Fight Card Presents: Iron Head & Other Stories

by Jack Tunney

  “What say ye, Stuart? McTeague asked. “Do we wait, or take the ring now?”

  Stuart glared at him. “I’ve waited long enough. Wrap your hands and get your gloves on.”

  Five minutes later, the two men stepped into the ring. The referee, an older sergeant with an oft-broken nose, nodded to both of them.

  “Okay lads, a fair fight now, and give the boys a show.”

  The bell rang, and instead of charging at Stuart with his fists flying, McTeague guarded his face with his hands and began to slowly circle his opponent, waiting and studying. Stuart shuffled around for a moment, waiting for McTeague to barrel in at him like a wild bull, but when he was disappointed, he grew frustrated.

  “C’mon, you great lummox!” Stuart snapped. “I’m right here, what’re you waiting for?”

  Again, McTeague refused to take Stuart’s baiting. He continued to circle his opponent, a small smile on his face, his demeanor relaxed, almost casual. The crowd began to shout insults and jeers at the two men, demanding violence. Still, McTeague took no action, nor showed any sign of stress, while Stuart grew more agitated.

  Finally, McTeague’s actions drove his opponent to the breaking point. With a snarl, Stuart threw himself forward, fists raised, and he launched a blistering assault against McTeague’s guard. His fists hammered away, crashing home like an artillery barrage, heavy and relentless. But the taller Scotsman’s defenses soaked up the punishment, never giving Stuart the opening he needed to land a telling blow. After a dozen heavy punches, Stuart stepped back, nostrils flaring, eyes glowering at his infuriating opponent.

  It was the moment McTeague had been waiting for, and as soon as Stuart’s balance was less than perfect, McTeague’s right fist rocketed out, smashing against Staurt’s left forearm. The blow did no real damage, but it staggered Stuart, and as he lurched to the right, his attention became focused less on his guard, and more on his footwork. McTeague could see the shift in his opponent’s eyes, and seizing the chance he leapt in, unleashing a fusillade of punishing blows.

  An earth-shaking punch under the sternum rocked Stuart on his feet, and another to the side caused him to lurch with the impact. McTeague followed the body blows with hooks and jabs to the face, forcing Stuart to keep his hands in front of his head to ward off those sledgehammer fists.

  After what must have felt like an eternity of pain, Stuart snatched a fleeting moment to collect his wits and steel himself against McTeague’s onslaught.

  Weathering the furious storm crashing again and again against his straining arms, Stuart found the opportunity to deliver a shot at McTeague’s side, driving a gloved fist deep under the short ribs. McTeague let out a heavy grunt, and Stuart slammed him in the same spot again and again, bracing himself against McTeague’s arms and denying him the room to swing back. Stuart put every ounce of strength he had behind the blows in the hopes of wearing his opponent down, of forcing him to protect a tender spot and spoil his guard.

  But unlike their previous fight, McTeague’s actions weren’t fueled by whiskey and rage. Enduring Stuart’s punishment with the stoicism of a bronze statue, he finally broke free of his opponent and launched his counter-offensive.

  McTeague attacked with precise calculation, each punch aimed like a shot from a sniper’s rifle, targeting any momentary weakness seen in Stuart’s guard. Little by little, keeping Stuart off-balance, McTeague blasted away, alternating between heavy body blows and head shots, deftly fending off Stuart’s desperate counter-punches and immediately following up with punches of his own before Suart’s guard was reset.

  Slowly, inevitably, Stuart’s defenses were knocked apart. He had trouble keeping his hands up, and every time he risked attacking, he never recovered fast enough to avoid paying dearly for the act. Stuart’s left glove dropped away from his face for a heartbeat, and it was all the time his opponent needed. McTeague’s right fist smashed Stuart in the mouth, sending a spray of blood into the air. The blow was followed by a left-hand cannon shell that split the skin under Start’s right eye. A second right caused blood to jet from his nose, and another left exploded on the point of his chin.

  Reeling from the assault, Stuart’s heel caught the edge of a floorboard and in an instant, he was sprawled on his back, head swimming from the pounding it’d taken. Looking up, he saw McTeague standing over him, fists raised and ready, his gaze steady and determined. There was no sign of the drunken animal he’d fought a month ago; before him was a fighter, a soldier, a man finally at peace with himself.

  The referee stepped forward and stood over Stuart, his hand lifted to begin the count, but Stuart raised his own gloved hand. The roar of the crowd diminished to an uncertain murmuring.

  “I yield,” he said.

  The referee, puzzled, looked down at Stuart. “You what?”

  Stuart looked up and met McTeague’s eye. The big Scotsman’s balance shifted back a bit, his fists lowered slightly, and he gave Stuart a small nod.

  “I accept,” McTeague said.

  As the spectators booed and shouted jeers and insults at the two fighters, the referee gave an indifferent shrug and raised McTeague’s gloved hand in victory for a moment before he let go and walked away, shaking his head.

  Stuart raised himself in a sitting position and looked up to see McTeague offering him a hand. With a grateful nod, Stuart took it, and McTeague helped him to his feet.

  “A good fight, if a wee bit shorter than I expected,” McTeague said, grinning.

  Stuart looked a bit sheepish as he dragged a forearm across his bloody lips. “Aye. It occurred to me the fight we’re looking for isn’t here – it’s with those bloody Hun bastards across the Channel. When I saw you weren’t the same man I brawled with a month ago, I guess the fight just left me.”

  The two men left the ring and went their separate ways, with a hearty handshake and the promise of a rematch – not with fists, but with pints at The Fighting Cock some night soon.

  As McTeague approached Grier, he saw the old sergeant conversing with a tall, balding officer in his early 30’s with the insignia of a lieutenant-colonel. The two men turned to look at him as McTeague stepped up and offered the officer a salute.

  “Sergeant Dougal McTeague, sir. Royal Scots.”

  The lieutenant-colonel returned the salute. “Sergeant, I’m Lieutenant-Colonel John Durnford-Slater. I was just speaking with Duncan here about my new command, and after seeing you fight tonight, I wonder if you might be interested in joining us.”

  McTeague looked taken aback. “Sir, I appreciate the consideration, but I’m happy where I am with the Royal Scots. The lads will have to face Jerry eventually, and when they do, they’re going to need me.”

  Durnford-Slater pursed his lips and nodded. “Sergeant, what if I told you my unit will be getting stuck in a great deal sooner than the Royal Scots, and the lads under my command are going to need men like you, sergeants who’ve seen combat, to take them against the enemy and bring them home alive?”

  McTeague opened his mouth, ready to decline the offer again, but he hesitated when Grier caught his eye. The old man shook his head slightly, then nodded towards Durnford-Slater, a small, sad smile upon his lips. McTeague glanced back towards Durnford-Slater, who gave him a patient, understanding look.

  “Well, Sergeant?” he asked.

  McTeague decided where his duty lay. “Lieutenant-Colonel, tell me more.”

  JACK BADELAIRE

  A techie, writer, blogger, and long-time fan of the action-adventure genre, Jack Badelaire received a degree (many years ago) in Film with a minor in Classical Studies. He currently works in Higher Education Technology. He is the author of three titles in his WWII action series, COMMANDO, the vigilante revenge thriller Killer Instincts, and other action-adventure fiction.

  www.postmodernpulp.com

  ROUND 7: KING CRUSH - AN IRISH JIMMY GALLAGHER STORY

  JAMES SCOTT BELL

  May the strength of three be in your journey. ~ Irish blessing

&nbs
p; We were a good hour from Los Angeles when I saw the Ferris wheel. A carnival! Now that was a nice little surprise for me and my gal, Ruby, and my bulldog, Steve. Steve loves strangers. He'll give 'em all the benefit of the doubt, until one crosses him. That's why I love Steve. He's just like me.

  We were rumbling along in my jalopy, top down in the warm afternoon. I was the happiest lad in the West. I had a cool hundred dollars in my pocket to spend on Ruby McGuire, the fairest flower in Los Angeles, and so's I could get a hot dog for Steve.

  Besides all that, I was glad it was 1955. The year before'd been hard on me and Steve. We'd each done our share of fighting. Me in the club smokers, and Steve with a couple of mutts who tried to take over Clay Street on Bunker Hill.

  But just as my heart was dancing and my lips about to sing, Ruby says to me, "Jimmy, could you give up the fight game for good?"

  I've said it before and I'll say it again. Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly, lawyers gotta flap their yaps and cops got to billy the bad guys. And Irish Jimmy Gallagher was born to fight. I can't remember a time when I didn't use my dukes in some form or fashion, and I always thought I could get a shot at some legitimate dough. But I was pushing thirty-five and that's a rough kind of age to be if you're a pugilist.

  Still and all, my fists have gotten me out of many a scrape and earned me some money. And one more thing—it's the pride of the Irish. I like to take down a challenger and be the last man standing. It's the thing I do best. I wanted to be a poet, but had no talent for it. I tried the sea for awhile, courtesy of the United States Navy, but I never took a shine to the waves like I did to hand-to-hand combat under Marquis of Queensbury Rules.

  So I cleared my throat and said, "Darlin', how about some fun at the carny?"

  "Now don't you be changing the subject, Jimmy. One of these days you're going to run into a younger man, a stronger man, and he's going to knock your Irish block off."

  "No man's been able to do that yet!"

  From the back seat Steve said, Boof, which I took to be a confirmation of my position.

  "There's a first time for everything," Ruby said.

  "Sure and don't I know it! I remember the first time I kissed you, Ruby McGuire."

  "Now don't go larding on the charm," she said.

  "Do you remember that first kiss the way I do?"

  I could tell she wasn't wanting to answer, and was fighting a smile. But the smile won. "It was on top of Angels Flight," she said.

  "Almost one year ago to the day," I said. "The night was clear and we could see all the way to the ocean, the moon sparkling on the waters. City Hall was lit up with colors. We'd just come up from a movie. You remember which one?"

  "You know I do. Seven Brides for Seven Brothers."

  "And you remember the song I sang to you?"

  "I'm sure I don't."

  "Oh yes, you do. Bless Your Beautiful Hide. You're the Gal for Me!"

  Steve said Boof.

  Ruby McGuire said, "Best keep your eyes on the road, you charmer. You're like to get us killed!"

  ***

  I pulled into the dirt lot with a lot of other cars. Music was playin' and kids and old folks and everyone in between was walking around. I put a leash on Steve and gave my arm to Ruby and off we went like a little family. I liked that a lot. Maybe I could get civilized after all.

  First stop, I got Ruby some cotton candy and a hot dog for Steve. Then we strolled by the games, the operators appealing to my manhood, telling me to, "show the little lady," what I was made of. You can only do that so much before Jimmy Gallagher takes it into his head to do just that.

  It was the milk bottle throw that done it. I paid the man a quarter for three throws. There was a stuffed giraffe hanging on the side, and that was what I wanted to win for my girl. She's goofy for animals, which is why she loves the zoo. And for some reason giraffes are her favorite. She says they remind her of her younger brother Marvin, who's a stevedore in Oakland.

  So, I took the baseballs from the operator and told Ruby to stand back so she wouldn't cramp my style.

  Now I done a little bit of pitching back in the sandlots of Boston, and my fastball was said to be next to none but Cy Young himself. The fact that it was said by me shouldn't matter all that much for the telling of this tale.

  Anyway, I wind up and throw the heater at the pyramid of bottles and wouldn't you know? It takes off the top one and leave the rest standin'.

  "Don't let that discourage you, young man," the operator said. "You've still got two more throws."

  "Just gettin' warmed up," says I.

  My next fastball hit nothing but breeze.

  I felt my cheeks heat up and snuck a look at Ruby. She was hiding a smile behind her hand, bless her. Not wantin' me to feel bad!

  That made me all the more determined. I set my aim on the bottom row, went into a windup and let fly. The ball hit the edge of the platform and bounced straight back to me. I caught it.

  "Sorry, son, that's all you get," the operator said. "Better luck next time."

  Ruby said, "There won't be a next time. Come on, Jimmy."

  "No!" I put down another quarter. "I ain't never quit on anything in my life, and I sure ain't gonna quit now."

  Steve said, Boof! Boof!

  The op gave me three more baseballs.

  My first throw knocked all but one down. All I had to do was hit the singleton and the stuffed giraffe would be Ruby's.

  But my second throw went wide by about an inch.

  I was down to my third once again.

  I put a little spit on my hands and rubbed 'em together. Then I picked up the ball and made like I was looking down at the catcher, with Babe Ruth at the plate, two outs in the ninth, and a full count with the bases loaded.

  I went into my windup and threw the heat. It dinged the top of the bottle, which started to wobble.

  It was the longest wobble I'd ever seen in my life, except for the time I clocked Hyrum Gibraltar Calhoun with a right cross in a three rounder in Amarillo.

  But whereas Calhoun went down, the bottle stayed up.

  "No matter!" the operator said. "Here's a nice Chinese finger trap for the little lady." And he handed me one of those colorful, woven cylinders meant for eight-year-olds.

  "Begorrah!" I says. "I'm not leavin' here without that giraffe. Give me another three balls!"

  Then Ruby puts her loving hand on my arm and says, "You don't have to, Jimmy."

  "Let the fellow behind you have a turn, mister," the operator said. "You can always come back."

  There was a skinny fella behind me, with his own girl on his arm. He looked like a pencil. He had on a coat and tie and the tie about hid him. His fedora was too big for his head.

  He smiled at me and stepped up and put down a quarter. I was gonna enjoy this. I wondered if he'd even be able to reach the bottles with a ball, let alone knock 'em down.

  His first pitch brought the whole thing crashing to the platform.

  The skinny guy put his shoulders back and his girl squealed.

  "You can bet your bottom dollar I'll be back!" I shouted to the man behind the counter. Then I took Ruby's arm and Steve's leash and we went walking down the midway.

  That's when I saw the ring. It was elevated, with ropes and canvas. And there was a small crowd milling about. I said to Ruby, “Looks like they got a carny pug.”

  "A what?"

  "An all-comers J-man," I say quickly, then, "Sorry darlin'. A journeyman fighter who takes on all comers. You pay a fiver and of you can stay with him and keep your feet you get the fiver back, plus some. If you knock him down, some more. If you knock him out, you can make big money, maybe fifty or a hundred smackers. Hayseeds off the farm who fancy themselves big and strong and who can out-wrassle their hayseed brothers, think they can win."

  "Can't they?"

  "Nah, these carny scraps know all the tricks, like scraping their laces over your eyes or getting' in low blows up close. The carnivals wouldn't be putting these guys up there
if they thought they'd lose."

  I did one season with a carnival back in '51, and earned some decent dough. I also knocked out many a hayseed. But that kind of life wears on you and I got out before I got punchy.

  Still, here was a ring, and here was I, and another fifty bucks wouldn't besmirch my station in life now, would it?

  Ruby looked at me like she knew exactly what was going on in that soggy noodle of mine. “Oh no you don't,” she said.

  “Well, it can't harm anything to go look, now can it?” I looked at Steve. “Steve, it can't do any harm, can it?”

  Boof.

  “There, you see?” I said.

  “You will not fight. Promise me that.”

  “I—”

  “Promise me, Jimmy.”

  “You are like a winter storm in County Kildare, Ruby.”

  “You haven't seen my winter storm yet,” she said. “And you don't want to.”

  I kissed her on the cheek. Then we walked toward the ring and got there just as the barker began his spiel. He wore a straw hat and bow tie and had a piggy-type face with beads of sweat all over it.

  “Gentlemen, step right up for your chance at glory. Which one of you strong, healthy sons of guns will climb into the ring with a chance to pick up half a C-note? That's fifty American dollars, my friends, in Uncle Sam's own currency. All you have to do is go two rounds with our champeen. Five'll bring you ten. If you knock him down, a double sawbuck will be added to the kitty. And if, my friends, you put the champ out for a count of ten, you will walk away fifty dollars richer. Who is man enough to try? Surely in this crowd we have someone who thinks he can lace up the gloves and prove his mettle!”

  My body was vibrating like a blind dog's tail in a meat market. Mettle! For fifty dollars all I had to do was land my right, which I had done so many times before. Ruby had my arm and felt me shaking. She whacked me on the shoulder. My girl has a good right hand of her own. I took a deep breath and calmed myself.

  I tried to get a look at the carnival champeen. He was sitting in one corner with a black robe on, slightly hunched over so's the hood of the robe hid his face.