Dead Stay Dumb

by James Hadley Chase

  Gurney looked uncomfortable. He hurriedly filled his glass. Under his eyelids, Dillon watched him.

  Morgan gave a tinny laugh. “Ain't you heard? Say, it's rich! That little kid of his nearly knocked his block off.”

  “You're crazy,” Dillon said, frowning.

  “It sounds like that, but it's on the level. Old Butch comes back from an evenin' out, and catches her with some guy neckin' in the front room. Gee! I'd like to've been there. She didn't have a stitch on. The guy blows his top an' lams through the window. I guess it must've been a scream.” Morgan hit his thigh, bending forward, laughing in a hoarse burst.

  Dillon eyed him contemptuously.

  “Then Butch takes his belt to her and raises a few blisters. Just what's been comin' to that little broad. After he's half skinned her she breaks loose, an' damn if she don't bounce a chair on his dome. I tell you, that dame is sure hot an' wild. She goes on bouncin' that chair until Butch takes the count. He's lying up now, sore as a bear with a boil, an' the kid's runnin' the house, givin' herself airs.”

  Dillon said, “Who was the guy?”

  He knew, by just watching Gurney.

  Morgan shrugged. “Butch can't find out,” he said. “He figgered the strap would make her talk, but it didn't. She kept her mouth shut. I guess it was a lucky break for that runaway. Butch would've twisted his neck for him.”

  , Gurney mopped his face with a silk handkerchief. Dillon looked at him, but Gurney shifted his eyes.

  Dillon said, “We'll go back. They'll be comin' in soon.”

  The hall was ablaze with light when they walked in. A buzz of talk hummed round the walls. The ring was empty. As they took their seats the lights began to dim.

  The fat men behind them were talking in loud, hoarse voices. “There ain't enough business goin' on tonight,” one of them complained. “I'm layin' three to one on Franks. The suckers ain't taking me.”

  Dillon turned his head. “I'll take five hundred of that,” he said.

  The two fat men looked at each other, a little startled. Then one of them said, “Sure,” but they stopped talking after that.

  Gurney nudged Dillon, jerking his head. Beth Franks was coming down the aisle. She slipped into a vacant seat near one of the corners. Her face had a boney, scraped look, and her eyes glittered as if she had a fever.

  Gurney whispered, “She's nuts to come here.”

  Dillon shook his head. “It'll keep Franks' mind right,” he said.

  The crowd began to yell. Sankey was coming in. The spotlights followed him down the aisle, reflecting on his red dressing-gown. He climbed through the ropes, holding one hand above his head.

  Gurney said, “Hell! He thinks he's Louis.”

  Sankey plodded round the ring, keeping his hand up, while half the house groaned at him, and the other half yelled. He had four handlers in white, who stood self-consciously in the corner, waiting for him to get through with his stuff. He came back at last, and stood in his corner, flexing his knees and worrying the ropes.

  Morgan cast a look at Dillon. “He's got his nerve back, ain't he?”

  Dillon sneered.

  Franks came down now. The crowd got to their feet for him. The roof trembled at their roar. The three twisted their heads to watch him come. Franks looked a little fine-drawn, and there were smudges just under his eyes. He had to walk past them to the ring.

  Gurney called, “Don't get too tough with him, Harry.”

  The crowd liked that, and they hooted. Franks didn't look, he kept on.

  Beth heard Gurney and she stood up, looking with wild eyes at the three of them sitting on her left. She stared at them for several seconds, then she sat down again.

  Morgan shifted uncomfortably. “She'll know us again,” he said.

  The other two didn't say anything.

  Sankey bounced out of his corner and pushed the rope down for Franks to get through. Franks paused, looking up at him. “Be yourself,” he snarled. “Get to hell out of it!”

  The crowd thought Sankey was being sporty. They gave him a yell. Franks took the ropes like a hurdle, leaving Sankey still holding them. The crowd liked that too, they hooted and clapped.

  They couldn't keep Sankey out of Franks' corner. He went over there and patted Franks' shoulder. The crowd thought it was wonderful.

  Franks said, “If you don't keep this sonofabitch away from me, I'll start on him now.”

  Borg said to Sankey, “Give us a little air, brother, you'll be seein' him too much soon.”

  Sankey wandered back to his corner, his two fists together, waving to the crowd.

  Gurney said, “This bastard'll drive me barmy.”

  Hank went over to Franks' corner while Borg bandaged his hands. Hank said, “You got enough tape.”

  Franks looked up at him. “Don't he dumb,” he said, “it's soft enough.”

  A little guy with a hand-mike got into the ring and started blowing. He got the crowd worked up all right. The only thing worth noting was Franks went six pounds heavier than Sankey.

  Gurney was conscious of a dryness in his throat and his heart's heavy thumping. He pushed his hat to the back of his head and rubbed his glistening forehead with his hand. Dillon sat like a rock, his hands limply on his knees and his jaw moving slowly, clamping on the gum.

  Gurney watched the referee call the two men in the centre of the ring. Sankey came out, his dressing-gown like a cape on his shoulders. Franks only had a towel across his back.

  They stood there listening to the referee giving them the same old line. Gurney wished they'd get on with it.

  They went back to their corners Cigar-smoke spiraled slowly to the ceiling. The crowd was tense, silent and waiting.

  Sankey shed his dressing-gown, holding on to the ropes, rubbing his shoes in the resin. The handlers bundled themselves out of the ring as the gong rang.

  Franks came out cautiously, his chin on his chest. Sankey almost ran at him. He swung a left and a right, but Franks went under them, socking Sankey in the body. Sankey didn't like it; he went into a clinch, roughing Franks round, cuffing his head with half-arm punches that didn't worry Franks. He hung on until the referee smacked his arm, then, as he was going away, Franks caught him with a right swing to the side of his head. The crowd howled with joy. Sankey came back at him, but Franks tied him up in a clinch. They wrestled some more and again Franks caught him as he broke.

  Gurney shifted, crossed his legs and uncrossed them. “What the hell's he playin' at?” he asked.

  The other two didn't say anything.

  Franks was coming in fast again; Sankey backed against the ropes, smothering most of what Franks was handing out to him. Sankey sent over a tremendous right that caught Franks as he was coming in. It caught him too high up to hurt him, but it stopped him, and Sankey got off the ropes and danced away. Franks bored in and they both exchanged short jabs to the head and body. The gong went just as Sankey was getting going. It was Franks' round all right.

  The crowd buzzed and buzzed all round them. Gurney sat back, conscious of the sweat that was running down his back. He said to Dillon, “You said the fifth, didn't you?”

  Dillon said, “Don't get into a spin. It's in the bag. That punk's got to put up a show.”

  Sankey lay back in his corner, his face sullen.

  Hank flapped a towel over him, telling him to take it easy.

  The gong went for the second round.

  It was Franks who came out fast this time. He was almost into Sankey's corner before Sankey got his hands up. The crowd roared at them. Sankey's left jumped into Franks' face, jerking his head back, but he was coming in with such steam that it didn't stop him. He banged Sankey into his corner, bringing both hands hard into his body. You could hear those two blows out in the street.

  Sankey jerked up with both of them, his mouth going slack. A wild look came into his eyes, but he kept his hands up. Gurney screamed at him, “Push him off! Get away from him!”

  Franks brought over a round-hou
se swing. It landed on Sankey's head. Sankey went down on his knee. Franks was keeping cool. He immediately walked away to a neutral corner, letting the referee start a count. The hall shook with the noise. People stood up on their chairs, yelling themselves hoarse.

  Morgan's shrill yell drifted to Sankey. “Wait for it! Stay where you are!”

  Sankey got up at nine. He seemed all right. Franks came at him, just a little reckless. Sankey saw an opening and lammed in. Franks didn't like it. He was shaken. They were both glad to clinch. And this time Franks missed Sankey when they broke. Sankey kept Franks away with left jabs, running backwards all round the ring, poking with his left. Franks just wanted to get in and sock. Towards the end of the round Franks got in. Sankey tried to tie him up, but it was like holding on to a buzz-saw. Franks let go four hooks one after the other. They sank into Sankey's ribs, making the crowd give a sighing groan. Sankey's knees went. He was in trouble, trying to keep his hands up when the bell went.

  Dillon got to his feet. “Go to his corner,” he said to Gurney savagely. “Tell him to fight. He won't last to the fifth at this rate. Let that palok Franks see you. Give him a signal or something.”

  Gurney pushed his way to the aisle and made his way to Sankey's corner. Hank was working on him desperately. He was looking worried. Gurney said, “For God's sake, you gotta watch that fella.”

  Sankey glared at him. Great red blotches on his ribs showed the beating he was taking. “A rigged fight, huh?” he snarled. “This sonofabitch's killin' me.”

  Before Gurney could say anything the gong went. Out came Franks, weaving and bobbing, with Sankey backpedaling, snorting heavily through his nose. Gurney put his elbows on the canvas, watching closely.

  Sankey tried a left, but Franks' head moved, then Franks caught him with a left and a right. Sankey began to bleed from his mouth. He drew his lips off his gum-shield, snarling at Franks. He kept circling until the crowd began to yell at him. He flung over another left that landed as Franks was going away, and tried to follow it up with a terrific right swing. It whistled over Franks' head, who came in close and socked with both hands. Sankey pushed him off and jabbed away, landing too high up to do any damage.

  Sankey was getting sore as hell. Every time Franks came in he belted Sankey in the ribs. They were landing solid. Sankey just couldn't keep him out. He was taking an awful beating in the body. The round finished with a flurry in the far corner. Sankey managed to uppercut Franks with the heel of his glove, cutting Franks' nose.

  Sankey came back to his corner flat-footed. Gurney could see the muscles in his legs fluttering. He flopped on his stool and his handlers went to work on him.

  Gurney said, “Keep him off this round. He's goin' to dive in the fifth.”

  “I can't stay,” Sankey said; he was almost crying. “The bastard's spillin' my guts.”

  Gurney snarled, “You'll stay all right, or you'll run into more grief outside.” He looked across at Franks, who was lying back taking in great lungfuls of air. They weren't even working on him.

  The gong went for the fourth.

  Sankey went out with a little more spring. He was desperate. He drove a right at Franks, connected, and followed it with a left. Franks went back on his heels, covering up. The crowd rose to their feet, howling.

  Gurney shouted, “Get after him... beat the hell out of him!...”

  In went Sankey, swinging punches from all angles. Franks rode the dangerous ones and smothered the wild swings. Then he suddenly jabbed a left in Sankey's face, bringing him up short, and crossed with his right. It caught Sankey between the eyes. There was a sharp silence when Sankey went down on his hands and knees, then the crowd screamed with excitement. Franks went to a corner, opposite Gurney. He was breathing slowly, his great chest rising and falling without effort.

  Gurney shouted, “Next round, or you get it!”

  Franks showed no sign that he heard.

  The referee was standing over Sankey, shouting the count in his ear. Sankey's muscles were fluttering as he tried to drag himself off the canvas. They were all shouting at him. The gong stopped the count at eight.

  They got Sankey into his corner by dragging him. Hank gave him a shot of rye, tugging his ears and pouring water on his head. Hank was scared stiff. Dillon came up and leant over the ropes.

  “Get a grip on yourself, you big slab of ——,” he snarled.

  “Y're goin' to win in this round. If you don't go out and tear that bastard to bits I'll give you the heat.”

  Sankey fought down the nagging tiredness. “My left's like lead,” he whined.

  “Then use your goddam right,” Dillon said. “Remember, hit that guy all over the ring. He'll go down.”

  The gong went for the fifth.

  The crowd expected Franks to come out and finish it, but he didn't. He seemed to have suddenly lost his steam. Sankey went straight into a clinch. He hung on, leaning his weight on Franks, until the referee had to shout at him. Franks caught him as he went away, but there was no snap to it. Sankey was breathing like an escape of steam. He jabbed Franks as he came in, and Franks hit him in the ribs, three light blows that didn't even make Sankey flinch. He danced away from Franks, coming down on the flat of his feet. Franks shuffled after him, his hands low. Sankey saw his opening. He'd have been blind if he hadn't seen it. In went his left and cross went his right. It was with an open glove, but they both sounded good. The crowd heaved to their feet. Franks went down on his side.

  Gurney gave a little hiss of relief. The crowd screamed and rocked, yelling to Franks to get up. The referee, slightly startled, began to tick off the seconds.

  Sankey leant against the ropes, his knees buckling and his face smeared with blood. He couldn't even look pleased.

  Franks didn't move, he just lay there.

  Beth Franks fought her way to the ringside. She beat on the canvas with her hands. “Get up and fight!” she screamed. “Don't let 'em get away with it! Harry... get up and fight!...”

  Franks took his time, but he got up at nine. The crowd, backing Sankey now, screamed to him to go in and finish Franks. Sankey tottered out of his corner, swearing. Franks stood waiting for him, his lips in a thin line, looking like a killer. There was nothing the matter with him. He was as strong as when he started. As Sankey came on he called Franks every obscene name he could lay his tongue to.

  Franks brushed aside his feeble guard and belted him in the ribs. It was an awful punch, landing solid in the church roof of Sankey's chest. Sankey's eyes rolled back. His mouth formed a large “O", then, as he fell forward, Franks whipped up a punch that came from his ankles to Sankey's jaw.

  It was a waste of the referee's time to count. The crowd went mad. They yelled and hooted as the little guy's arm ticked off the ten. Then, when he threw his arms wide and ran over to raise Franks' glove, they stood on their seats and rattled the roof.

  Dillon turned his head and looked at Gurney. His eyes smouldered. “The dirty, double-crossin' sonofabitch,” he said through his teeth.

  They all crowded into Butch's shack. There was Gurney, Hank and Morgan. Sankey had gone home, too sullen and furious to come. Dillon shuffled along behind the others, savage and silent.

  Butch was sitting in a dirty dressing-gown. His head was wrapped in a bandage. He sensed at once that Sankey had flopped when they came in.

  Overhead, Myra could hear the uproar that was going on, and she came down the ladder to listen.

  Dillon sat on the table, picking his teeth, while the others shouted and cursed. Butch was so mad, Gurney thought he'd have a stroke. He beat the arms of his chair again and again. “I put all I had on that punk,” he bawled; “now where am I?”

  Dillon suddenly came to life. “Shut up, you rats!” he snarled. “Franks's got more guts than the bunch of you rolled into one. What does it matter if you lost a little dough?”

  There was a terrible silence, each man glaring at Dillon murderously. Butch said in a strangled voice, “You fixed that fight, huh? You ain
't losing any dough... an' you talk like that?”

  Dillon looked him over contemptuously. His eyes went round the others. They began to edge a little towards him, except Gurney. Gurney knew about the gun.

  Butch climbed out of his chair. “Bring him to me,” he said savagely, flexing his fingers. “I'll teach the bum somethin'.”

  Dillon's thin lips smiled. His eyes were stony with contempt. “Forget it,” he said. “You little punks don't know where you get off.”

  Butch said, “Leave him to me.”

  He began to weave forward, his great hands questing. Dillon,' sitting on the table, watching, just hunched his shoulders in his coat. Then, when Butch was within a foot of him, the Colt leapt into his hand.

  Hank screamed, “Get back, Hogan, he's got a gun!”

  Dillon shot Butch low down. The crash of the gun made Myra scream out. She stood outside the door, her hands to her mouth, shuddering.

  Butch's blind eyes closed, blotting out the two yellow clots from Dillon's sight. He put his hands over his belly and squeezed. The blood ran through his fingers. Dillon watched him, his smile a little fixed.

  Butch went down on his knees with a thud.

  Hank and Morgan fought each other to get out of the room. Dillon let them go. He didn't even turn his head. They went out through the verandah, and Gurney heard them running down the road.

  The door opened and Myra came in. She stood in the open doorway, her face bony, holding herself upright against the woodwork. She made no move to go across to Butch. She just stood and watched.

  Butch died like that, on his knees. He gradually slumped over like a limp sack of wheat.

  Dillon eyed Gurney, then put the gun away inside his coat. “He was crazy to start on me,” he said.

  Gurney said hoarsely, “You'd better get outta here.”

  Dillon showed his teeth. “You're comin' with me, pal,” he said. “Don't make a mistake about that.”

  Gurney gulped and said hastily, “Sure... I didn't blow like those other paloks.”

  The two of them looked at Myra. She was suddenly conscious of them, aware that she was now alone, that Butch was finished, and she had to look after herself.