by Unknown
There was another roar as Giant Pardo came into the ring. Pardo was grinning; he leaned down suddenly and spoke to Connors at his side.
“It’s a—good crowd, Connors.”
The second grinned up at him. “You got a punch and they know it,” he replied. “And Bolley’ll know it, too!”
Pardo nodded. “Sure,” he agreed.
Joe Humphrey was introducing fighters who had climbed inside the ropes. The crowd was impatient; they shouted above the announcer’s clear voice. They drowned him out. Humphrey raised both hands as the gong clanged again and again. He pointed towards Giant Pardo seated on the stool in his corner.
“… the big boy from the Great Lakes, Giant Pardo!”
Pardo stood up and tapped leather at the crowd, turning slowly. Bolley sat across the ring and glared at him. The crowd cheered wildly. Pardo sat down as Humphrey faced his opponent.
“… that slugger from the Northwest, Red Bolley!”
The cheers were greater in volume as Bolley got up and went towards the center of the ring. He moved more gracefully than Pardo, swung more rapidly as he tapped his gloves above his head. Johnny Parks, the referee, went to the center of the ring. The fighters moved out to his side. Schenk was with Bolley, but Gus Monkly was not inside the ropes. Connors and Eddie Leach stood beside the big boy.
The referee gave instructions that both sluggers knew by heart. And Gus Monkly sat in an aisle chair, just back of Pardo’s stool, staring towards the ring—and thinking about Hurry Lassen.
The referee turned away. The fighters went to their corners. Gus Monkly stared across the ring, turned his eyes on the chairs. He didn’t see the blonde girl or Hurry. He didn’t see any of the mob. And that bothered him. His nerves were jumpy. The stools were being swung through the ropes; the handlers were climbing out of the ring. The gong clanged.
Bolley came out fast and swung a left that missed the Giant’s chin by inches. Pardo was short with a choppy right to the body. Bolley tried another right that Pardo smothered with his glove. They went into a clinch. Pardo seemed stronger than Bolley, though he weighed only two pounds more. He shoved the red-haired fighter away from him and shot out a straight right. It caught Bolley over the left eye and knocked him off balance. The crowd roared.
Gus leaned forward in his chair and shouted hoarsely:
“Get in there! Watch yourself—”
Pardo moved forward and shot another right. Bolley twisted to one side. He was hurt and holding his guard high. Gus shouted:
“To his belly, Giant—to his belly!”
Pardo tried a short left to the head. He missed. Bolley got in close and hung on. There was red over his left eye. Gus glanced towards Connors and saw the Irishman signaling Pardo to shove the red-haired fighter away, and work on his stomach. But Giant didn’t seem to see Connors. Gus muttered:
“He’s too—dumb—”
The referee broke them. Bolley backed away and brushed his left eye with the back of his right glove. Pardo followed him up and shot two lefts to the head, neither of which landed.
Bolley stepped in and landed a hard left to the body. Pardo lowered his guard and Bolley feinted with his right, shot a hard left to the mouth. Pardo shook his head and started to back away. Bolley came in fast and brought up an uppercut that just missed Pardo’s chin.
Gus leaned forward and shouted hoarsely. His words were drowned in the roar of the crowd.
“Get inside—get in close, Big Boy!”
Bolley landed two lefts to the body and missed a hard right to the head. Pardo crouched and shot out a straight right. It caught Bolley high on the forehead, knocked him back, off balance. The red-haired slugger’s face was streaked with red from his cut eye. He covered up and backed away as Pardo went after him slowly. The gong clanged.
Gus muttered to himself: “The palooka’s slow—but Red’s gettin’ tired already. If Pardo can get in a right—”
He watched Bolley drop to his stool. The Giant was standing in his corner and grinning at Gus. The manager swore at him as Connors jerked him down. A voice at Gus’s side said:
“Got a winner, Gus?”
The manager stiffened, turned. The blonde was across the aisle now. She was going to her seat. Beside her was Burke. He didn’t look at Gus. Edna looked pale, but there was a smile on her thin face.
On the opposite side of the ring a man was sliding past people to his seat. He was a small man. Little Andy.
Gus Monkly smiled with his thin lips. Three of the mob were present. But Hurry wasn’t in sight. The semifinal had been a good scrap; most of the crowd had come in time to see it. But this mob was arriving late. Why?
The bell clanged for the second round. Pardo was out before Bolley had left his stool. There was a white line over the red-haired slugger’s bad eye. Bolley came out in a crouch, and started weaving almost immediately. The crowd jeered. Pardo shot a swinging left, and Bolley got his head underneath it. He came in close and pawed at the Giant with both hands. Pardo shot a short right. His mouth was bleeding slightly; there was a half grin on his face. Bolley tried a right and left, fell into a clinch. Pardo broke away, and Bolley caught him on the head with a light left.
Pardo walked in and started throwing rights and lefts to the body. The crowd roared; Gus leaned forward in his chair. Bolley tried to get into a clinch but the Giant shoved him away. He drove a hard left to the body, and when Bolley sagged forward he stepped back and landed a heavy left to the face. Bolley was on the ropes now, crowded against them by Pardo. The crowd was howling fiercely, remembering the way the Giant had finished Mike Connell.
Bolley bent forward and tried to clinch. Suddenly he shoved Pardo away from him and snapped out a hard left. It caught Pardo with his arms out, knocked him back. Bolley leaped forward and brought one up from the floor. It missed Pardo’s chin by an inch.
Gus Monkly saw the expression on his slugger’s face—saw the grin fade, the eyes narrow. Pardo was facing the ropes almost directly in front of his manager. Gus caught one flashing glimpse of Pardo’s eyes—sensing the kill punch. And then the Giant shot the right. It had everything behind it—straight from the shoulder.
The gloved fist caught Bolley flush on the jaw, off balance. There was a screaming roar from the crowd—then silence. Bolley slumped forward. He hit resin heavily—there was no movement to his body. Pardo backed away, looked towards Gus. He started to grin, then turned towards his corner. Connors waved him off—he went to a neutral corner. The referee started the count.
Gus stood up and shouted hoarsely. At ten Bolley had not moved a muscle. He was out cold. The Garden was filled with sound as Johnny Parks pointed towards Giant Pardo. Gus caught a glimpse of Connors waving his arms wildly. Men were climbing into the ring—handlers of the fighters. Pardo came out from the neutral corner as Bolley’s seconds lifted him from the resin. He raised his gloved hands—the crowd shouted wildly. Gus stared at the ring—there were a half dozen humans inside the ropes now. More were climbing in. He saw Humphrey swing a leg over the ropes. A photographer climbed inside. Connors turned and grinned broadly at Gus.
“What a right!” he shouted hoarsely. “What a—”
His voice was drowned by the shouts of the crowd. A hand gripped Gus’s left shoulder. He swung around. Burke was standing back of him. There was a faint smile on his face.
“You win, Gus,” he said. “But it’s—like this—”
A flashlight boomed; the din of the crowd was dying. From the balcony there came a sudden hush. Gus kept his eyes on Burke.
“It’s like this, Burke,” he said, “you’d better be careful—”
Burke grinned and turned away. Gus looked across the aisle, failed to see the blonde Edna. He turned his face towards the ring. There was a crowd in the center of it, but the figure of Giant Pardo did not tower above the other humans. He saw the referee bending down. Connors swung towards the ropes, his face white and twisted.
“Gus!” he shouted. “Come—up here!”
Gus Monkly reached the corner that had been his fighter’s. He swung through the ropes. A uniformed cop stared at him. He saw Doc Bailey bending down, shoved his way to the doctor’s side.
Giant Pardo lay on his back. His eyes were wide open. His great arms were flung wide. There was a half smile on his face. His chest was soaked with water—his dark hair wet with it. Over his heart was a small reddish brown spot. A thin stream of blood had streaked down from it, towards his trunks.
Bailey looked at Gus. He shook his head slowly. There was a darker color around the skin of the heart. Bailey said quietly:
“He’s dead, Monkly. Shot through the heart.”
Gus Monkly stared at the wide eyes of Pardo. He straightened a little. He said slowly:
“Through the heart—but that would mean a sweet piece—”
Bailey said: “Powder burns on the skin. The murderer was in the ring, Monkly. He was inside—the ropes!”
Gus straightened; his eyes met the blue, staring ones of Connors. The second said fiercely:
“They got him—”
Gus reached out strong fingers and gripped Connors’s right wrist. He said in a hard, low voice:
“Take it easy. Don’t talk—”
There were several officers in the ring now. They were moving about, questioning seconds, officials, photographers. A handsome man in evening dress, with a black mustache he touched nervously, came close to Gus.
“You were—Pardo’s manager?” he asked. “I’m Watterman, police commissioner. Your man—was he ever threatened?”
Gus shook his head. His eyes held little expression. He looked at the immaculate police commissioner, but did not see him. Watterman said:
“Keep everybody inside the ropes, you officers. Monkly—recognize anyone here that might have reason for murdering your fighter?”
Gus shook his head and said: “No. But how could he have been shot—”
Bailey spoke up. “There was a lot of confusion. Eight or ten persons—perhaps a dozen were in the ring. There was a flashlight explosion—”
Colter, in charge of the Garden, was standing beside Bailey. He said in a grim tone:
“We don’t allow photographers in the ring, unless it’s a championship fight. There was no permission given for a photographer—”
Watterman said grimly: “Where’s that picture man?”
He turned away from Gus. The manager went over to the ropes and leaned against them. He looked towards the spot where he had seen Little Andy. The man wasn’t there now. He hadn’t seen Hurry Lassen at all. Connors came to his side and swore bitterly.
“Poor damn kid!” he muttered. “He might have been—champ—”
Gus said in a hard voice: “He wouldn’t have been. Rawlton would have kayoed him. But he was in a sweet spot—”
He checked himself, turned his back to the crowd milling around in the seats. Those in the mezzanine and balcony were not making for the exits. They were staring down at the ring. Humphrey’s voice sounded above the buzz in the Garden.
“The winner—Pardo—one minute and ten seconds—in the second round—”
A voice boomed down from the balcony: “What’s the matter—with Pardo?”
Bailey came to Gus’s side. “The camera’s still there—but there’s no photographer,” he said grimly. “It was a frame-up. They used the flash to kill the gun color, if there was any. And the sound to kill the sound. Maxim-silencer. Thirty-eight, probably. The murderer stepped close to him—let him have it. Got clear in the confusion. Probably two of them. You sure you don’t know anything about—”
Gus Monkly narrowed his beady eyes and looked beyond Bailey, towards the figure of the dead fighter. He said in a dull, low voice:
“Me—I don’t know—a thing. Not a damn thing, Bailey!”
CHAPTER VI
hey sat in the room at the Manger. It was almost dawn; they had been released by the police an hour ago. There had been many questions—but the answers had been unimportant. Gus Monkly smoked a cigarette, and kept his eyes half closed. Connors lay on the bed and swore softly at intervals. It was raining outside; the drops beat against the window.
Gus said slowly and in a voice that showed no emotion:
“He did what he said—he’d do. Only he did it quicker—than we figured. He got the big boy, but that don’t count so much. I made that kid what he was. The champ would have dropped him—he’d have worked the sticks for a while—and then some doll would have grabbed what coin he had left. He’d have ended up opening oysters, where I found him. That don’t count. But something else—does count—”
Connors said bitterly: “He was a good kid. Dumb but good. I hate the guys that finished him. If you’re going after them—”
Gus nodded his head slowly. “I ain’t yellow,” he said. “I’m going after them—just once. It’ll be that way. Just once.”
“He was dumb—but he was tryin’,” Connors said fiercely. “God—I hate ’em for that.”
The manager nodded his head again. “Two hundred grand—” he breathed. “They took it away from me, Connors. They killed to do it. Because I wouldn’t let ’em cut in. Two hundred grand!”
Connors sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bed.
“That blonde—she tried to get you, in the basement of Berryman’s hotel. That might have given them a chance—with you out of the way. But why didn’t they try again—for you?”
Gus said slowly: “Maybe Hurry didn’t know about that. He’s got plenty of coin. He wants to hurt me, break me. I was square with him. But I walked out too soon. He needed me. He wanted to get even, get square. And he did.”
The manager stood up and looked down at Connors. The Irish handler’s blue eyes were narrowed on his. There was hatred in them. Gus said steadily:
“I guess you’re right, Connors—Pardo was tryin’. He was a good kid. We got to square things up. He was a scrapper, but they didn’t give him a chance. We’ve got to take one—to square things.”
Connors said nothing. The manager went over to the window.
“Maybe the mob made a break for it—maybe they didn’t. I’ve got a hunch they’re sittin’ tight—and waiting for me to come to them. Figuring I’ll come to them. Or maybe they think I’m yellow—like Lou Berryman.”
“He didn’t have a chance!” Connors breathed bitterly. “The dirty rats—”
Gus shook his head slowly. “You’ve got to take it easy, Connors,” he warned. “They’re killers. And they’re cold. You’ve got to be the same way.”
Connors said in a calmer voice: “You could turn ’em up—tell the bulls what you know.”
Gus Monkly laughed harshly. “Where’s the proof?” he asked. “Hurry’s got enough coin to beat a dozen charges like this one. Burke was talking to me when Pardo got the dose. The blonde had been sitting right across from me. Little Andy was on the other side of the ring. They’d all have alibis. And I didn’t see Hurry. He’d have one—and it would be air-tight. Turn ’em up? Not a chance.”
Connors swore. “And they might remember something on you,” he said.
Gus nodded. “They would,” he replied. “No, that ain’t the way, Connors. The thing is to just walk in on ’em. Maybe we can walk out—maybe not. Maybe we can do the job right.”
The phone bell rang. Gus looked towards the table on which it rested. He said grimly:
“The bulls—pretty sure.”
He went over and lifted the receiver. He made his voice sound sleepy.
“Yeah,” he said. “Monkly.”
His body got straight—he sucked in his breath sharply. Then he relaxed. He listened for a few seconds. Once he said: “No,” in a husky voice. After a half minute he said: “Yeah—I know the spot. In thirty minutes. But if you’re lying, Edna—” He hung up abruptly.
When he faced Connors there was a twisted smile on his thin lips. He touched the half-moon scar gently.
“The blonde—Edna,” he said. “She’s waitin’ for me, downtown. She’s alon
e—and she’s got something big to say. She swears to God it’s all right. Hurry’s crossed her up. What she’s got to say will mean a lot to me. If I don’t come down—I’m on the spot. If I do come down, she’s got a line that’ll help me beat it. That’s all.”
Connors said in a half whisper: “It’s a plant. They’ll gun you out. They’re getting yellow.”
“Just the same—I’m going down.” Gus’s voice was steady. “I knew a moll once that lied all her life—and then told one truth. It helped. Edna’s tricky as hell. Maybe she’s got that way with Hurry. It’s a gambling chance.”
“You’re on the short end,” Connors muttered. “I’m riding down with you.”
Gus smiled a little with his eyes. “You’re twenty-one,” he said. “It might help.”
Connors read a morning paper as the cab moved eastward towards the Hudson. He said grimly:
“Its all over the paper—the kill story. The bulls are running around in circles. Watterman was at the ringside, and he’s raising hell. They haven’t picked up anyone who remembers what the man that climbed into the ring with the camera looked like. A handler named Lester, workin’ with Bolley—he thinks he saw a flash. Another guy says he saw a short, thickset bird standing close to Pardo, just before the flash went off.”
“The coppers won’t get anywhere,” Gus said softly. “There was too much excitement. Maybe even the big boy didn’t see the killer. There wouldn’t be much flash—and with that flashlight racket and the cheering—the sound of the gun—”
Connors tossed the paper on the floor of the cab. It had stopped raining, and was getting colder. Gus looked down at the large-sized picture of Pardo, posed in his fighting togs.
“Two hundred grand—maybe more!” he breathed fiercely.
Connors said slowly: “How do we—work this, Gus?”
The fight manager shrugged. “It’s a small hotel,” he said. “Edna’s aunt runs it. She wouldn’t let any of the mob hang out there, six months ago. But she may have changed her mind. There’s one entrance—one exit. I’ve used ’em both—the place was raided for booze once, when I was inside. There’s a small bar in the back room. The aunt isn’t inside much of the time. A fat bird named Lippe keeps things going. He’s dumb, and handy with a blackjack.”
