Strictly for Cash

by James Hadley Chase

  I caught him with a hook as he moved away and opened a cut under his right eye. He was

  swearing at me now, and I went after him, jabbing at his face with lefts and rights. He kept

  covering up, trying to protect his damaged eye. I got in close and socked him in the body. It

  must have dawned on him he wasn’t going to get an easy win, and in a frenzy of rage and

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  desperation he suddenly cut loose.

  He caught me with a right swing that had all his weight behind it. It was a stunning punch,

  and it dazed me. As I groped my way into a clinch, trying to get my head clear, he butted me

  in the face. I reeled back, covering up, and as he rushed, I slammed a left in his face, but he

  knew he had hurt me, and kept coming, throwing punches from every angle. I rode most of

  them, smothered the rest. It was a hectic minute, but I kept my head, knowing he was certain

  to give me an opening, and he did. He slung a wild right that left him as wide open as the

  ocean, and I stepped in and hung one on his jaw. He went down as if he had been cut off at

  the knees.

  Before the referee could start a count, the bell went. The Kid’s handlers rushed into the ring

  and dragged him to his corner.

  I went slowly back to my stool and sat down. Pepi was waiting for me.

  “Next round, you fixer,” he snarled in my ear. “That’s orders.”

  “Get away from me!” I said, and greatly daring, Waller shoved him off the apron of the

  ring and began to sponge my face. Waller was breathing heavily and grinned excitedly at me

  as he worked over me.

  “You’re doing fine,” he said. “Watch his right. He can still punch.”

  I looked across the ring. They were working like madmen on the Kid, flapping towels at

  him, holding smelling-salts under his nose and massaging the back of his neck.

  “Well, I guess this is it,” I said. “Last round coming up.”

  “Yeah,” Waller said. “Anyway, he’s been in a fight. You ain’t cheated anyone.”

  I looked over my shoulder at her. She was smiling again, and waved to me.

  The bell went, and I moved out. The Kid started to back-pedal. He had a gash down the

  side of his nose, a cut under his right eye, and there were great red patches on his ribs where I

  had socked him.

  I trapped him in a corner and nailed him bang on his damaged nose. Blood spurted from his

  face as if I’d slammed a rotten tomato against a wall. The crowd screamed itself hoarse as he

  wilted and fell into a clinch. I had to hold him up or he would have gone down. I wrestled

  him around, trying to make it look good until he got a grip on himself.

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  “Okay, playboy,” I said in his ear. “Throw your best punch.”

  I broke and stepped back. He shoved out a left that wouldn’t have dented a rice pudding. I

  ducked under it and came in, wide open. Somehow he managed to screw up enough strength

  to let go with an upper-cut. I went down on one knee. I wasn’t hurt but if I were going to take

  a dive I had to prepare the way for it.

  I bet the yell that went up from the crowd could have been heard as far south as Miami.

  The referee stood over me and began his count. I looked over at the Kid. The relief on his

  face was comic. He leaned against the ropes, blood dripping from his cuts, his knees

  buckling.

  I shook my head as if I were dazed, and at six I got up. The Kid’s face was a study. He had

  been sure I was going to stay down. Instead of coming in, he began to back away, and that

  got a jeering laugh from the crowd. His seconds yelled for him to go in and finish me, and

  with pitiful reluctance he changed direction and came at me. I made out I was wobbly, but I

  slipped the left he threw at me and landed another jab on his gashed face. At least he was

  going to earn his victory. Gasping with pain and fury, he lashed out as I dropped my guard.

  He caught me on the side of the jaw. Down I went.

  I had walked right into it, intending to catch it, and I caught it.

  For the first three seconds I was out, then I opened my eyes and found myself flat on my

  face, looking right down at her. She was standing up, her eyes like twin explosions, and as

  our eyes met, she screamed furiously, “Get up and fight! Get up, you quitter!”

  She was so close she could have touched me. Half the ringside; customers were on their

  feet, yelling at me, but I had ears only for her voice.

  “Get up, Johnny!” she screamed at me. “You can’t quit now!”

  The anger, contempt and disappointment on her face electrified me. It was all I needed. It

  flashed through my mind I had never intended to obey Petelli’s orders anyway, and that

  scornful, screaming voice and the black, furious eyes clinched it.

  I heard the referee call “… seven … eight …”

  I got lip somehow, beating his down-sweeping arm by a split second, and as the Kid rushed

  in, I grabbed his arms and hun on like grim death. I knew by the desperate way he struggled

  to get free he realized I was going to double-cross Petelli, and he was going to lose the fight

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  unless he could nail me before I had shaken off the effects of his punch.

  I hung on in spite of all he did, and in spite of the referee trying to tear us apart. I only

  needed four or five seconds to get my head clear, and when I did decide it was safe to break, I

  stabbed my left into the Kid’s cut-up face before he could get set to throw a finishing punch.

  Panting and wild he came at me, but I weaved away, back-pedalled, and left him

  floundering. He was as wild as a rogue elephant now, and kept rushing at me while I dodged

  and retreated until I was good and ready to take him. Then as he came in for the fourth time I

  stopped in my tracks and brought over the right book. It smashed against his jaw and down he

  went in a flurry of blood, rolled over and stiffened out.

  It was a waste of time to count him out, but the referee went through the motions. When he

  reached ten, the Kid was still lying on his back as motionless as a corpse. White and scared

  looking, the referee moved over to me and lifted my glove as if it was loaded with dynamite.

  “Farrar’s the winner!”

  I looked at her. She was standing up, flushed and excited, and she blew me a kiss. Then the

  ring became crammed with pressmen and photographers, and I lost sight of her.

  Petelli appeared out of the crowd. He was smiling, but his eyes were hot and intent.

  “Okay, Farrar,” he said. “Well, you know what to expect.”

  He moved away to speak to the Kid’s manager, and Waller, his face grey and his eyes

  rolling, came over to me and dropped my dressing-gown across my shoulders.

  As I climbed out of the ring I caught sight of Pepi, a tight little grin on his face, waiting at

  the top of the ramp.

  VII

  I felt safe enough so long as the dressing-room was crowded with pressmen and fans who

  had come to shake hands with me and to tell me what a fine fighter I was, but when they

  began to drift away I knew trouble was creeping up on me.

  Waller had returned to the dressing-room with me. He was scared all right, and as soon as

  he had finished rubbing me down, he began to cast nervous and longing glances at the door.

  Tom Roche had been in, but I got rid of him quickly. I didn’t want him mixed up in any

  trouble.

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  Th
ere were now only a couple of pressmen and three fans left, and they were arguing in a

  corner about who had the heaviest punch among the old heavyweights, and they weren’t

  paying any attention to me.

  “Okay, Henry,” I said, as I fixed my tie. “Don’t wait. Thanks for all you’ve done.”

  “There ain’t anything I can do for you,” Waller said. “You’d better get out fast. Don’t let

  them catch you alone.” He wiped his shiny face with the back of his hand. “You shouldn’t

  have done it.”

  “Shouldn’t have done - what?”

  A creepy sensation ran up my spine as I turned. There she was in her apple-green linen suit,

  her big black eyes looking into mine, a cigarette between her white-gloved fingers. “What

  shouldn’t you have done, Johnny?”

  Waller edged away and slid out of the room, leaving me staring at her like a paralysed deaf

  mute. The little group in the corner stopped talking and eyed her hungrily.

  One of the pressmen said, “Let’s go, boys: this is the one time a fighter really likes to lose

  his friends.”

  They all laughed as if he had cracked the best joke in the world, but they went. The little

  room seemed suddenly vast and empty as the last of them drifted through the doorway.

  “Hello,” I said, and reached for my coat. “Did you win any money?”

  She smiled. Her teeth were small and even and sharply white against her scarlet lips.

  “A thousand, but you gave me a heart attack when you went down. I had to lay out four and

  I thought I was going to lose it.”

  “Sorry about that,” I said. “I wasn’t concentrating. There was a girl at the ringside who took

  my mind right off my business.”

  “Oh!” She looked at me from under her eyelashes. “How did she do that?”

  “She happened to be the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

  “You should tell her that. Girls like being told things like that.”

  “I am telling her.”

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  “I see.” She continued to smile, but her eyes hardened. “That’s very flattering, but I don’t

  believe it. It looked like a dive to me.”

  My face reddened.

  “What do you know about dives?”

  “All the signs were on the wall. The funny little men whispering in your ear, the way you

  left yourself open. I go to all the fights. It happens every now and then. What made you

  change your mind?” -

  “The girl,” I said, “and the thought of all the little mugs who were betting on me.”

  “This girl seems to have had quite an influence on you,” she said, studying me, then she

  went on, “I think you’re handsome, Johnny.”

  I leaned against the wall, aware I was wasting precious time. I shouldn’t be talking to this

  girl. I should be getting out of here before the crowd left. That was my only chance of giving

  Pepi and Benno the slip. But not even Petelli himself could have got me out of this room at

  this moment.

  “Who are you?” I asked. “Why did you come up here?”

  Her face was serious now, but there was still that look in her eyes that kept sending tingles

  up my spine.

  “Never mind who I am. Call me Della if you must call me something,” she said. “I’m here

  because you’re in trouble, and I guess it’s partly my fault. You are in trouble, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, but it’s nothing you can do anything about.”

  “How bad is the trouble?”

  “Two Wops are laying for me. If they catch up with me, it’s probably curtains.”

  “You double-crossed Petelli?”

  That startled me.

  “You know him?”

  “That little thug! I know of him, but I wouldn’t know him if he were the last man on earth.

  We’re wasting time. I’ll get you out of here.” She went to the window and looked out. “You

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  can reach the car-park by climbing down that pipe.”

  I joined her at the window. There weren’t many cars left in the park by now.

  “There’s my car: the first one on the right in the second row. If you can reach it without

  being seen, you’ll be safe.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, looking at the low-slung Bentley coupe she was pointing at. “I

  can’t drag you into this. These Wops are dangerous.”

  “Don’t be a fool. They won’t know a thing about it.”

  “Let’s be sensible about this …”

  “Oh, don’t argue! I’m going down to the car now. Lock the door after me. As soon as you

  see me down there, come on after me. I’ll drive over to you. Get in the front seat and leave

  the rest tome.”

  Glancing at the Bentley again, I spotted the expensive-looking item in the seersucker suit.

  He was standing by the car, looking to right and left.

  “Your friend won’t like this,” I said. “He’s waiting for you now.”

  She laughed, a hard, humourless little sound that made me stare at her.

  “He’s not a friend: he’s my husband,” she said, and moved quickly to the door. “I won’t be

  five minutes. Don’t let anyone in.” She was gone before I could stop her.

  I crossed the room and shot the bolt. Now I was alone the room seemed horribly empty. I

  returned to the window. Her husband was pacing up and down beside the car. As I watched

  him he took out a cigarette-case and lit a cigarette. By the way he threw the match on the

  ground I could see he was exasperated.

  A faint sound behind me made me turn quickly, my eyes going to the door. I saw the door

  handle begin to turn. Someone the other side of the door pushed gently against the panels.

  The bolt held, and the handle slowly reversed.

  Well, they were out there now. I guessed they thought it was safe to call on me now the

  stadium was nearly cleared. Over the loud-speaker system dance music was blaring: loud

  enough to drown the sound of a shot.

  I tiptoed across the room and examined the bolt. It wasn’t too strong. I heard someone

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  whispering outside. I couldn’t hear what was said, but the sound made the hair on the nape of

  my neck bristle.

  I caught hold of the rubbing-table and pulled it across to the door and wedged one end

  under the handle. I was thinking fast now: a little scared, but not in a panic. They knew the

  lay-out of the stadium a lot better than I did. They’d know the climb down from my window

  wasn’t difficult, and as soon as they found they couldn’t break in they’d guess it would be by

  the window I’d try to escape, and Pepi would be there to pick me off.

  It wouldn’t take him three or four minutes to get down the concrete steps, around to the

  side door and out to the parking-lot. He was probably on his way now. I had to get going at

  once.

  As I swung my legs over the window-sill someone drove his shoulder against the door. The

  table held the door solid. I didn’t look back, but climbed out of the window on to the ledge.

  In my hurry to get to the drain-pipe I took a false step and my foot shot off into space. I

  managed to dig my fingers into the chinks of the uneven concrete wall, and hold myself

  steady. It was a pretty nasty moment. If I hadn’t had strong fingers I would have fallen.

  Somehow I managed to regain my balance. I slowly drew up my foot and found the ledge

  again. With my heart hammering I kept on, reached the drain-pipe and began to climb down.

&n
bsp; Ten feet from the ground I let go and dropped.

  I heard a car start up. I heard, too, the sound of running feet. For a moment I was tempted

  to bolt towards the car, but decided it would be safer to remain in the shadow of the wall

  rather than go out into the brightly lit car-park.

  The Bentley swung towards me. She hadn’t turned on the car lights. Beyond, and away to

  the left, I spotted Pepi. He was about a hundred yards from me, standing still, looking

  towards the window of the dressing-room as if waiting for me to appear, and I realized he

  didn’t know I was already down. Then I heard a loud crash and knew the door of the

  dressing-room had been forced open.

  The Bentley slowed down as it reached me, and the door swung open.

  “Get in - quick!” Della cried, keeping the car on the move.

  I scrambled in beside her and she shot the car forward. I managed to get the door shut as

  the car raced down the broad drive-in.

  As she leaned forward to snap on the lights, she said, “Did they spot you?”

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  “I’m not sure.”

  I swung around in my seat to look through the rear window. The dark, curly haired man

  who she said was her husband was sitting at the back. It was too dark to see his face. I

  couldn’t see any following car’s headlights.

  “Doesn’t look like it,” I said. “Anyway, they’re not coming after us.”

  “You must be crazy to get us mixed up in this, Della!” the man at the back exploded. “Stop

  the car and let this fella out!”

  She laughed.

  “Oh, shut up, Paul. They were going to shoot him. I couldn’t let them do that after he’d

  won me a grand.”

  “You little fool! You’re always getting into trouble.” Again she laughed. “I’m loving every

  minute of this,”

  He gave a grunt of disgust and slumped down in his seat.

  “Well, let’s get out of here. As soon as we’re away from the stadium, stop and let him out.”

  “Don’t take any notice of him,” she said to me. “We’re going to Lincoln Beach. Want to

  come?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  We were approaching the main gates of the stadium now, and it suddenly occurred to me

  that Petelli might have got word down there to stop us. I told Della.

  “Squat on the floor. You may be right.”

  There were a number of cars ahead of us now, moving slowly through the big gates, and