Fight Card Presents: Iron Head & Other Stories

by Jack Tunney

  “Bloody well right, I want to continue,” he said as he stepped out from the corner.

  The third round was over in a flash. O'Connor was angry and came out like a bull. Danny was forced back into his corner, and O'Connor unleashed a series of wild rough and ready punches. Danny didn't have time to register where they where coming from – left, right, left, straight, upstairs and downstairs. A brutal uppercut caught him in the stomach, and he collapsed to the canvas. The crowd cheered noisily for O'Connor.

  Danny got up quickly, sucking in lungfuls of air, stunned by the ferocity of O'Connor's assault.

  “You okay, Danny?” O'Hare asked.

  “Yeah. A lucky punch was all. I am good.”

  O'Hare turned and signaled O'Connor. “Fight!”

  Both fighters moved quickly to the center of the ring, and the assault began all over again.

  * * * * *

  To begin the sixth round, both fighters came out warily. From the crowd, Farrell watched on in nervous anticipation. O'Connor was the first to make a move. He lunged to the right, and when Danny went to follow him, he stopped and threw a crisp straight right. Danny was caught in no man's land, and the punch caught him smack on the jaw. Danny reeled back, stunned.

  Farrell was angered and cursed to himself. This was the round O'Connor was supposed to go down, and stay down.

  Slowly, Danny got his wits about him, and advanced on O'Connor. He pumped out two quick left hand jabs, and followed it up with a hard straight right. Then, while O'Connor was still recovering, Danny threw a wild uppercut into O'Connor's stomach. It took the wind out of the big man's sails. O'Connor slumped over, sucking air hard.

  Danny did not let up. O'Connor was set to go down, and Danny wanted to make it look good. He kept punching. Blow after blow thundered down. O'Connor raised his arms and gloves in a futile attempt at defense. Danny swatted away his left-hand, and threw a crushing right, which rattled O'Connor's jaw. But still, he didn't go down.

  Farrell wondered what he was waiting for. That was the perfect punch to fall on. Nobody would have suspected the fix was in.

  But yet, O'Connor stood.

  Danny did not ease up. He unleashed another savage battery of blows. O'Connor tried to fend them off, but each blow took its toll. The big man was swaying like a sapling in a gale. A solid left hook from Danny caught O'Connor above the eye, breaking the skin. Blood ran freely from the wound, rolling down into O'Connor's eye. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision.

  Partially blinded, he couldn't defend himself against Danny's ferocity. The young Irishman peeled off three uppercuts that all found their target – O'Connor's chin. The effect was devastating. The older fighter rocked on the balls of his feet. He was out of it, barely able to hold his head up.

  From the sideline, Farrell was willing him to fall.

  “What's holding this guy up?” he muttered.

  Danny was about to throw a left hook to finish O'Connor off, once and for all, but held off. O'Connor lurched drunkenly, his legs shaking. The look in his eyes was vacant, and his bottom lip hung slack. He didn't know where he was.

  Danny knew O'Connor was about to fall, and lowered his balled fists. But the fight was not over. O'Connor, had other ideas. Summoning his last ounce of strength, he set his feet and with one last effort, threw a wild right slashing haymaker. And to everyone's amazement it connected.

  It caught Danny right on the point of the jaw, throwing the young Irishman's head back. O'Connor staggered forward, but still managed to stay on his rubbery feet. However, Danny was thrown backwards. His knees buckled and he collapsed to the canvas.

  The crowd went wild. That is, all except Trooper Farrell who was livid with rage. His eyes scanned the crowd searching for the treacherous Liam Clancy.

  In the middle of the ring, referee O'Hare approached Danny, concerned that he hadn't moved since he fell.

  “Are you all right Danny?” he asked.

  He got no response. He knelt down and slapped Danny's cheeks sharply.

  “Danny? Danny, are you okay?” he repeated.

  Still no response.

  O'Connor had retreated to one corner and was resting with his arms over the top ropes, with one eye swollen shut. But his moment to bask in the glory of his victory was short lived. As Danny had still failed to move, the cheers from the crowd turned into sullen murmurs.

  A gentleman from ringside hauled himself into the ring.

  “Stand aside, I am a doctor,” he said as he knelt down beside Danny.

  The man's name was Rory Dwyer, and although not highly regarded, he was the only medical practitioner in the area. He picked up Danny's wrist to take his pulse. As he did, Danny began to convulse. His body shuddered.

  “Hold him down,” Dwyer yelled, clearly panicked.

  O'Hare grabbed Danny's legs, while Dwyer pressed down on his shoulders. The convulsions stopped. But then, a geyser of blood erupted from Danny's mouth. Dwyer, who was leaning over Danny at the time, was covered in the bloody spray.

  Then it was over. Danny lay still.

  Dwyer reached over, and lowered the lids of Danny's eyes.

  “I'm sorry, but this man is dead,” he said solemnly.

  The crowd fell silent. Some men even took off their hats out of respect. Even those who had bet on O'Connor were not pleased to be a part of this. Nobody wanted to see a man die in the ring.

  Liam Clancy fell to his knees, and began pounding the ground with his fists. His brother had just died in the ring. If that wasn't devastating enough, he also had to face the wrath of Farrell on his own.

  * * * * *

  To say Farrell was angry was an understatement. As the crowd began to break up, he pushed his way towards Liam Clancy. The Irishman had not moved, and was still on his knees staring blankly at the ring. His eyes were red, and tears ran down his cheeks. However Liam's loss was of little concern to Farrell. His concern was the four-hundred and sixty pounds he had been cheated of. He grabbed Liam by the collar, and roughly hauled the trembling Irishman to his feet.

  “I told you what would happen,” Farrell roared, his face flushed bright red.

  “It wasn't our fault,” Liam protested feebly.

  “But you're the one I gave the money to, and you're the one I'm holding responsible.”

  “No, no, no,” Liam murmured repeatedly, shaking his head.

  In disgust, Farrell released his hold on the Irishman, dropping him back to the ground. Liam tried to stand, but legs couldn't hold him. Climbing to his knees, he looked up at Farrell pleading for mercy. None was forthcoming. Farrell pulled his cap and ball pistol and cocked it.

  “You were warned,” he said as he took aim.

  “Hold it there, Farrell,” a voice boomed from behind.

  Farrell turned to look. Superintendent Lanfield and eight troopers bounded from the scrub. Three troopers brought their rifles to bear, holding Farrell in their sights.

  “Lower the pistol,” Lanfield ordered.

  Farrell did, but his attention was on the miners from the crowd. They were making a break for it, and the troopers were letting them pass. It appeared he was the only one Lanfield was interested in apprehending.

  “I am arresting you as an accessory to the murder of Daniel Clancy,” Lanfield announced as he moved closer.

  Then it occurred to Farrell exactly what was going on. For months, Lanfield had been after an excuse to kick him off the force. Now he had one. It didn't matter he was not responsible. Only he had been caught.

  Anger, hatred and betrayal seared through his body. They were not going to get him this way. He clenched his teeth and steeled himself for action.

  Quick as a flash, he bent down and hauled Liam Clancy to his feet once more, He placed the barrel of his pistol at the base of Liam's skull.

  “No you hold it, Lanfield,” Farrell growled. “I know you're out to get me, but I am not going to be a part of your kangaroo court. I am getting out of here, and if any of you try to stop me, I will put a hole in Cla
ncy's head. Do we understand each other?”

  Lanfield, raised his hand, and held his men back.

  “Don't be a fool, Farrell. There's no way out.”

  “We'll see about that.”

  Farrell started to back up, using Liam as a human shield. Dragging the terrified Irishman by the collar, he moved towards the gully.

  “Stop there,” Lanfield ordered.

  Farrell kept moving backwards.

  “Stop or I'll fire,” Lanfield warned once again.

  Farrell was almost to the lip of the gully. Lanfield raised his pistol, aiming carefully at Farrell whose head, bobbed in and out with each step. Lanfield was an excellent marksman, and knew he could make the shot. Farrell bobbed into view once more, and Lanfield fired. But his aim was off. Liam Clancy went slack in Farrell's arms.

  With about two yards to go, Farrell shunted Liam's dead weight forward and threw himself down into the steep ravine. Then he made a break for freedom. The troopers, to the last man, rushed forward to the lip of the gully and opened fire at Farrell, who dodged and weaved through a knotted system of tree roots. The ground exploded as musket balls chased him along the way. The sound of gunfire was deafening, and a pall of smoke and the smell of gunpowder filled the air. However, the troopers had not hit their target. By the time they reloaded, Farrell was out of range.

  “After him,” Lanfield ordered, but the flat footed troopers had given away too much of a lead. Even if they had horses, they would not have been able to follow Farrell through the gnarled twisted gully. The only way was on foot.

  The troopers returned fifteen minutes later, embarrassed and defeated. Farrell had slipped away.

  DAY SEVEN

  The Galway Order of the Loyal Sons of Erin gathered in an upstairs room of the Star of Erin Hotel. The room was thick with cigar smoke, and liquor ran freely. Colin Fitzpatrick opened a small cash box to a chorus of cheers from the men surrounding him. He took out several wads of notes and began handing them to the men around the room.

  “You've all performed a miracle,” Fitzpatrick said proudly as he handed over fifty pound to 'Wild' Joe Flynn. “I would not have believed it, if I hadn't seen it with me own two eyes. A bloody miracle.”

  At that moment, there was a knock on the door.

  “Can you get that, Kip?” Fitzpatrick said.

  Kip O'Connor looked more than a little worse for wear after the previous days fight. His face was swollen, and his knuckles were bruised, but yet, he had a large smile on his face. He moved to the door and opened it. Standing in the hall was Superintendent Lanfield.

  “Good evening, gentleman,” he said. “Do you mind if I join you?”

  “Not at all,” Fitzpatrick answered with a wave of his hand. “Come on in.”

  Lanfield entered the room, and moved through the crowd. He made his way to one man who was sitting in an armchair at the back of the room, bathed into shadow.

  “That was some acting there, Mr. Clancy. If I didn't know better, I would have believed I shot you myself,” Lanfield said.

  Liam Clancy shifted forward in his seat, moving into the light.

  “I am just glad there were blanks in that gun,” Liam said, with a smile.

  Fitzpatrick approached both men. Leaning over, he handled over a wad of pound notes to Liam.

  “That should pay for your mining license,” Fitzpatrick said with a grin.

  The room burst into laughter at the joke.

  “And you, my boy, should be some kinda actor on the stage or something,” Fitzpatrick said as he handed over a roll of notes to the still very much alive Danny Clancy, who was seated beside Liam. “I thought you were dead for real.”

  “I don't understand why I had to die?” Danny asked. The young Irishman had played his part, but he never did truly understand the 'whys' and 'wherefores'.

  “That is simple my boy,” Fitzpatrick answered. “When you take money from a man like Farrell, he is going to want it back and come looking for it. That is, if the people who took it from him are still alive. But if they're dead, what can he do? And as far as he is concerned, you boys are dead, and his money is gone.”

  “He also knows every trooper in the district will be after him,” Lanfield added. “Most likely he'll head north or flee the country. Most likely to New Zealand. He won't be troubling us around here anymore.”

  The plan the Loyal Sons of Erin put into operation had been simple – remove Farrell from the goldfields, and at the same time, reclaim some of of his ill-gotten gain. However planning and carrying out the scheme was substantially more difficult with eight people in on the con. Fitzpatrick was the brains behind it, and his team consisted of Liam and Danny Clancy, Rory Dwyer – the doctor, Kip O'Connor, O'Hare – the referee, and even 'Wild' Joe Flynn and the barman who had fed Farrell the story about the Clancy brothers at the beginning. However, the scheme came together when Superintendent Lanfield agreed to assist.

  Lanfield, like the others, was a Loyal Son of Erin from Galway, and had known Fitzpatrick most of his life. Furthermore, when he had found out the mark was Farrell, he knew he could kill two birds with one stone. He could help the miners, and he could rid the police force of one of its more disgraceful characters. It was a win, win situation all around.

  Everything that had occurred, short of the punches thrown during the fight, had been a setup. 'Wild' Joe Flynn and the barman had set the bait, and Farrell swallowed it hook, line and sinker, seeking out the Clancy brothers on the very next morning. The rest had been a matter of telling Farrell what he wanted to hear. O'Connor had convinced him the fix was in, and Fitzpatrick himself, had sold himself as the dupe.

  Fitzpatrick knew Farrell wouldn't trust the Clancy boys, and would eavesdrop at the hotel, and kept in character all the time. During the fight, Fitzpatrick had made the offer to double the bet, only when Farrell was within hearing range.

  The fight itself had been a master work. Not only did Danny and O'Connor put on a great show, but when Danny fell and played dead, Rory Dwyer is the guise of aiding the stricken fighter, discreetly placed a small bladder of pigs blood in his mouth. Moments later, Danny bit into it, and spat the blood out. It looked gruesome and realistic. Not one spectator at the fight would have doubted Dwyer's word. Danny looked dead to all the world. It had been a masterful ruse.

  The only moment that didn't go according to plan, was when Farrell had grabbed Liam and held him hostage. One false move and Liam would have been dead. The plan had been that Liam would be shot – with blanks – as he tried to flee the scene. As it went, it was lucky that Farrell had no time to check Liam's pulse, or search for a non-existent bullet wound.

  Fitzpatrick finished paying off the members of his team, and then picked up a glass of sherry from the table.

  “Gentlemen, I want to propose a toast. To the Clancy brothers. Two brave men who gave their lives so we might live a better one.” The room erupted into laughter once more. “No seriously, to Danny and Liam, the boys that bushwhacked Gladstone Farrell.”

  Everybody charged their glasses.

  “To Danny and Liam!” they cheered.

  JAMES HOPWOOD

  Australian author David James Foster writes under the pen name James Hopwood. He has contributed to Crime Factory Magazine (Vol. 10), Matt Hilton’s Action: Pulse Pound Tales. As Jack Tunney he has written the Fight Card novels King Of The Outback and Rumble In The Jungle. As James Hopwood, he writes the Jarvis Love spy thrillers starting with The Librio Defection.

  It has been surmised David was raised by wild razorbacks in the dusty outback. While still a tot, he was rescued by a nomadic tribe and went to live with them at an oil refinery. There he also learned to use a boomerang with lethal efficiency. He now lives in Melbourne, Australia, which has a population of 3.74 million people of which David is now considered the city’s 3,729,845th most dangerous man.

  http://permissiontokill.com

  ROUND 9: PUNCHER’S CHANCE

  BOWIE V. IBARRA

  My brother’s
an idiot.

  I love him, but he’s an idiot.

  Now, I’m not talking about him being stupid. He’s not stupid. Rafael’s amazing with numbers and has this almost savant-like talent to give you the exact time some event occurred, or the length of a movie. Like, he can tell you down to the second, or pretty close, really, the hours, minutes, and seconds a movie lasted after the credits roll. How useful that is in real life, I couldn’t tell you. But he can do it.

  Look, what I’m trying to say here is, he’s not an idiot, necessarily. He just makes bad choices.

  That’s why when he came to me on the worst of the worst of days (I’d just lost my job and had rent to pay) to tell me he was in trouble, I knew his problems had nothing to do with numbers, but he was in a bind for being an idiot.

  Wait. Scratch that. Not for being an idiot, but for making bad choices.

  And here I was, trying to ease the pain of my day with a few brews at The Montana Bar in San Uvalde when he rolls in.

  “Raymond, I, uh, I need to talk to you,” he said to me, looking like someone had just walked over his grave.

  Unfortunately, that impression was completely and totally correct. I knew something was up by the way he shook my hand. We always gave a jovial hand slap/grasp kind of thing before we embraced each other like brothers do. This time he just shook my hand and hugged me, not letting me go for a while. It was his scared hug. He didn’t do that very often, but I could tell when he did it things were not right.

  “No, Hey, Ray. What’s up? How was work?” I asked.

  “Man, look. I’m in trouble. I’m in big trouble.”

  “What are you talking about, Rafael?” I asked, looking at him. He was shaking like a little Chihuahua that had pissed itself after being yelled at. I thought for a minute he actually had.

  “I need you to come outside with me,” he said, indicating the exit to the dingy bar.

  “Cops?” I asked.

  “Worse,” he said.

  I chugged the rest of my beer and placed a fiver on the bar to pay for my brew and leave a little tip before following him to the door. “Como que worse?” I asked.