by Anthology
Back of Beau came the snappy heel-click of Velma Mack. Maybe it was the extra rouge on her pretty face but she looked a little mad. At Beau, I hoped.
“You can’t do it, Beau! He’s too refined. He’s a natural for culture lectures to high society. And for heaven’s sakes quit calling him Buddy . . . ’Lo, Ham.” She added the greeting as if I were an inconsequential part of the scenery.
John Doe Destiny gave a nasal bark that should have settled the matter.
“I don’t wish to fight, Mr. Tassel.”
“There!” Velma gloated. “I’ll take him in hand. I’ll see that he meets the best people.”
“What goes on?” I roared. “He’s mine—my own John Doe Destiny—booked for vaudeville—then Hollywood—”
“Since when?” Beau demanded, suddenly noticing me.
“I’m his manager. I found him. I discovered he has talents—more of ’em than the law allows in a prizefighter.”
That blew Beau’s lid off. The three of us cut loose in a three-way verbal fight. John Doe Destiny perked up. All of us talking at top speed made him feel more at home. He didn’t miss a word. Me, all I got was that Beau and Velma had been here ahead of me and had learned he’d come back from the future and had tried to contaminate his ambitions. I shouted for my rights.
“I was first, wasn’t I, John Doe? Didn’t I show you my card?”
The hog-calling effects of our argument carried down the corridor. The cop jogged to his feet and stomped toward us. I lowered my voice.
“I agreed to be your manager—”
“But your card,” John Doe Destiny cut in with a broad smile, “was an awful fake, my dear atom-buster.”
This jolted me. I remembered having flashed the card under his eyes an instant so that he’d see nothing but a blur. The old Ham Brown technique.
“To be precise, Brown,” John Doe followed through, “your card read, ‘Social Security Act, account number 323-16-4475, Hamilton J. Brown, unemployed.’ Your sleight-of-hand may do for this century, but nine thousand years of fast-moving civilization have quickened my eyesight.”
You should have heard the silence. Of all the uncanny wallops this man packed, this was the startlingest. The three of us gaped, Velma and Beau being familiar with the nature of Ham Brown card flashes.
The cop broke the silence with the noise of scratching his head in an inspired manner. He opened his billfold and gave John Doe Destiny an eye-wink’s look. Then,
“What’d you see?”
John Doe raised his brows, lowered his lids, and recited:
“Driver’s License. Name of Operator, Jason McCudahey. Number 29792633. Street address.
He read back every word of it. Right out of his mind. Darned if he hadn’t photographed the thing with his eyes!
A strange light came into the cop’s face. He started off, then came back and shook a finger at Destiny.
“Stay where you are, young fellow, till I see the chief. I figure the force can use you.”
“I’m going back home,” Destiny called after him, but the cop pounded away.
Velma, Beau, and I exchanged glances and came to our senses. No more argument. High time to settle on one plan before this bird flew out of our hands. We took ourselves back into a huddle.
“Co-operation’s the word,” I said. “Which’ll it be—vaudeville star, socialite, or pugilist?”
“Grab for it,” said Velma, taking Beau’s cane and holding it up. We grabbed, hand over hand. Beau’s hand topped us.
“He’s a prizefighter,” said Beau.
We talked our protégé past the judge before the police chief came around with any tempting offers, so John Doe Destiny was all ours. Our pooled cash took care of all claims. We marched down the steps, arms linked through Destiny’s, in the spirit of treasure hunters lugging a chest of uncounted gold.
We piled into the car Beau Tassel had rented, hesitated just long enough to toss the reporters a few salty statistics to make the public mouth water, and shoved off. Destiny heaved a big sigh.
“No workouts before tomorrow,” said Beau. “A fresh-air ride’s the thing for that cold.”
“Anything to keep him entertained,” Velma whispered to me.
I patted her hand. I knew her heart was set on that Atlantic City vacation. Well, we weren’t going to let this golden bird fly back home nine thousand years out of reach. Fact was, we were becoming attached to the fellow.
“You’ll like our little city,” said Beau in the charming voice he’d practiced on Velma the last few weeks. “Nice little city.”
Definitely the wrong tack. I tried to give Beau the high sign but he was too busy running stoplights. The stubborn mullethead, he drove through all the newspaper-strewn parks, skyscraper canyons, and smoky railroad yards—a chamber of horrors to John Doe Destiny. To make it worse, Beau threw in a lecture. On that corner six gangsters were shot. In this block a tenement house burned to the ground one night and legend has it that some of the sleepers never woke up.
“Beau, for heaven’s sakes, it’s getting late,” Velma would wail from the back seat.
“It’s never late when we’ve got a guest like Mr. Buddy Destiny,” Beau would retort with a big-hearted laugh.
John Doe Destiny became nauseated. Frequently we passed blocks of slums. Our protests bounced off Beau like punches off a champion. To cap the climax he wound up with a tour around the stockyards.
We put Destiny to be a shattered man.
I sat up all night to be sure he didn’t fly off to his own century—though I couldn’t have blamed him much.
By the end of the week John Doe Destiny was fairly well under control. A whopping fight was billed for a Friday only two weeks away. This Killer Metheny was a big name and would draw a fat gate.
And maybe you think the newspapers and radio commentators didn’t do right by our Buddy Destiny! Sports writers took this future business for an A-l publicity gag; the public took it for a hoax. But nobody cared to stick his neck out. The evidence was too solid that John Doe was straight goods.
The newspapers headlined him as Buddy Destiny, the two-fisted forebodie of the year ten-thousand, the man with the watermelon biceps, the handsomest guy that would ever leap into a ring. (He’d never been in one before!)
Dopesters gave Killer the edge because they’d seen him fight. They said experience would tell.
We were sure of Buddy on the same grounds. Nine thousand years of experience weren’t to be sneezed at.
Yep, Buddy Destiny had an advantage that the Killer camp completely ignored: ninety centuries of upbuilding of the human race into something sturdier, quicker, more sensitive—
There was the loophole!
John Doe Destiny didn’t want to fight. He abhorred it. He’d never seen a prizefight and he hoped to keep that record clean. Where he came from people were genteel and delicate.
He took to roadwork and punching-bags like a veteran. He outclassed Beau in rope-skipping after the first hour. It was marvelous the way his habits clicked into place, once he was shown. The same as he’d learned to slow down his speech.
But could you get that guy into a ring with a sparring partner? No.
“I wouldn’t care to hit any man,” he would say. “Even if I were angry, I’d settle it some other way.”
Every night after we got the fellow to sleep, Beau and I would have coffee with Velma and try to figure the thing out.
“The winner’ll make off with seventy percent,” Beau moaned.
“If we lose, Atlantic City is off my calendar, that’s all,” said Velma resignedly, looking at us like a beautiful lady on a poster appealing for funds. “Your fair-haired boy knows how to count money. He’s made out a budget. Out of thirty percent we’ll get expenses only—if he fights.”
“But if he wins, Velma,” I said, “I’m taking you to Atlantic City.”
“I’m ahead of you, son,” said Beau suavely.
“If he wins, you’ll both take me.” Velma divided a peach m
armalade smile between us. But Beau pulled the gloom cloud over us again.
“How’ll we ever get him to fight? Every time I argue the matter he threatens me. Says he’ll hop for home.”
Velma lowered her eyelids as if maybe she had a glimmer.
“If he’s never swung at a partner,” I suggested, “how do you know he packs a wallop?
“We’ll know tomorrow,” said Beau. “The Detroit A. A. is bringing over their famous striking meter. If he can hit a ten he can deliver a knockout.” Beau was being optimistic. Killer Metheny had struck a thirty-two.
The next day the truck unloaded the meter at our back door and a circle of reporters helped roll it to the center of the gym floor. I looked around for John Doe Destiny.
He was standing by the window in trunks and gloves, a sunshiny mountain of handsome muscles, having a chat with Velma. I sauntered over.
“What do you remember most from that car ride?” Velma was asking him. A look of pain shot through his face.
“I remember everything,” he said. “But the most heartrending sight was that three story firetrap at 7892¼ Manodene Street, with fourteen ragged children playing on the walk in front of it, and six broken windows patched with newspapers and rags—”
“Would you like those children to have a better home?”
A quick light came into Destiny’s eyes.
“Do I have anything to say about that?”
“You could offer to build them a decent house if you had the money.” Beau Tassel interrupted, calling Destiny over to the striking meter. We all crowded around.
“Don’t be afraid of hitting too hard,” said Beau. “The world’s champ did forty-eight. That still leaves half the dial. Go ahead, Buddy.”
Destiny gave the thing a wallop. The dial jumped to three. The sports writters groaned and I, for one, felt an awful emptiness in the stomach.
Tassel snapped the dial down and tried to quiet the uproar among the on lookers. Their harsh talk cut John
Doe to the quick. An assistant trainer’s muttered oath acted on him like a foul blow. Velma pushed into the circle and made the assistant apologize and after a few minutes we persuaded Destiny to try again.
“Hit it as hard as you can,” Velma said.
Destiny lashed out. There was an awful clang and the meter crumpled back and splashed metal parts all over the floor. Nothing was left of the dial. John Doe Destiny blushed and backed away, saying that if they didn’t mind he’d like to be excused to continue a conversation with Velma about a house.
Well, this was the big night. We kept our dressing room door closed to the last minute. The uproar was terribly jarring to Destiny’s delicate nerves. He shuddered and paced the floor all through the preliminaries.
“They’re hitting each other,” he would chant with his eyes closed. “They’re mauling each other with their fists.” Then he would turn to Beau and me and plead, “Do I actually have to strike my opponent to win this fight?”
“Just once,” Beau would answer.
Our call came. We jammed plugs in Destiny’s ears and hoped the shouting wouldn’t terrify him too much. We ushered him through the jampacked aisle to his corner.
The announcer introduced Killer Metheny in glowing terms. Then he led John Doe Destiny to the center of the ring and sang out:
“They say he comes back from ten-nine-fifty, and what a nifty! His punch is a sensation to jolt you future generations! Ho-de-ho-de, the two-fisted fore-bodie, Buddy Destiny!”
Tumultuous applause and shouting. Velma Mack at my elbow chewed gum and pounded her hands like mad.
The fight was on. The gong brought Killer Metheny prancing out of his corner like a champ. He crouched, sprang, threw a volley of punches at the air. But he didn’t hit anything.
Buddy Destiny eluded him, sneaking out of reach with clever footwork that had the crowd gasping. Killer couldn’t close the gap. Round one ended without a blow landed.
Destiny skipped back to his corner but he didn’t sit. For some strange reason he just stood there surveying the crowd. Then he bent down to Beau Tassel.
“What are the gate receipts?”
Beau said he didn’t know.
“Find out,” said Destiny. “I don’t want to fight unless I can make all I need to build a house.”
He went back into Round two, and Beau turned to Velma and me with a gray face.
“The guy’s out of his head.”
“Don’t you believe it,” said Velma. “Go find out about that gate, and hurry.”
Round two was like Round one, but fast. It ended with Killer madder than a bull because he hadn’t been able to connect. The crowd was hooting.
Round three was a footrace spiced with the most amazing demonstration of ducking and dodging you ever saw. Buddy Destiny came back to his corner without being touched. But he looked sick. The boos were cutting him down. The crowd was all for Killer now. They wanted to see a fight.
Just before Round four Beau returned looking pale and scared. “Destiny, you’ve got to knock him out by the fifth. I can’t tell you why but you’ve got to. This time get in there and—”
Velma gave Beau a restraining pinch on the arm. Destiny only said,
“How much was the gate?”
Beau gave him the figure.
“It’s not enough,” said Destiny. “I counted the crowd at the end of Round one and checked my figures during Rounds two and three.”
“A knockout by Round five!” Beau wailed.
“Go back and make them straighten up those accounts,” said Destiny. “I won’t strike a blow till you do.”
Round four looked bad. Yes, there were limits to tricky footwork and dodging, not to mention hurdling, even for the versatile Destiny. He slowed down a little, used his guard more, took a glancing blow here arid there. Killer was getting onto him at last, and did the crowd love it!
Still John Doe Destiny refused to strike a blow. His own camp groaned. Velma yelled at him wildly. The gong at the end of Round four was welcome music.
And the return of Beau Tassel, looking as eager as dynamite, was a welcome sight.
“You were right, Buddy. Someone tried to hold back part of the gate. The quick check-up caught him. Now, Buddy-boy, how about it?”
“Remember those poor little kids!” Velma cried into Destiny’s plugged ears. “Think of that new home, all the good you can do with that extra dough—”
She was still shouting as Destiny went into Round five. She shouted for undernourished kids, for orphans, for widows, for homeless cats—All at once you could see the imagination working in Destiny’s face. His memory of the house with the patched windows set him off like a trigger. He walked into Killer Metheny.
The surprise action took the crowd for a hush.
Then—spat.
Killer Metheny bounced into the ropes and hung there with the most completely cockeyed expression I ever saw. Probably an alltime high in cockeyed expressions, judging by the way the crowd hit the ceiling. Technically, Killer wasn’t down. That is, the ropes wouldn’t let him down. But he was completely out.
Under the deafening roar the baffled referee took the situation in. What a picture! Destiny’s photographic memory would preserve this one for a chuckle of pride nine thousand years hence—
But I was wrong. What John Doe Destiny saw was the stream of blood that oozed harmlessly from the nose of the veteran pugilist.
“I did it!” Destiny gasped. He fainted dead away and fell on his back in the center of the ring. The referee bent over him and counted him out.
It was noon the next day when a loud knocking awakened me. I roused up and let Beau Tassel in. He looked like something wild and hunted. “Have you seen Buddy Destiny?”
“No,” I said. “What about him?”
“Gone.”
“Gone where?”
I wished I hadn’t asked the question, it brought such a whipped look to Beau’s face. He turned away and jammed his cigar in an ash-tray. I tried to smooth th
ings over.
“Too bad. He was a good guy.”
“Yeah . . . No fighter, though.”
“No, no fighter . . . Didn’t he even leave a note?”
“He left nothing,” said Beau, “except a check to cover training expenses.
That and a fund for a new house for some slum kids. That rounded out his thirty percent.”
“Have you told Velma?”
Beau shook his head. I sensed that he was holding back something. I quizzed him and he admitted it. The plunger, he’d bet the last of our radio prize money that Destiny would win by the fifth. No wonder he didn’t want to face Velma.
“We’d better tell her, the sooner the better,” I said, so we made tracks for the Daily Beacon.
“Is she in?” Beau asked.
“Does her desk look it?” retorted Split-Infinitive. It didn’t. It was heaped high with mail. “Fan letters,” said Split, “on that special society broadcast she put over with your John Doe Destiny night before last.”
Broadcast? We hadn’t heard of any broadcast. Beau turned a little purple.
“She said Destiny needed some intellectual diversion or he’d go back home,” said Split. “She had him do a lecture on the future of culture and refinement.”
I fought for a deep breath.
“Do they get paid for that stuff?” Split smiled.
“And how. Velma’s got an advance for a whole series. You men should listen in. There’ll be talks on the decay of vaudeville and the death of pugilism—”
Beau gave a deep growl.
“Tell me, how can he give any more lectures? He’s gone.”
“He’ll be back from Atlantic City in a couple weeks,” said Split. “He told me to tell you.”
[*] It has actually been proven that it is possible to increase the speed of speech until it is almost impossible to follow the words. And yet, when it is recorded, and played back slowly, it does not reveal a slurring or omission of words. Some types of nervous disorders result in this quickening of the speech. The man from the future is probably taught from birth to speak with great rapidity, and thus, his hearing is also trained to distinguish between the syllables. But, if you have this ability today, it might be a good idea to go on the vaudeville stage!
