“You been a good man, Sammy,” he said thickly. “I like you. But if you know anything, you better give. Come on, give!”
“Farnum,” Sammy sighed. “One of the witnesses—he runs a junkyard in Jersey. He used to handle hot heaps for the Brooklyn mob.”
Brennan finished dressing. Then he turned to Sammy, who sat gray-faced and fearful.
“You go home and forget it, Sam. I’ll handle this!”
*
—
SOMEHOW THE DAYS got away from him, in the gym, and on the road, getting ready for Ketchell.
“It’s got to be good, Clara,” he told her. “I got to win this one. It’s got to be a clean win. No decision, nothing they can get their paws into.”
He liked the Irish in her eyes, the way she smiled. She was a small, pretty girl with black hair and blue eyes and just a dash of freckles over her nose. Paddy held her with his hands on her shoulders, looking into her eyes.
“After this is over, we can spend all the time we want together. Until then I’ve got work to do.”
“Be careful, Paddy,” she begged him. “I’m afraid. Daddy’s been talking to someone about that man—the one with the yellow eyes.”
“Vino?”
“Yes, that’s the one. A friend told Daddy he used to work a liquor concession for Capone when he was young. And now he is in with some bunch of criminals who have a hot car business over in Brooklyn.”
“Brooklyn?” Paddy’s eyes narrowed. Car thieves in Brooklyn…?
Paddy Brennan went back to the hotel and started for the elevator. The room clerk stopped him.
“Two men came in to see you, Mr. Brennan. They were here twice. They wouldn’t leave their names.”
“Two men?” Paddy looked out the door. “One of them short and fat, the other dark with light eyes?”
“That’s right. The dark one did the talking.”
If Vino was looking for him, it meant a proposition on the Ketchell fight. He picked up the phone.
“If anybody calls, I’m not in, okay?”
Let them wait. Let them wait until the last night when they couldn’t wait any longer, when they would have to come out with it. Then— He dialed the phone.
*
—
TWO NIGHTS LATER Paddy Brennan sat on his bed in the hotel and looked across at the wiry man with the thin blond hair.
“You found him, did you?” he asked.
The man wet his lips.
“Yeah, he quit his job drivin’ the truck six months after the accident. He’s been carrying a lot of do-re-mi since then. I trailed him over to Jersey last night, drunk. He’s sleeping it off at a junkyard right now.”
Paddy got up. He took out a roll of bills and peeled off a couple.
“That’s good,” he said. “You stand by, okay? Then you go tell O’Brien about six o’clock, get me? Don’t tell him where I am, or anything. Just tell him what I told you and don’t miss. There’s going to be a payoff soon. You do what I tell you, and you’ll get paid a bonus.”
At about nine-thirty tonight he would be going into the ring with Tony Ketchell, and the winner would get a chance at the title. In the meantime, there were things to do—the things Dicer Garry would have done if it had been Paddy Brennan whose broken, bloody body had been lifted from the wreckage of his car. They were things that had to be done now while there was still time.
*
—
THE JUNKYARD WAS on the edge of town. A light glowed in the office shack. Behind it was the piled-up mass of the junked cars, a long, low warehouse, and the huge bulk of the press. It was here the Brooklyn mob turned hot cars into parts, rebuilt cars, or scrap. Farnum, the convenient witness, ran the place. He had testified that Dicer Garry had hit the truck doing eighty miles an hour, that the driver hadn’t had a chance to get out of the way.
Paddy Brennan’s face was grim when he stopped by the dirty window and peered in. Cortina—he remembered the man from the inquest—was sitting in a chair tipped back against the wall. He had a bottle in his hand and a gun in a shoulder holster.
Farnum was there, too, a slender, gray-haired man who looked kindly and tired until you saw his eyes. There were two others there—a slender man with a weasel face and a big guy with heavy shoulders and a bulging jaw.
Paddy swung the door open, and stepped in. He carried a heavy, hard-sided case in his hand. Farnum got up suddenly, his chair tipped over.
Cortina’s face tightened. “Speak of the devil! Muggs, this is Paddy Brennan, the guy who fights Ketchell tonight. He won’t be the same afterward, so you’d better take a good look.”
Muggs laughed, and he leaned forward aggressively. Farnum looked shocked and apprehensive. He was sitting close to Cortina, and Paddy’s eyes covered them.
“What’s the suitcase for? You skipping out on Ketchell?”
“Dicer Garry was a friend of mine,” Paddy said quietly. He set the case down carefully on the floor.
The man with the weasel face got up suddenly.
“I’m not in this,” he said. “I want out.”
“You sit down,” Brennan told him, pointing at the corner. “Stay out if you want but keep still.”
Muggs was a big man who carried himself with a swagger, even sitting down.
“How about you?” Brennan asked. “Are you in on this, or are you going to be nice?”
Muggs got up. He was as tall as Brennan and twenty pounds heavier.
“You boxers are supposed to be good. What happens when you can’t use that fancy stuff with a lot of fancy rules?”
“Something like this,” Brennan said, and hit him. His right fist in a skintight glove struck with a solid crack, and Muggs was falling when the left hook hit him in the wind. It knocked him into his chair, which splintered and went to the floor with a crash.
Cortina tilted his bottle back and took another drink. He was powerful, a shorter man than Brennan, but heavier.
“Nice goin’,” Cortina said. “Muggs has been askin’ for that.”
“You’re next,” Brennan said. “Garry was a pal of mine. It’s going to look mighty funny when the D.A. starts wondering why the principal witness and the driver of the death car turn out to be friends and turn out to be running with a mob that backs Caproni and Bickerstaff.”
“Smart pug, aren’t you?” Cortina said, putting his bottle down carefully. “Well, I hate to disappoint Ketchell and the fans, but—”
His hand streaked for the gun, had it half out before Paddy kicked the legs out from under the chair. It came out, but Cortina’s head smacked up against the wall, the gun sliding from his hand.
Farnum broke for the door, and Brennan caught him with one hand and hurled him back against the desk so violently that he fell to the floor. Then Brennan picked up the gun and pocketed it.
“Get up, Cortina,” he said quietly. “I see you’ve got to learn.”
The trucker made a long dive for Brennan’s legs, but Paddy jerked his knee up in the Italian’s face, smashing his nose. Then Brennan grabbed him by the collar, jerking him erect, and slammed him back against the wall. Before he could rebound, Paddy stepped in and hooked both hands to the body. The Italian’s jaw dropped and he slumped to the floor.
Farnum was getting up. He wasn’t a strong man, and the violence of that shove had nearly broken him. Brennan pushed him into a chair.
“You’ve got a chance to talk,” he said. “I’ve only got a few minutes, and then I’m going to keep that date with Ketchell. You either talk, or I’m going to beat you both until you’ll never feel or look the same again.”
Brennan turned to Muggs, still sitting on the floor.
“You had enough, friend? Or do you take some more of that dish?”
“You busted my ribs,” said Muggs.
Paddy Brennan remembered the broken body of the Dicer. He stepped up to Cortina and pulled him to his feet. He hit him a raking left hook that ripped hide from his face, then two rights to his body, then jer
ked the heel of his hand up along Cortina’s face.
“That isn’t nice,” Paddy said. “I don’t like to play this way, but then you aren’t nice boys.”
He stepped back.
“Think you can take that, Farnum?” He pulled the junkyard operator to his feet. “What do you say? Talk or take a beating.”
“Shut up, Farnum,” Cortina muttered, “or I’ll kill you!” Paddy hit Cortina between the eyes, and the man fell hard. Paddy walked over, and setting the case flat on the table, he popped the latches.
*
—
TEN MINUTES LATER he came out and got into his car. With him he had Farnum and Cortina. The Italian’s face was raw and bloody, but Farnum was scarcely more than frightened, although one eye was growing black, and his lips were puffed. Paddy put the case in the trunk of his rented car.
*
—
SAMMY WAS PACING up and down the arena corridor when he came in.
“Paddy!” He rushed over, his face worried. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” Brennan said quietly. He carried the heavy case to the door of the shower room and set it inside. He turned back to Sammy. “Let’s get dressed.”
He was bandaging his hands when Vino came in with Bickerstaff. Vino’s sallow face cracked into a brief smile, and he gave Brennan a limp hand.
“Just dropped in. How about a little talk?”
“Sure,” Paddy said. “Sure enough, I’ll talk. Take a powder, Sammy.”
Sammy hesitated. Then he turned and went out, closing the door softly behind him.
Bickerstaff sat down astride a chair, leaning on the back of it. He wore a cheap blue serge suit, and his black shoes were high-topped, but showed white socks above them. His pink, florid face looked hard now, and his small blue eyes were mean.
“Get on with it,” Brennan said, drawing the bandage across his knuckles again and smacking his fist into his palm. “What’s up?”
“You got plenty, kid,” Vino said. “You sure made a hit beating Bristow that way. There is a big crowd out here tonight.”
“You’re telling me?” Brennan said. “So what?”
“We spent a lot of dough on Ketchell,” Vino said carefully. “He’s good, plenty good. Maybe he can beat you.”
“Maybe.”
“It’s like this, Paddy,” Vino said, striving to be genial. “We ain’t in this racket for our health. Suppose you beat Ketchell. Who will you fight next? The champ? Maybe. If not there ain’t a good shot in sight. Then, we lose a lot of gold. We paid off to get him where he is.”
“What’s on your mind?” Brennan demanded. “Get to the point.” He cut a band of tape into eight narrow strips.
“Suppose you lose?” Vino suggested. “Suppose you take one in the sixth. It ain’t too late to lay some bets. Then we give you a return fight, see? We all make dough. Anyway,” he added, “you should tie up with us. Ketchell won’t last. You will. You need a smart manager.”
“Yeah?” Brennan asked. “How smart? An’ where does Sammy get off?”
“Look,” Bickerstaff suggested. “I got a couple of youngsters, a middle and a welter. Let Sammy take care of them. You need somebody smart, Brennan. You got color, you got a punch, you can make some real gold in there.”
“What gives you the idea I think you’re smart?” Paddy asked. He was putting the strips between his fingers and sticking them down. “I haven’t seen any champions you boys handled. Ketchell wouldn’t be in the spot he’s in now if Dicer hadn’t been killed.”
Vino took his cigarette from his mouth very carefully. He held it in his fingers, the burning end toward him, and looked up like gangsters do in the movies.
“Maybe he would, maybe not,” he said noncommittally.
“I’d like to have had another crack at Garry,” Brennan said. “I wanted that guy.”
Bickerstaff’s face was frozen.
“I thought you two were pals,” he said.
“Us?” Brennan shrugged, sliding from the rubbing table to his feet, beginning to move his arms around. “We were once. When things got serious, when he started thinking about the title…well, you know how those things are, the friendship didn’t last.”
Vino stood very still.
“Yeah?” he said.
Bickerstaff spoke up. “What about this fight? You ain’t got but a few minutes.”
“I’m not going to play,” Brennan said. “What would I get? I can beat Ketchell. What can you guys do for me that I can’t do for myself?”
“We can take care of you,” Bickerstaff said. “Ketchell hasn’t lost any fights since we had him.”
“You got a break,” Brennan said. “Just like I did when Garry got killed.” He shook his head. “You know, I heard about you guys, I heard you were smart. I thought maybe when Garry got it that you guys pulled the strings. I figured you were wise, that you stood by your fighters, that you saw they won, or they lost for good money. But when I got down there, it was only an accident. So I say nuts to you.”
“We can be tough,” Bickerstaff said, his eyes hard.
“Don’t make me laugh,” Brennan told him, jabbing with his left. “What good would it do you to get tough with me after Ketchell’s finished? That wouldn’t be smart. I’m looking for a manager, but I want somebody smart.”
Vino’s eyes were cold. “Just what is this, Brennan? You’re stalling.”
“Sure.” Paddy stopped and hitched up his tights. “Sure, I’m stalling. You said you weren’t in this racket for your health. Well, I’m not either. I’m going where the dough lays. I can’t see how I’m going to make out with you guys. So I’m going out there and cop a Sunday on Ketchell’s chin.”
The door opened, and Sammy stuck his head in.
“Better get set, Brennan. It’s time to go.”
When the door closed, Bickerstaff looked at Vino, then back at Brennan.
“Listen,” he said. “What if we showed you how smart you would be to tie up?”
Brennan chuckled. “You look like tinhorns to me. What if some of the big mobs wanted in?”
Vino snapped his cigarette into the shower.
“I am the big mob,” he said flatly.
“Yeah? You and every dago kid down on the corner.”
Vino’s eyes hardened, he straightened, but Bickerstaff cut in. “Get smart, kid. We take care of our boys. Look at Ketchell.”
“An accident,” Brennan said. “A car accident saved him.”
“There’s accidents, and accidents,” Vino said, softly.
“Tryin’ to kid me?” Brennan pulled his robe around his shoulders. “I saw that car and there was a witness.”
“Only dumb guys make it plain,” Bickerstaff said. “We know our stuff.”
“Well, that would be a joke on Garry, the rat,” Brennan said. “He thought he was the smart one.”
“You get in there with Ketchell,” Vino said. “You take one in the sixth. Make it look like an accident. Then we’ll bill you with him again for a big gate, and you win. We’ll see you get the title if you sign with us. And we’ll take care of you.”
“Listen, Vino,” Brennan said. “It sounds good, but don’t give me this ‘accident’ malarkey. You got lucky and so you’re acting like a big shot. If you’re real lucky maybe I’ll run into a truck while I’m climbing into the ring!”
“Don’t be stupid, you punk!” Vino stepped close. “I fixed Garry. He wouldn’t play, see?” He paused, staring at Brennan. “I don’t like boys that don’t play. So I had that truck there; I had witnesses there. I even had a guy ready if the truck didn’t finish it. Now you do as you’re told or we’ll finish you!”
Bickerstaff’s face was strained. “Vino,” he said, “what if he drops a dime on us?”
“Yeah?” Vino sneered. “If I even thought he’d dime us out, I’d cook him. One sign that he ain’t going to play ball, and he gets it.”
“I don’t rat,” Brennan said quietly. “I don’t have to rat. All
right, I’ll play ball. I’ll play it the way you never saw it played before.”
*
—
THE LIGHTS WERE bright over the ring. Paddy Brennan felt good, getting away from Vino and Bickerstaff. He rubbed his feet in the resin, and the old feeling began to come over him. He trotted to his corner, where Sammy was waiting.
“What’s up, kid? You goin’ to tell me? Is it a flop?”
Brennan rubbed his feet on the canvas, dancing a little.
“In the sixth,” he said. “They want me out in the sixth. They want to give you a welter and a middle and take me for themselves.”
Sammy looked up, and Brennan realized how small he was.
“Oh?” he said. “So they want that, do they?”
“Keep your chin up, Sammy,” Brennan said. “Let’s get this one in the books. Then we’ll talk.”
When the bell clanged, Ketchell came out fast. He looked fit, and he moved right. He’d come up the easy way, but he’d had the best schooling there was. Paddy had a feeling this wasn’t going to be easy. Ketchell’s left licked out and touched his eye. Paddy worked around Ketchell, then feinted, but Tony backed off, smiling.
Brennan walked in steadily, feinted, feinted again, and then stabbed a quick left to the face and a right to the chin. The punches shook Ketchell and made him wary. His left jabbed again, and then again.
He circled, went in punching. He shot a left to the head, and bored in, punching for the body, then to the head, then took a driving right that bounced off his chin. It set him back on his heels for a second, and another one flashed down the groove, but he rolled his head and whipped a right to the body that made Ketchell back up.
When the round ended, they were sparring in the center of the ring, and Paddy Brennan went to his corner, feeling good. The bell came, but not soon enough. He leaped to close quarters and started slugging. He felt punches battering and pounding at him, but he kept walking in, hitting with both hands. Once Tony staggered, but he stepped away in time before Brennan could hit him again.
Then a solid right smashed Paddy on the head, and a left made the cut stream blood. Momentarily blinded, a right smashed on his chin and he felt himself falling, and then a flurry of blows came from everywhere, and he fought desperately against them. When he realized what was happening again, the referee was saying nine, and then the bell was ringing. He staggered to his corner and flopped on the stool. Sammy was working over him.
Off the Mangrove Coast (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 18
