“Before you do,” I said, “drink to the boy who stands for everything them aforesaid ships and sailors stands for — Mike of Dublin, an honest gentleman and born mascot of all fightin’ men!”
* * *
SAILOR’S GRUDGE; OR, COSTIGAN VS. KID CAMERA
First published in Fight Stories, March 1930. Also published as “Costigan vs. Kid Camera”
I COME ashore at Los Angeles for peace and quiet. Being heavyweight champion of the Sea Girl, whose captain boasts that he ships the toughest crews on the seven seas, ain’t no joke. When we docked, I went ashore with the avowed intention of spending a couple of days in ease. I even went to the extent of leaving my white bulldog, Mike, on board. Not that I was intending to do Mike out of his shore leave, but we was to be docked a week at least, and I wanted a couple of days by myself to kinda soothe my nerves. Mike is always trying to remove somebody’s leg, and then I have to either pay for the pants or lick the owner of the leg.
So I went ashore alone and drifted into the resident section along the beach. You know, where all them little summer cottages is that is occupied by nice people of modest means and habits.
I wandered up and down the beach watching the kids play in the sand and the girls sunning themselves, which many of them was knockouts, and I soon found I had got into a kind of secluded district where my kind seldom comes. I was dressed in good unassuming clothes, howthesomever, and could not understand the peculiar looks handed my way by the cottage owners.
It was with a start I heard someone say: “Oooh, sailor, yoo-hoo!”
I turned with some irritation. I am not ashamed of my profession, far from it, but I am unable to see why I am always spotted as a seaman even when I am not in my work clothes. But my irritation was removed instantly. A most beautiful little blonde flapper was coyly beckoning me and I lost no time starting in her direction. She was standing by a boat, holding a foolish little parasol over her curly head.
“Mr. Sailor, won’t you row for me, please?” she cooed, letting her big baby blue eyes drift over my manly form. “I just adore sailors!”
“Miss,” I said politely, rather dizzy from the look she gave me, “I will row you to Panama and back if you say the word!”
And with that I helped her in the boat and got in. That’s me, always the perfect cavalier — I have lived a rough life but I always found time to notice the higher and softer things, such as courtesy and etiquette.
Well, we rowed all over the bay — leastways, I rowed, while she laid back under her little pink parasol and eyed me admiringly from under her long silky eyelashes.
We talked about such things as how hot the weather was this time of the year, and how nasty cold weather was when it was cold, and she asked me what ship I was on, and I told her and also told her my name was Steve Costigan, which was the truth; and she said her name was Marjory Harper, and she got me to tell her about my voyages and the like, like girls will. So I told her a lot of stories, most of which I got out of Mushy Hansen’s dime novel library.
Being gifted with consideration, I did not tell her that I was a fighting man, well known in all ports as a tough man with the gloves, and the terror of all first mates and buckos afloat, because I could see she was a nice kid of genteel folks, and did not know nothing much about the world at large, though she was a good deal of a little flirt.
When we parted that afternoon I’ll admit I had fell for her strong. She promised to meet me at the same place next day and I wended my way back to my hotel, whistling merrily.
The next morning found me back on the beach though I knowed I wouldn’t see Marjory till afternoon. I was strolling by a shaded nook, where couples often go in to spoon, when I heard voices raised in dispute. I’m no eavesdropper, but I couldn’t help but hear what was said — by the man, at least, because he had a strong voice and was using it. Some kid getting called down by her steady, I thought.
“ — I told you to keep away from sailors, you little flirt!” he was saying angrily. “They’re not your kind. Never mind how I know you were with some seagoing dub yesterday! That’s all! Don’t you talk back to me either. If I catch you with him, I’ll spank you good. You’re going home and stay there.”
This was rather strong I ruminated, and took a dislike right away to this fellow because I despise to hear a man talking rough to a woman. But the next minute I was almost struck dead with surprise and rage. A girl and a man came out of the nook on the other side. Their backs were toward me, but I got a good look at the man’s face when he turned his head for a minute, and I saw he was a big handsome young fellow, with a shock of curly golden hair — and the girl was Marjory Harper!
For an instant I stood rooted to the ground, as it were. The big ham! Forbidding a girl to go with me! Abusing sailors! Calling me a dub when he didn’t even know me! I was also amazed and enraged at Marjory’s actions; she comes along with him as meek as a child and didn’t even talk back. Before I could get my scattered wits together, they got into a car and drove off.
Talk about seeing red! And I knowed from this young upstart’s build and walk that he was a sailor, too. The hypocrite!
Well, promptly at the appointed time, I was at the place I’d met Marjory the day before, and I didn’t much expect her to show up. But she did, looking rather downcast. Even her little parasol drooped.
“I just came to tell you,” she said rather nervously, “that I couldn’t go rowing today. I must go back home at once.”
“I thought you told me you wasn’t married,” I said bitterly.
She looked rather startled. “I’m not!” she exclaims.
“Well,” I said, “I might’s well tell you: I heard you get bawled out this mornin’ for bein’ with me. And I don’t understand how come you took it.”
“You don’t know Bert,” she sighed. “He’s a perfect tyrant and treats me like a child.” She clenched her little fists angrily and tears come into her eyes. “He’s a big bully! If I was a man, I’d knock his block off!”
“Where is this Bert now?” I asked with the old sinister calm.
“Over in Hollywood, somewhere,” she answered. “I think he’s got a small part in a movie. But I can’t stay. I musn’t let Bert know I’ve been out to see you.”
“Well, ain’t I ever goin’ to see you again?” I asked plaintively.
“Oh, goodness, no!” she shivered, dabbing her eyes. “I wouldn’t dare! It makes Bert furious for me to even look at a sailor.”
I ground my teeth gently. “Ain’t this boob a sailor hisself?” I asked mildly.
“Who? Bert? Yes, but he says as a rule they’re no good for a nice girl to go with.”
I restrained an impulse to howl and bite holes in the beach, and said with an effort at calmness: “Well, I’m goin’ now. But remember, I’m comin’ back to you.”
“Oh, please don’t!” she begged. “I’m terribly sorry, but if Bert catches us together, we’ll both suffer.”
Being unable to stand any more, I bowed politely and left for Hollywood at full speed. For a girl who seemed to have so much spunk, Bert sure had Marjory buffaloed. What kinda hold did he have over her, so he could talk to her like that? Why didn’t she give him the gate? She couldn’t love a ham like that, not with men like me around, and, anyway, if she’d loved him so much, she wouldn’t have flirted with me.
I decided it must be something like I seen once in a movie called “The Curse of Rum,” where the villain had so much on the heroine’s old man that the heroine had to put up with his orneryness till the hero comes along and bumped him. I decided that Bert must have something on Marjory’s old man, and was on the point of going back to ask her what it was, when I decided I’d make Bert tell me hisself.
Well, I arrove in Hollywood and like a chump, started wandering around vaguely in the bare hopes I would run onto this Bert fellow. All to once I thought luck was with me. In a cafe three or four men was sitting talking earnestly and there was Bert! He was slicked up considerably, better dressed
and even more handsome than ever. But I recognized that curly gold hair of his.
The next minute I was at the table and had hauled him out of the seat.
“Order my girl around, will ya?” I bellowed, aiming a terrible right at his jaw. He ducked and avoided complete annihilation by a inch, then to my utmost amazement he dived under the table, yelling for help. The next minute all the waiters in the world was on top of me but I flung ’em aside like chaff and yelled: “Come out from under that table, Bert, you big yellow-headed stiff! I’ll show you — !”
“Bert — nothin’,” howled a little short fat fellow hanging onto my right, “that’s Reginald Van Veer, the famous movie star!”
At this startling bit of information I halted in amazement, and the aforesaid star sticking his frightened face out from under the table, I seen I had made a mistake. The resemblance between him and Bert was remarkable, but they wasn’t the same man.
“My mistake,” I growled. “Sorry to intrude on yuh.” And so saying, I throwed one waiter under the table and another into the corner and stalked out in silent majesty. Outside I ducked into a alley and beat it down a side street because I didn’t know but what they’d have the cops on my neck.
Well, the street lights was burning when I decided to give it up. About this time who should I bump into but Tommy Marks, a kid I used to know in ‘Frisco, and we had a reunion over a plate of corned beef and a stein of near beer. Tommy was sporting a small mustache and puttees and he told me that he was a assistant director, yes man, or something in the Tremendous Arts Movie Corporation, Inc.
“And boy,” he splurged, “we are filming a peach, a pip and a wow! Is it a knockout? Oh, baby! A prize-fight picture entitled ‘The Honor of the Champion,’ starring Reginald Van Veer, with Honey Precious for the herowine. Boy, will it pack the theayters!”
“Baloney!” I sniffed. “You mean to tell me that wax-haired Van Veer will stand up and be pasted for art’s sake?”
“Well, to tell you the truth.” admitted Tommy, “he wouldn’t; anyway, the company couldn’t take a chance on a right hook ruinin’ his profile. By sheer luck and wonderful chance, we found a fellow which looks enough like Reggie to be his twin brother. He’s a tough sailor and a real fightin’ man and we use him in the fights. For close-ups we use Reggie, made up to look sweaty and bloody, in a clinch with the other dub, y’see. We’ll work the close-ups in between the long shots and nobody’ll be able to tell the difference.”
“Who’s this double?” I asked, smit by a sudden thought.
“I dunno. I picked him up over in Los Angeles. His first name is—”
“Bert!” I yelped.
Tommy looked kinda surprised. “Yeah, it is, come to think of it.”
“Ayargh!” I gnashed my teeth. “I’ll be around on the lot tomorrer. I got a few words to say to this here Bert.”
“Hey!” hollered Tommy, knowing something of my disposition. “You lay off him till this picture is finished! For cat’s sake! Tomorrow we shoot the big fight scene. The climax of the picture, see? We got a real fighter for Reggie’s opponent — Terry O’Rourke from Seattle and we’re payin’ him plenty. If you spoil Reggie’s double, we’ll be out of luck!”
“Well,” I snarled, “I’ll be on the lot the first thing in the mornin’, see? I don’t reckon they’ll let me in, but I’ll be waitin’ for Bert when he comes out.”
The next morning found me at the Tremendous Arts studio before it was open. Yet, early as it was, I found a group of tough looking gents collected outside the casting office. They was four of them and one I recognized as Spike Monahan, A.B. mariner on the Hornswoggle,merchant ship, and as tough a nut as ever walked a deck.
“How come the thug convention, Spike?” I asked.
“Ain’tcha heard?” he responded. “Last night Terry O’Rourke broke his wrist swingin’ at a bouncer in a night club and we’re here to cop his job. Not that I care for the money so much,” he ruminated, “but I want the job uh mussin’ up Reggie Van Veer’s beautiful countenance.”
“Well, you’re outa luck,” I said, “because they’re usin’ a double.”
“No matter,” said all the tough birds, “we craves to bust into the movies.”
“Boys,” said I, taking off my coat, “consider the matter as closed. I’ve decided to take the job.”
“Steve,” said Spike, spitting in his hands, “I have nothin’ agin’ you. But it is my duty to the nation to put my map on the silver screen and rest the eyes of them fans which is tired of lookin’ at varnished mugs like Reggie Van Veer’s, and craves to gaze upon real he-men. Don’t take this personal-like, Steve.”
So saying, he shot over a right hook at my chin. I ducked and dropped him with an uppercut, blocked a swing from another thug and dropped him across Spike with a left hook to the stummick.
I then turned on the other two who was making war-like gestures, stopped a fist with my eye and crashed the owner of the fist with a left hook to the button.
The fourth man now raised a large lump on my head with a glancing blow of a blackjack, and slightly irritated, I flattened his nose with a straight left, jarred loose a couple of ribs with a right, and bringing the same hand up to his jaw, laid him stiff as a wedge.
Spike was now arising and noting the annoyance in his eye and the brass knuckles on his left hand, I did not wait for him to regain his feet but dropped my right behind his ear while he was still in a stooping position. Spike curled up with a cherubic smile on his frightful countenance.
I then threw my coat over my arm and went up to the door of the casting office and about this time it was opened by a small man in spectacles.
“Who are you?” he asked with some surprise, his gaze fixed on my fast blackening eye.
“I’m your new boxer,” I answered gently, “takin’ the place of Terry O’Rourke.”
He looked puzzled.
“I know we sent the word out rather late last night,” said he, “but I rather expected several men to be here, from which we could choose.”
“They was four other fellers,” I answered, “but they decided they wouldn’t wait.”
He looked past me to where the four galoots was weaving uncertainly off the lot, and he looked back at me and shuddered slightly.
“Come around next month,” said he. “We’re shooting a jungle picture then.”
I didn’t get him, but I said: “Well, you ain’t tryin’ to tell me I don’t get this job, are you?”
“Oh, no,” he said hastily. “Oh heavens, no! Come right in!”
I followed him and after winding in and out among a lot of rooms and things I didn’t know the use or meaning of, we come into a place which was fixed up like a big stadium, seats, ring and everything. It was still very early, but already swarms of extras was coming in and being arranged in the seats.
The head director come bustling up and looked me over. He acted like he was about half cuckoo and I don’t wonder, what with all the noise and the confusion and fellows running up every second to ask him about lights, or sets or costumes or something.
“What’s your name?” he snapped. “You look like a fighter. Where’re you from?”
“Steve Costi—” I began.
“All right — listen to me. You’re Battling O’Hanlon, champion of the British Isles, see? Reggie Van Veer is the champion of America and you’re fighting for the title of the world, see? Of course we have a double for Reggie. After we shoot the fight, we’ll take some close-ups of you and Reggie in the clinches and run them in at the proper places. Tommy, take this man to the dressing room and fix him up.”
Tommy Marks come up on the run and when he seen me, he stopped short and turned pale. He motioned me to follow him, but when I started to speak to him he hissed: “Shut up! I don’t know you! I can see where you crumb the deal some way and if it looks like we’re friends, I’ll lose my job! They’ll think I put you up to it!”
Seeing his point, I said nothing and he led me into a dressing room, wh
ere I allowed him to smear some kind of goo on my face and touch up my eye brows. I couldn’t see that it improved my looks any, but Tommy said it didn’t do them any damage because nothing could. I put on the swellest pair of trunks I ever wore and Tommy knotted a British flag about my waist which struck me funny because while I’d often fought men wearing that flag, naturally I’d never thought I’d ever wear it myself. I tried to make him put the flag of the Irish Free State on me instead, but he said they didn’t have one. He then give me a fine silk bath robe to put on and so accoutered I sallied forth.
I heard a wild roar as I opened the dressing room door and peeking carefully forth, I saw Reggie Van Veer striding majestically down the aisle, dressed even sweller than I was. Two cameras was grinding away and the director was howling his lungs out, and the crowd of extras in the seats was jumping and whooping just like a fight crowd does when the favorite comes down the aisle.
He clumb into the ring with a swarm of seconds and handlers, and then Tommy told me to go into the ring. I come swaggering down the other aisle with a bigger gang than his behind me, carrying enough towels and buckets to fit out a army. I was astonished at the pains the movie people had took to make things realistic. I don’t know how many extras was being used, but I saw right off that I’d never fought before a bigger crowd even in the real game itself.
I climbed through the ropes, following the instructions which the director yelled at me. I was kind of surprised. I’d always thought they was a lot of rehearsing to do. The referee called us to the center of the ring and they took a close-up of Reggie shaking hands with me, then the cameras quit grinding and Reggie skipped out of the ring, and in come — Bert! He was dressed just like Reggie had been and I was again struck by their strange resemblance.
“Now, then,” bellowed the director, “this is going to be one picture that’s going to look real! That’s why I haven’t rehearsed you boys. Go in and fight like you want to, so long as it’s a fight! We got the ring well covered and can take you at any angle, so don’t worry about getting out of range. This is going to be something new in pictures!
Delphi Works of Robert E. Howard (Illustrated) (Series Four) Page 164
