One of Shane’s seconds held the ropes apart for him; he stared dazedly at the crowd, ducked through the ropes, into the tunnel that led to the dressing rooms.
