by Unknown
He was almost beside the grilled gate at the front basement entrance, when he heard the sound behind him. It was a faint sound, a swishing sound. There was the brief noise of breath sucked in quickly.
Gus Monkly bent his head forward, dropped to his knees. His body was pivoting; his right hand was reaching for his automatic, when the crashes sounded. There were two of them. They filled the basement with their roar.
The manager swore brokenly, got hands before his eyes, pitched to one side. He lay motionlessly, with his body huddled. A figure came close to him, breathing quickly. There was the faint odor of cheap perfume. Then the figure was gone.
He heard shouts from the top of the steps, near the wash-room. A car door slammed, in the street. There was the sound of an engine running at high speed through the gears. Al Berryman’s grating voice sounded again:
“What’s wrong—down there?”
Gus Monkly got slowly to his feet. He went outside, went up the stairs that led to the street level. A tan taxi was speeding towards Ninth Avenue. A small boy stared at him with wide eyes.
Across the street were two men; they had stopped and were looking at him. Gus narrowed his eyes on them for several seconds. He said to the boy:
“Who got in—that cab, Kid?”
The boy looked cold. The two men across the street walked on towards the Hudson. Gus handed the boy a quarter and brushed off his brown coat.
“See who got in—the cab?” he asked again.
The boy spoke in a high-pitched voice.
“A lady,” he said. “She was nice.”
Gus straightened up and swore softly. “Yeah?” he muttered. “A lady, eh?”
The boy narrowed dark eyes on Gus’s small ones. He nodded his head.
“Guess you don’t know that,” he said with sarcasm. “Guess you didn’t hurt her.”
The manager stared at the boy. “Hurt her?” he repeated.
The boy scowled at him. “She had a hurt arm,” he said, raising his voice a little. “She was holding it, an’ she didn’t move it any.”
Gus Monkly looked towards Ninth Avenue and muttered something beneath his breath. The boy said:
“There was a lot of noise—”
The manager grinned at the boy. He spoke in a cheerful tone.
“She didn’t want to be kissed, Kid—some gals are like that. She got away—and maybe she bumped her arm against the door.”
He went towards the entrance of the hotel, and met Al Berryman on the way in. Al was taller than his brother, and thinner.
“What happened?” he asked in his grating voice. “You use that gun?”
Gus stared at him stupidly. “What’s wrong with you—drinking again?” he asked. “What gun?”
Al looked up and down Gus’s overcoat. He narrowed bloodshot eyes.
“You’re all dirty,” he said. “I heard two shots.”
Gus brushed at his coat with both hands. “The damn taxis,” he said. “They never clean ’em.”
Al Berryman went past Gus and reached the street. He looked east and west, stood with a hand in his right pocket. Then he moved out of sight. Gus looked through the opened door at the snow, went a few feet and closed it. He moved to the desk and thought about the blonde, Edna. It had been dark down below. She had fired two shots. Had they been meant for Lou Berryman—or himself? Or had the slugs been intended for some other person?
Gus listened to Al coming up the stairs. When the hotel owner came up to him his face was white. He said shakily:
“Look at—this!”
There was a piece of lead in the palm of his right hand. It had flattened out against something that had left a rusty color on it. Gus said slowly:
“What is it, Al?”
Al Berryman swore fiercely at him. “You don’t know!” he sneered.
Gus said in a calm voice: “Where’s Lou—I want to see him. Right away.”
Al Berryman walked back a few feet towards the counter, but he kept his face turned towards Gus. His right hand moved inside the pocket.
“You don’t know where Lou is, eh?” he said mockingly.
Gus shook his head. “He said he might have to go to Chi in a hurry,” he replied. “Said your sister got hit by a truck. I was tryin’ to find out if he went.”
Al Berryman smiled without moving his eyes away from Monkly’s. Over on Tenth Avenue there was the sharp sound of a back-fire. Al jerked his body nervously. He stopped smiling.
“Think you’d find out—down in the basement, Gus?” he snapped.
The manager said: “What basement—what the hell are you talking about, Al? You’ve been hitting the stuff hard.”
Al Berryman smiled again. His face was very white.
“I ain’t drinking—not these days,” he said slowly. “This yours?”
He took his left hand from the pocket of his soiled suit. In the fingers he held a leather case. There was still one long cigar in it.
Gus whistled softly. “Sure it is,” he said. “Where’d you get that? I’ve been looking for it since that stud game up here the other night.”
Al Berryman’s voice pitched higher. “You’re not coming through, Gus,” he said. “This wallet wasn’t down there an hour ago.”
Gus Monkly reached out and took the wallet. He started to put it back in the upper pocket of his coat, checked himself. There was a dirty mark beneath the pocket. Al’s bloodshot eyes were on his.
“You were down there!” he stated. “If you get me in bad, Gus—”
The manager shoved the wallet in his pocket. He put the cigar in his mouth, lighted it. It was crushed and didn’t draw well. He said slowly:
“I’m not taking any orders from you, Al. I’m asking you about Lou. Did he leave for Chi?”
Berryman nodded. His eyes were frowning into those of Monkly.
“He just left,” he said in a surly tone.
Gus sighed heavily. He turned a little. Al Berryman took his right hand out of the suit pocket. Gus moved like a cat. He got fingers over Al’s right wrist, lifted his arm. His right hand went into Berryman’s pocket, pulled loose the gun. Gus backed away, smiling.
“Where did Lou go—and why did he go?” he said slowly. “Don’t hold back, Al.”
Al Berryman’s eyes were staring at him, wide with fear. Gus said:
“Better be careful, Al. I’ve got a big money shot just ahead of me. You know that. It means a lot. Lou’s been living here with you—and you know things. You always knew things in Chi. You two may have a sister in that burg—but she wasn’t hit by any truck. Come on—what’s Lou’s game?”
Al Berryman stood motionless near the desk and shook his head from side to side. From the floor above there came the faint sound of whistling. A door slammed. Gus moved his head forward a little and said in a very hard tone:
“Hurry Lassen hates my guts. He hates Lou’s too. But he could slam Lou down, where he had to go easy with me. And maybe Lou would see things different like, see? That’s what I want to know.”
He moved the gun a little. Al Berryman swallowed hard. He shook his head again.
“Lou went—to Chi. A truck hit—”
“Shut up!” Gus snapped. “I’ll put a slug in you, sure as hell—if you lie! Lou did one thing—or another. He got yellow—and ran like a rat. He’s looking for a crawl spot. Or he went over—to Hurry!”
Al Berryman said in his grating voice:
“Ella—got hit by a truck—”
He checked his words as Gus walked up close to him and shoved the muzzle of the gun against his stomach. He spoke softly.
“You’re going out. I think you’re riding with Hurry, and you’ve got to go out. You should have had the dose before. Walk to the stairs in back—go down. If you’ve got anything to think about—”
Berryman’s eyes stared into the beady ones of the fight manager. He said slowly, shakenly:
“For God’s sake, Gus—don’t do it—”
The whistling up above grew louder. Gus Monkly shov
ed the gun forward a little. Berryman’s body stiffened. Gus said:
“Get moving—”
Al Berryman made a choking sound. He said weakly:
“It’s—Pardo, Gus. They’re going to—”
His face was ghastly. His voice was a little whisper.
“Lou—made a duck—Hurry was coming right after—”
Al Berryman’s body jerked, relaxed. It slumped towards the floor. Gus got an arm around the man, dragged him back of the desk to a battered chair. He touched Al’s right wrist—there was no pulse beat.
The fight manager swore softly. He wiped the gun off with his handkerchief, wiped it carefully. He slipped it into a pocket of Al’s faded suit. Then he went around to the front of the desk, looked towards the door that led to the street. It was still closed.
Upstairs he heard the wavering voice of the hotel porter, Conlon. The porter was calling Al’s name. Gus smiled grimly and went towards the rear stairs again. As he went down he heard Conlon call in a louder, shriller voice:
“Hey, Al! How about them chips in number eight?”
Gus went along the concrete floor of the basement, reached the street. It was snowing hard. He walked towards the river, watching the cabs. A man on horseback, riding ahead of a huge locomotive, appeared faintly through the snow. Gus turned southward, hailed a cab at the next square.
“The Manger,” he told the driver. “And take it easy—I’ve got a bad heart.”
The driver grinned, nodded. Gus Monkly settled back in the seat and shook the snow from his soft hat. He said, half aloud:
“That’s a hell of a lot better—than no heart—at all.”
CHAPTER IV
iant Pardo was playing pinochle with Eddie Leach, one of the handlers, when Gus got inside the room. He grinned at the manager.
“It’s snowin’ out, Gus,” he said.
Gus grunted. “You’ve been peeking,” he replied. “Feel all right?”
The big slugger nodded. “I feel swell,” he replied. “I like it cold.”
Gus swore. “Not too cold, big boy,” he reminded. “That’s the way we want Bolley to like it—cold.”
The big slugger blinked stupidly. “Yeah,” he said. “Sure, Gus.”
The manager said: “Where’s Connors?”
Eddie Leach gestured towards one of the connecting rooms.
“Readin’ about how good Bolley is,” he stated. “Or maybe he’s washin’ his neck. It’s the right month.”
The Giant threw back his big head and roared with laughter. Things rattled in the room. Gus frowned at his fighter, then grinned.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “The right month, eh?”
Pardo rocked from side to side with laughter. Gus grinned at the fighter until he turned his head away. Then he frowned. He went across the room and met Connors at the doorway.
“What’s goin’ on?” the second muttered.
Gus forced a grin. “Eddie told a joke,” he stated. He walked past Connors, said in a low voice: “Come on in and shut the door—I’ll tell another one, not so funny.”
Connors closed the door. Gus took off his coat, tossed it over the back of a chair. He threw his hat on top of it, went over and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Listen, Connors,” he said in a low tone, “you stickin’ with me?”
Connors narrowed his eyes. “Sure,” he replied. “Why not?”
Gus lighted a cigarette and shrugged. He kept his small eyes on the blue ones of Connors, and didn’t reply for several seconds. When he spoke his voice was toneless.
“Lou Berryman isn’t heading for Chi because his sister got hit by a truck, Connors. Maybe he isn’t heading that way at all. He ran out on me. He got yellow.”
Connors whistled softly. “Say, Gus,” he said slowly, “is this fight on the level?”
Gus Monkly looked hurt. “You’re damn right it is,” he stated. “This ain’t the sticks—this is the Garden. The fight’s on the square. But that don’t mean—”
He checked himself. He narrowed his eyes to little slits.
“I got to have you—with me, Connors,” he said. “You don’t run with the mob. You stickin’?”
The handler swore. “Come on,” he muttered. “Give it to me. What was Lou’s game?”
Gus said slowly: “Hurry Lassen slammed him down, a few nights ago. He got worried. Lou was in Hurry’s mob, working beer, in Chi. He and I—we quit. Things were getting tough, and Hurry was playing around. He’s got a blonde now. She comes close to running things. And she figures Hurry should have a slice of the Giant. Forty percent cut-in.”
Connors said: “Yeah?” very slowly.
Gus said: “Lou figured he should have a hunk of Pardo, too. But he wasn’t coming after me too hard. We meet up with Hurry, and I hand him the line that the boy’s all sliced up. Lou admits he’s got a share—and Hurry knows he’s lying. He slams him down. The blonde sits there and thinks a little for him. Hurry tries to throw a scare my way. He wants forty percent of my take on the Giant—and he sent Little Andy around to tell me that if he don’t get it before the scrap with Bolley—it’ll be Pardo’s last fight.”
Connors sat down in a chair and shook his head from side to side. He swore huskily. Gus said:
“Then Lou comes along with a fake wire—and makes a duck. He got yellow. He’s been staying at his brother’s hotel. I went over to see if he was really walking out—and the blonde tried to rub me out, down in the basement. I put a gun on Al Berryman—he was getting set to spill something, and his pumper went bad. He’s dead.”
Connors got up and walked around. Gus said slowly:
“I’ve got to have help, Connors—that’s why I’m giving it to you straight. If Pardo gets the nod over Bolley—he’ll get the works!”
Connors said grimly: “We got to hide him out. He’s got a chance to win, Gus.”
The manager grunted. “Chance, hell!” he breathed. “Bell made a rotten match. He needs the coin. Bolley’s a sucker for a right—and Pardo’s got the right. I’ve been stallin’ around, Connors. The big boy’s in right now. But the hell of it is—”
Gus got up and went over to the window. The handler said softly:
“You could sell him the cut, Gus.”
The fight manager swung around, his beady eyes glittering.
“I’m not yellow,” he said harshly. “I dug up this palooka. He was opening oysters in a lousy town. He was so dumb he’d been fired from one fish joint because he couldn’t count up to six. He was giving the customers five shells. I taught him something. I ain’t letting Hurry come in. If the boy gets over—he’s worth big money. If Hurry gets in on big money—the other guy gets sick. Sometimes he don’t get well again.”
Connors nodded slowly. “Pardo’ll take Bolley,” he muttered. “We can fix up a way of gettin’ him out of the Garden without being seen. We can hide him out—”
The fight manager smiled grimly. “Yeah?” he said. “Well, that’s what I’m looking for. Hurry’s a killer—and he hates my guts. That means he hates anything I touch—except maybe the dirt he’d like to shove me into. We got to be careful.”
Connors said slowly: “Or it’s no coin for you, eh? And the long count—for Pardo.”
The manager said tonelessly: “See what you can dope out. If Hurry gets Pardo—I’ll get him. Jeeze—I’ll get him for it, Connors!”
The handler closed his eyes and said slowly:
“We’re safe—while we’ve got the Giant in the Garden. If we can sneak him out—”
Gus Monkly spoke softly. “Pardo’s going to kayo Bolley, Connors. He’ll give him the count. And I know Hurry. He’ll go through hell to square it with me for—”
Connors said quietly: “Why don’t he gun you out, Gus?”
The manager’s half-moon scar jerked a little. He laughed harshly.
“That’s easy,” he said. “He wants me to walk around and remember. To think about the coin I almost got my fingers on, see? He wants to let me know he can still bo
ss jobs, see? He’s a killer—and he’s a cold killer.”
Connors didn’t say anything. Gus got to his feet, started towards the door. He turned suddenly.
“Don’t get talking, Connors. You’re sitting in now. Keep your face tight. I’ll fix you so it’ll be worthwhile.”
Connors nodded. “We’ll lick ’em, Gus,” he said grimly. “But we’ve got to use brains.”
The fight manager took the cigarette from between his thin lips and looked at the ash.
“Brains—and maybe some other things,” he said softly, and went into the other room.
Eddie Leach grinned at him. “Is he usin’ soap?” he asked.
Giant Pardo chuckled. He stood up and put his big arms out. He swung at the air. Gus said grimly:
“You look great, big boy. I’m feelin’ sorry for Bolley.”
Eddie lighted a cigarette. “He’ll murder him,” he said.
The scar on Gus’s face twitched. He stiffened a little. Then he grinned.
“Sure,” he said. “And say, Giant—Lou’s sister got sick in Chi. He had a wire. If he don’t get back for the fight, Connors will be in your corner.”
Pardo grinned. “To hell with seconds,” he announced. “I’ll kill this guy.”
“Yeah,” Gus stated. “But you got to quit grinnin’ at me, after you knock a guy down.”
The big slugger chuckled. “I go to a—neutral corner,” he said thickly in singsong fashion. “I won’t look at you, Gus.”
The manager nodded. Eddie Leach pulled on his cigarette and said softly:
“At three to one—it’s nice, Gus—it’s—a killing!”
CHAPTER V
he Garden was packed; they were standing three deep in the rear of the mezzanine and balcony. The ringside was filled; there was a buzz of voices as Joe Humphrey climbed through the ropes. The buzz became a roar as the big form of Chuck Bolley came along the aisle from the dressing rooms.
Bolley was almost as tall as Pardo; he had reddish hair and a pale face. He’d been fighting for five years and had spoiled the chances of more potential champs than any other scrapper in the heavyweight division. He raised his long arms above his head, tapped his gloves together. He towered above his handlers. Schenck, his brown-faced manager, was dwarfed as he stood beside him.
