He had heard such acclaim before from an even larger crowd, but then the cries were not for him. At the very start of his career he had fought at the Garden in New York and lost. After that defeat he went from bout to bout in a spirit-dampening succession of losses. His manager at the time had been more concerned with where his next bottle of whiskey was coming from than with guiding the career of his boxer.
In despair O’Sullivan resigned himself to his status, halfway between a has-been and a never-was. Then Bernie Campbell came along and changed his life.
In this neighborhood near the docks the lights from the many saloons glowed invitingly in the dark, windy streets, and the two men could walk into any one of them to have a celebratory drink. But Bernie insisted on going to a place called Bloody Joe’s that he remembered from a previous visit to Chicago. The little man had been in the fight game for most of his forty-odd years and knew practically everyone involved with it, as well as the dives and bars they frequented. He assured O’Sullivan they could make some good contacts at Bloody Joe’s.
A carriage pulled to a stop ahead of them beneath one of the infrequent streetlamps that lighted the waterfront. A tall man wearing a soft felt hat and an expensive overcoat stepped gracefully to the cobblestones. As he paid the driver, he glanced toward O’Sullivan and Bernie, who had moved into the pool of lamplight, and a quick smile of recognition brightened his lean face.
"Ah, Mr. O’Sullivan!" he said as he strode to meet the approaching pair. "I was in the hall tonight when you disposed of the unfortunate Mr. Paladino. What a magnificent performance!" He extended a hand toward O’Sullivan.
The heavyweight shook it as he nodded his thanks for the compliment. Bernie said, "Hello, Randolph. How are you?"
"I'm doing fine, Bernie." Another smile creased Randolph's face. "Especially since I had a wager riding on your boy here."
Bernie put a hand on O’Sullivan's arm. "Quincy, I want you to meet Mr. Morgan Randolph. Mr. Randolph is a...sporting gentleman, shall we say?"
Randolph chuckled. "I prefer to be more straightforward, Bernie. I'm a gambler, Mr. O’Sullivan. And I expect to make a great deal of money on your fights in the future."
O’Sullivan moved his shoulders awkwardly. He felt a bit uncomfortable in the presence of swells like Randolph who obviously had a great deal of money and spent it lavishly. Having grown up in one of the poorest sections of New York as one of several children in a penniless immigrant family, O’Sullivan was awed and ill-at-ease with the large sums of money that floated around the boxing business. He said nervously, "I hope I don't disappoint you, sir."
"I'm sure you won't, Mr. O’Sullivan." Randolph placed both his hands on the silver head of his walking stick. "Are you gentlemen going anywhere in particular? I wouldn't mind buying you a quick drink."
"We're on our way to Bloody Joe’s," Bernie offered.
"Perhaps some other time, then," Randolph said, shaking his head. "I had some place a bit closer in mind. I'm in a bit of a hurry tonight. Wouldn't want to keep a young lady waiting too long, now would we?"
"No, sir, we certainly wouldn't." Bernie leaned closer to the gambler and lowered his voice. "Say, Mr. Randolph, I was talking to some of the boys around the hall earlier, and they were telling me something you might want to know."
"And what might that be, Bernie?" Randolph asked absently. He slipped a large gold watch from his vest pocket, flipped open the case, and glanced at it.
"I heard Dane Savage is upset with you. He seems to think you're moving into his territory or something."
In the pool of lamplight, O’Sullivan saw Randolph's head snap up and his eyes suddenly narrow with worry. Then the gambler shook his head slightly and said in a hearty voice, "I appreciate your interest, Bernie, but I'm afraid I have more important things to concern myself with than an old man like Savage. His day is past. He's no threat to me."
Bernie shrugged. "I just thought you'd like to know."
"Of course." Randolph nodded rather curtly and went on airily, "Well, good evening to you, gentlemen. Congratulations again on your victory, Mr. O’Sullivan."
"Thanks," O’Sullivan muttered. He watched thoughtfully as Randolph turned and strolled down the street.
Bernie tugged at O’Sullivan's sleeve. "Come on, Quincy," the manager said. "I want to find Bloody Joe’s and see if his whiskey is still as good as it used to be."
O’Sullivan nodded absently and let Bernie lead him in the direction opposite that which Randolph had taken. As he kept pace with his manager, the prizefighter shoved his hands in his pockets and remarked, "I don't care what that fellow said, he looked worried when you told him about Dane Savage."
"He has good reason to worry," Bernie replied with a shake of his head. "I've tried to keep you away from that side of the business, O’Sullivan, but you know how those gamblers are. Savage is an important man in this town. He doesn't just control the betting. His influence is widespread; he's got a finger in every crooked deal in Chicago. And he doesn't like it when somebody like Randolph comes in and tries to take over part of the action."
"Well," O’Sullivan said, "it's none of our business, after all."
"No, it certainly isn't," Bernie agreed. "Why don't we try this alley? I think it's a shortcut to Bloody Joe’s."
They had just turned into the dark alley when they suddenly heard the patter of running footsteps behind them. There was a smacking sound that reminded O’Sullivan of someone hitting a sandbag, then a cry of pain ripped through the night.
O’Sullivan whirled around and took a step back toward the sidewalk. Peering from the mouth of the dark alley into the street, he saw several men clustered around a lone figure a block away. It was the gambler, Morgan Randolph, who was being attacked, O’Sullivan realized. The assailants, swinging fists, blackjacks, and clubs, swarmed around him. Although Randolph tried to fight back, he fell to the sidewalk in a matter of seconds.
A growl rumbling in his throat, O’Sullivan started forward. But before he could leave the alley, Bernie Campbell clamped both hands on his arm and pulled him back. "Don't, Quincy!" Bernie whispered. "Don't be a damned fool! There's nothing we can do."
O’Sullivan stared at the brutal scene. Some of the thugs began to kick Randolph, and the clubs were still rising and falling. There had been no further outcry from the gambler since that first pained yell.
Randolph was probably long past crying out now, O’Sullivan thought bitterly as he watched the men beat the gambler to death.
"Take it easy, lad," Bernie said. "There are too many of them, and we can't help Randolph." The small man sighed. "I tried to warn him about Dane Savage."
At last the men gathered around Randolph's body stopped their assault. They stepped back slightly, and one of them waved toward a darkened area farther down the street. A moment later two men moved out of the shadows and walked toward the figure sprawled on the pavement.
As they passed beneath the streetlamp where O’Sullivan and Bernie had met Randolph only moments before, O’Sullivan could see that these two newcomers were not roughly dressed toughs like the men who had just murdered Randolph. Both of them wore expensive overcoats. While one man was small and had a dapper hat tilted rakishly over his forehead, his companion was taller and wore a derby pushed back on his blond hair. They stood for a moment staring down at Randolph's bloodied form, then the smaller of the pair nodded in satisfaction. The larger man pulled a wad of money from his pocket and began passing bills to the thugs.
In the gloom of the alley, Quincy O’Sullivan clenched his big fists. He hadn’t met Randolph until tonight and had no great fondness for the gambler, but to see a man murdered so callously, then to watch as his killers were paid for their bloody deed... It was all O’Sullivan could do not to charge into the street and lay into the two well-dressed men who were paying for the dirty work.
"The little one is Dane Savage," Bernie said softly. "The fellow with him must be Brett Easton. I've heard of Easton, but I've never met him. He's Sava
ge's right-hand man, handles a lot of the details of the operation. From what I hear, he's even more vicious than Savage himself."
"They probably enjoyed that little show their men put on, then," O’Sullivan whispered harshly.
Bernie tugged at his arm. "Come on. We're not doing any good here. We might as well go on to Bloody Joe’s."
O’Sullivan shot a surprised glance at his manager. "You mean we're not going to the police and tell them what we just saw?"
Bernie grimaced. "You don't understand, Quincy," he said. "Men like Savage are a part of this business. We have to accept that. If we get on his bad side, you'll never be able to fight in Chicago again."
"But he just had that man killed!"
"Quincy...if we cross Dane Savage, he'll see to it that you don't fight anywhere ever again." Bernie jerked a thumb toward the waterfront a couple of blocks away. "We'll wind up out there with the fishes in the lake. That's what'll happen if we go against Savage and Easton."
After a long moment, O’Sullivan nodded. "I suppose you're right," he said.
"Of course, I'm right. Now let's go." Bernie turned to start down the alley once more.
He had taken two steps, O’Sullivan at his side, when he bumped into something in the darkness. A sudden crash echoed in the alley as the object overturned. Bernie yelped and dropped to one knee before he caught his balance. O’Sullivan bent quickly and grasped his friend's arm to steady him. With his other hand, the prizefighter reached out and felt the barrel that Bernie had just knocked over.
"Hey! Who the hell's down there?" someone shouted from the street.
Clutching at O’Sullivan's coat, Bernie scrambled to his feet. "Oh, my God!" he cried. "They heard us!
Now they know somebody was watching! Come on, Quincy, we've got to get out of here!"
O’Sullivan chanced a look out the mouth of the alley. He saw Dane Savage pointing in his direction, heard the little gambler snapping orders. With Brett Easton in the lead, the group of toughs started toward the alley. In seconds, the men had broken into a run.
O’Sullivan, still clutching Bernie's arm, began to run, dragging the terrified, smaller man with him. Bernie's feet seemed to touch the rough paving stones of the alley only every few yards.
Except for the slap of shoe leather on pavement and the harsh breathing of the running men, the deadly pursuit was carried out in silence. While O’Sullivan's training gave him the advantage of being in better shape than any of the thugs chasing them, he didn’t know these dark streets and back alleys. Easton and his men did.
"Down there!" Bernie cried, waving frantically as he tried to direct O’Sullivan through the dimly lit maze of alleys and back streets. They raced past several people who ducked out of the way and scurried into the concealing shadows rather than offering to help. The inhabitants of this part of the city knew well enough to mind their own business.
Nowhere in their flight did they see a policeman. And even if one had been around, O’Sullivan doubted that one man would be much help against the brutal mob that pursued them.
Cold, wet air stung his face as he ran. Gradually he became aware that they were running toward the docks. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Easton and the others emerge from a narrow street and come pounding after them. The streetwise thugs had closed the gap, and O’Sullivan realized that their lead had been cut by more than half. As he looked ahead of them, he could see they had nowhere left to run.
"Oh, no!" Bernie wailed. "We took the wrong turn back there!"
The street they were on led between two long rows of warehouses that were dark and deserted at this time of night. The buildings ran straight to the waterfront. At the end of the avenue were several piers that jutted out into the icy waters of the lake.
Easton and his thugs had the street behind them closed off now. There was no escape in that direction. And once they reached the piers, there would be nowhere else to run. They were going to have to stand and fight, O’Sullivan decided.
Bernie was slowing down, his feet weighted by weariness and despair. O’Sullivan tugged him forward, urging, "Come on! We'll be better off on the pier."
The prizefighter's heavy shoes clattered on the planks of the dock as Bernie and he ran onto it. When they had gone several yards, O’Sullivan slowed and turned. The pier was only ten feet wide. Bernie and he could spread out enough so that Easton and the others could only come at them from one direction.
"They're going to kill us!" Bernie whimpered.
O’Sullivan shook his head. "Maybe not," he growled. His fists were bunched, and he stood lightly on the balls of his feet, waiting.
If none of the men in the group was armed, they had a chance, O’Sullivan thought desperately. The pursuers had slowed down now that they saw their quarry was trapped. Easton fell back slightly, letting the hired musclemen ease forward. O’Sullivan counted them quickly, saw that there were six of them.
Bernie wasn’t going to be much good in this fight, O’Sullivan knew. Could he handle six rugged, back-alley brawlers by himself? To his surprise, a grin tugged at his wide mouth. It was going to be a hell of a fight.
Suddenly the thugs charged. O’Sullivan roared defiantly and leaped forward to meet them, swinging his deadly fists with every ounce of speed and strength at his command.
The next few minutes were a nightmare of thudding fists and flailing clubs. O’Sullivan took blow after blow, shrugging them off as best he could while continuing to throw punches of his own. Fists came at him from every direction, but he didn’t try to block them. Instead he concentrated on inflicting as much damage as he could. Noses broke and jaws shattered under his hammering fists. His bony knuckles were slick with blood, a crimson mixture of his own and that of his attackers.
Lost in the throes of his fierce battle, O’Sullivan suddenly heard Bernie scream in pain and snapped his head around in time to see one of the thugs slam a club into his manager's stomach. He groaned as he realized that, while he had tried to occupy all of them, one man had managed to slip past him. Roaring again, the heavyweight swept his powerful right arm around, clearing two of the thugs away from him. Then he started to go to Bernie's aid, but before he could reach him, someone landed on his back, wrapped his legs around his waist, and began clawing at his eyes.
O’Sullivan reached back, grabbed the man's hair, and heaved. The man screamed as O’Sullivan hauled him over his shoulder and slammed him onto the dock.
Blood dripped into O’Sullivan's eyes, blurring his vision. But through that red haze he saw Bernie's attacker raise his club and savagely smash it on his friend's head. Bernie fell forward onto the planks, blood and bits of bone spattering the dock, and the man standing over him brought the club up and continued to batter his skull viciously. Within seconds what had been Bernie's head was a gruesome mass of scarlet and gray.
"Bernie!" O’Sullivan screamed wildly. Witnessing the horrible murder of his friend enraged O’Sullivan. No longer was this fight a matter of self-defense. In a frenzy of blind madness, he whirled among the attackers, his fists shattering bone and scattering the thugs around the pier like tenpins. Now he wanted to pound Brett Easton, and then, when the man was pulp, he would destroy Dane Savage.
One tough still stood in his way. He grabbed the man's coat and flung him to the side. The thug sailed out over the lake, uttering a frantic cry, then splashed into the water. The path to Easton was now open.
O’Sullivan shook his head to clear the blood from his eyes and took a step forward. In the dim light he saw Easton's hand rising and something glinting in the man's fingers. O’Sullivan recognized the gleam of a pistol barrel and started to lunge toward him, hoping to tackle Easton before he could fire.
The gun cracked, flame spitting from its muzzle. O’Sullivan felt the slug slam into his shoulder, but he willed himself to continue forward a few steps. Easton triggered two more shots. This time the impact of the bullets spun O’Sullivan around. He clutched at the sudden fiery pain that exploded in his side while he kept
staggering on the planks of the pier.
Suddenly there was nothing under his feet. He felt himself falling and knew vaguely that he had walked right off the dock. The few seconds it took to plunge into the water seemed to last forever, then abruptly the icy waves closed over him, wrapping him in a frigid embrace that took away all his pain.
Brett Easton watched the big man's body disappear into the lake and the familiar thrill he always felt at the sight of sudden, violent death coursed through him.
"I was beginning to think you were going to wait all night to shoot the bastard," a voice behind Easton observed dryly.
Easton turned to see Dane Savage ambling toward him. "I wanted to see if the boys could handle him by themselves," he told his boss. "They took care of the little one all right."
Savage stepped over to the corpse lying on the pier and regarded it dispassionately. His ageless face was lean, the features almost delicate, and it reflected little of the depravity he had witnessed over the years. He said, "From what I can tell of the mess that's left, I think that was a scruffy fight manager named Bernie Campbell. That would make the big one some Irish boxer he's been handling. I can't remember his name. Well, neither of them will cause us any trouble."
"Neither will that damned Randolph after tonight," Easton commented. He watched as the bruised, bloodied thugs scrambled to their feet. A few yards away, the man the Irish prizefighter had tossed into the water hung onto the dock, gasping for breath, his teeth chattering from his dip in the icy lake.
"Give them a little extra money," Savage sniffed as he looked at the thugs in disdain. "They didn't do much to earn it, but we have to keep them happy, I suppose."
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 117
