YOU GET THAT way sometimes when you’re in shape, and you know you’re winning. You can’t wait for the bell, you’ve got to get up and keep moving your feet, smacking the ends of your gloves together. All you want is to get out there and start throwing leather.
Paddy Brennan knew he was hot. He was going to win. It felt good to weigh a couple of pounds under two hundred, and be plenty quick. It felt good to be laying them in there hard and fast, packed with the old dynamite that made the tough boys like Moxie Bristow back up and look him over.
Moxie was over there in the corner now, stretched out and soaking up the minute between rounds as if it were his last chance to lie in the warm sunlight. You wouldn’t think to look at him that Moxie had gone the distance three times with the champ when the champ was good. You wouldn’t think that Moxie had a win over Deacon Johnson, the big black boy from Mississippi who was mowing them down.
You wouldn’t think so now, because Moxie Bristow was stretched out on his stool and breathing deep. But he knew that all his breathing wasn’t going to fix that bad eye or take the puff out of those lips.
Paddy was right. He was going good tonight. He was going good every night. He was young, and he liked to fight, and he was on the way up. He liked the rough going, too. He didn’t mind if he caught a few, because he didn’t take many. He liked to see Caproni down there in the ringside seats with Bickerstaff. They handled Tony Ketchell, who was the number-one heavyweight now. And in the articles for tonight’s fight, there was a clause that said he was to fight Ketchell on the twenty-seventh of next month if he got by Bristow.
The bell clanged, and Paddy went out fast. When he jabbed that left, it didn’t miss. It didn’t miss the second or the third time, and then he turned Bristow with a left and hit him on the chin with a chopping right. It made Moxie’s knees buckle, but Paddy Brennan didn’t pay any attention to that. Their legs always went rubbery when he socked them with that inside right cross.
Moxie dropped into a crouch and bored in, weaving and bobbing. The old boy had it, Paddy thought. He could soak them up, but he was smart, too. He knew when to ride them and when to go under and when to go inside.
Paddy had a flat nose and high cheekbones, but not so flat or so high that he wasn’t good-looking. Maybe it was his curly hair, maybe it was the twinkle in his eyes, maybe it was the vitality, but he had something. He had something that made him like to fight, too.
He moved in fast now, hooking with both hands. Bristow tried a left, and Paddy went inside with three hard ones and saw a thin trickle of blood start from over Moxie’s good eye.
Moxie was watching him. He knew it was coming. Paddy walked in, throwing them high and hard, then hooked a left to the wind that turned Moxie’s face gray. He had Moxie spotted for the right then, and it went down the groove and smacked against Bristow’s chin with a sickening thud. Moxie sagged, then toppled over on his face.
PADDY TROTTED TO his corner, and when he looked down he could see Caproni and Bickerstaff. He was glad they were there, because he had wanted them to see it. He wished Dicer Garry were there, too. Dicer had been Paddy’s best friend, and he might have guessed more of what was in the wind than anyone else.
Brennan leaned over the ropes, and Caproni looked up, his face sour.
“Now Ketchell, eh?” Paddy said. “I’m going to take your boy, Vino.”
“Yeah?” Caproni said. His eyes were cold. “Sure, sure…we’ll see.”
Paddy chuckled, trotting across the ring to help Moxie to his corner. He looked down at Bristow, squeezing the other fighter’s shoulder.
“Swell fight, mister. You sure take ’em.”
Moxie grinned.
“Yeah? You dish ’em out, too!” Paddy squeezed Moxie’s arm again and started away, but Moxie held his wrist, pulling him close. “You watch it, look out for Vino. You got it, Irish. You got what it takes. But look out.”
Sammy came out of Brennan’s corner. “Can it, Mox. Let’s go, Paddy.” He held out Paddy’s robe. Sammy’s face looked haggard under the lights, and his eyes shifted nervously. Sammy was afraid of Vino.
Paddy trotted across the ring and took the robe over his shoulders. He felt good. He vaulted the ropes and ducked down to the dressing rooms under the ring. Sammy helped him off with his shoes.
“Nice fight, Paddy. You get Ketchell now.” But Sammy didn’t look happy. “You don’t want to rib Vino like that,” he said. “He ain’t a nice guy.”
Paddy didn’t say anything. He knew all about Vino Caproni, but he was remembering Dicer Garry. Dice had been good, but he hadn’t got by Ketchell. Maybe Dicer could have whipped Ketchell. Maybe he couldn’t. But he fought them on the up and up, and that wasn’t the way Caproni or Bickerstaff liked to play.
Dicer and Paddy had worked it out between them three years ago.
“Give me first crack at it, Paddy?” Dicer suggested. “We’ve been pals ever since we worked on the construction crew together. You’ve licked me three times, and you know and I know you can do it again.”
“So what?” Brennan said.
“So…” Garry mused. “You let me get the first crack at the champ. You let me take the big fights first. You come along after. That way maybe I can be champ before you get there. You can have a fight for the belt anytime. You’ll beat me eventually if I’m still there. We’ve been pals too long. We know what’s up.”
And Garry had almost made it. He knocked out Joe Devine and Bat Turner, got a decision over Racko and a technical kayo over Morrison, all in a few months. Then they matched him with Andy Fuller, who was right up there with the best, and Dicer nearly killed him. So he was matched with Ketchell.
Caproni and Bickerstaff had worked a few years on Ketchell. He was in the big money, and he had been taken along carefully. He was good. But could he beat Dicer?
Paddy Brennan peeled the bandages and tape from his fists and remembered that last note he had from Garry.
They tried to proposition me. I turned them down. This Vino ain’t no good. He got tough with me and I hit him. I broke his nose.
Dicer
SERGEANT KELLY O’BRIEN stopped in, smiling broadly. The sergeant was father to Clara O’Brien and Clara and Paddy were engaged. You could see the resemblance to Clara. O’Brien had been a handsome man in his day.
“ ’Twas a grand job, son. A grand job. You’ve never looked better!”
“Yeah,” Paddy said, looking up. “Now I get Ketchell, then the champ.”
Brennan picked up his soap and stepped into the shower, put his soap in the niche in the wall and turned on the water. With the water running over him, he reached for the soap. All the time he was thinking of Garry.
If it hadn’t been for that truck crashing into Dicer’s car, he might be fighting his best pal for the title now, and a tough row it would have been. If it hadn’t been for that truck crash, Tony Ketchell might have been out of the picture before this. Dicer Garry would have whipped Ketchell or come close to it. Vino Caproni had known that, and so had Bickerstaff.
The worst of it was, he might never have guessed about that truck if he hadn’t seen the green paint on Bickerstaff’s shoe sole. He’d been out to see Dicer’s car, and seen the green paint that had rubbed off the truck onto the wreck. And it was almost fresh paint. Then later that day, he had talked with Bickerstaff.
The gambler was sitting with one ankle on the other knee, and there was green paint on the sole of his shoe, a little on the edge.
“That was tough about Dicer,” Bickerstaff said. “Was his car smashed up pretty bad?”
“Yeah,” Paddy told him, and suddenly something went over him that left him outwardly casual, but inwardly alert, and deadly. “Yeah, you seen it?”
“Me?” Bickerstaff shook his head. “Not me, I never go around wrecking yards. Crashes give me the creeps.”
IT WAS A little thing, but Paddy Brennan went to O’Brien, who had been a friend of Garry’s, too.
“Maybe it don’t mean a thing,” Paddy said, “or again maybe it does. But when you figure that Ketchell’s had a buildup that must have cost seventy grand, you get the idea. Ketchell’s good, and maybe he would have beat Dicer, but then again maybe he wouldn’t. It was a chance, and guys like Vino don’t take any chances.”
O’Brien nodded thoughtfully.
“I’ve wondered about that. But it all looked so good. You know how Dicer used to drive—anything less than sixty was loafing. And he hit the truck, that was obvious enough. Of course, it would have been a simple matter to have had the truck waiting and swing it in the way. Garry drove out that road to his camp every morning.
“If you are right, Paddy, it was an almost foolproof job. The driver, Mike Cortina, he’d never had an accident before; he’d been driving for three years for that same firm. He was delivering that load of brick out that road, so he had a reason to be there. They had a witness to the crash, you know.”
WHEN HE HAD finished his shower, he dressed slowly. The sergeant had gone on ahead with Clara, and he would meet them at a café later. Sammy loitered around, looking nervous and cracking his knuckles.
“Look, Paddy,” he said suddenly, “I don’t want to speak out of turn or nothing, but honest, you got me scared. Why don’t you play along with Vino? You got what it takes, Paddy, an’ gosh—”
Paddy stopped buttoning his shirt. “What is it? What d’you know?” he asked, staring at Sammy.
“I don’t know a damn thing, Brennan. Honest, I—”
“Do you know Cortina?” Paddy asked, deliberately.
Sammy sank back on the bench, his face gray.
“Shut up!” he whispered hoarsely. “Don’t go stickin’ your neck out, Paddy, please!”
Paddy stood over Sammy, he stared at the smaller man, his eyes burning.
“You been a good man, Sammy,” he said thickly. “I like you. But if you know anything, you better give. Come on, give!”
“Farnum,” Sammy sighed. “One of the witnesses—he runs a junkyard in Jersey. He used to handle hot heaps for the Brooklyn mob.”
Brennan finished dressing. Then he turned to Sammy, who sat gray-faced and fearful.
“You go home and forget it, Sam. I’ll handle this!”
SOMEHOW THE DAYS got away from him, in the gym, and on the road, getting ready for Ketchell.
“It’s got to be good, Clara,” he told her. “I got to win this one. It’s got to be a clean win. No decision, nothing they can get their paws into.”
He liked the Irish in her eyes, the way she smiled. She was a small, pretty girl with black hair and blue eyes and just a dash of freckles over her nose. Paddy held her with his hands on her shoulders, looking into her eyes.
“After this is over, we can spend all the time we want together. Until then I’ve got work to do.”
“Be careful, Paddy,” she begged him. “I’m afraid. Daddy’s been talking to someone about that man—the one with the yellow eyes.”
“Vino?”
“Yes, that’s the one. A friend told Daddy he used to work a liquor concession for Capone when he was young. And now he is in with some bunch of criminals who have a hot car business over in Brooklyn.”
“Brooklyn?” Paddy’s eyes narrowed. Car thieves in Brooklyn…?
Paddy Brennan went back to the hotel and started for the elevator. The room clerk stopped him.
“Two men came in to see you, Mr. Brennan. They were here twice. They wouldn’t leave their names.”
“Two men?” Paddy looked out the door. “One of them short and fat, the other dark with light eyes?”
“That’s right. The dark one did the talking.”
If Vino was looking for him, it meant a proposition on the Ketchell fight. He picked up the phone.
“If anybody calls, I’m not in, okay?”
Let them wait. Let them wait until the last night when they couldn’t wait any longer, when they would have to come out with it. Then— He dialed the phone.
TWO NIGHTS LATER Paddy Brennan sat on his bed in the hotel and looked across at the wiry man with the thin blond hair.
“You found him, did you?” he asked.
The man wet his lips.
“Yeah, he quit his job drivin’ the truck six months after the accident. He’s been carrying a lot of do-re-mi since then. I trailed him over to Jersey last night, drunk. He’s sleeping it off at a junkyard right now.”
Paddy got up. He took out a roll of bills and peeled off a couple.
“That’s good,” he said. “You stand by, okay? Then you go tell O’Brien about six o’clock, get me? Don’t tell him where I am, or anything. Just tell him what I told you and don’t miss. There’s going to be a payoff soon. You do what I tell you, and you’ll get paid a bonus.”
At about nine-thirty tonight he would be going into the ring with Tony Ketchell, and the winner would get a chance at the title. In the meantime, there were things to do—the things Dicer Garry would have done if it had been Paddy Brennan whose broken, bloody body had been lifted from the wreckage of his car. They were things that had to be done now while there was still time.
THE JUNKYARD WAS on the edge of town. A light glowed in the office shack. Behind it was the piled-up mass of the junked cars, a long, low warehouse, and the huge bulk of the press. It was here the Brooklyn mob turned hot cars into parts, rebuilt cars, or scrap. Farnum, the convenient witness, ran the place. He had testified that Dicer Garry had hit the truck doing eighty miles an hour, that the driver hadn’t had a chance to get out of the way.
Paddy Brennan’s face was grim when he stopped by the dirty window and peered in. Cortina—he remembered the man from the inquest—was sitting in a chair tipped back against the wall. He had a bottle in his hand and a gun in a shoulder holster.
Farnum was there, too, a slender, gray-haired man who looked kindly and tired until you saw his eyes. There were two others there—a slender man with a weasel face and a big guy with heavy shoulders and a bulging jaw.
Paddy swung the door open, and stepped in. He carried a heavy, hard-sided case in his hand. Farnum got up suddenly, his chair tipped over.
Cortina’s face tightened. “Speak of the devil! Muggs, this is Paddy Brennan, the guy who fights Ketchell tonight. He won’t be the same afterward, so you’d better take a good look.”
Muggs laughed, and he leaned forward aggressively. Farnum looked shocked and apprehensive. He was sitting close to Cortina, and Paddy’s eyes covered them.
“What’s the suitcase for? You skipping out on Ketchell?”
“Dicer Garry was a friend of mine,” Paddy said quietly. He set the case down carefully on the floor.
The man with the weasel face got up suddenly.
“I’m not in this,” he said. “I want out.”
“You sit down,” Brennan told him, pointing at the corner. “Stay out if you want but keep still.”
Muggs was a big man who carried himself with a swagger, even sitting down.
“How about you?” Brennan asked. “Are you in on this, or are you going to be nice?”
Muggs got up. He was as tall as Brennan and twenty pounds heavier.
“You boxers are supposed to be good. What happens when you can’t use that fancy stuff with a lot of fancy rules?”
“Something like this,” Brennan said, and hit him. His right fist in a skintight glove struck with a solid crack, and Muggs was falling when the left hook hit him in the wind. It knocked him into his chair, which splintered and went to the floor with a crash.
Cortina tilted his bottle back and took another drink. He was powerful, a shorter man than Brennan, but heavier.
“Nice goin’,” Cortina said. “Muggs has been askin’ for that.”
“You’re next,” Brennan said. “Garry was a pal of mine. It’s going to look mighty funny when the D.A. starts wondering why the principal witness and the driver of the death car turn out to be friends and turn out to be running with a mob that backs Caproni and Bickerstaff.”
“Smart pug, aren’t you?” Cortina said, putting his bottle down carefully. “Well, I hate to disappoint Ketchell and the fans, but—”
His hand streaked for the gun, had it half out before Paddy kicked the legs out from under the chair. It came out, but Cortina’s head smacked up against the wall, the gun sliding from his hand.
Farnum broke for the door, and Brennan caught him with one hand and hurled him back against the desk so violently that he fell to the floor. Then Brennan picked up the gun and pocketed it.
“Get up, Cortina,” he said quietly. “I see you’ve got to learn.”
The trucker made a long dive for Brennan’s legs, but Paddy jerked his knee up in the Italian’s face, smashing his nose. Then Brennan grabbed him by the collar, jerking him erect, and slammed him back against the wall. Before he could rebound, Paddy stepped in and hooked both hands to the body. The Italian’s jaw dropped and he slumped to the floor.
Farnum was getting up. He wasn’t a strong man, and the violence of that shove had nearly broken him. Brennan pushed him into a chair.
“You’ve got a chance to talk,” he said. “I’ve only got a few minutes, and then I’m going to keep that date with Ketchell. You either talk, or I’m going to beat you both until you’ll never feel or look the same again.”
Brennan turned to Muggs, still sitting on the floor.
“You had enough, friend? Or do you take some more of that dish?”
“You busted my ribs,” said Muggs.
Paddy Brennan remembered the broken body of the Dicer. He stepped up to Cortina and pulled him to his feet. He hit him a raking left hook that ripped hide from his face, then two rights to his body, then jerked the heel of his hand up along Cortina’s face.
“That isn’t nice,” Paddy said. “I don’t like to play this way, but then you aren’t nice boys.”
He stepped back.
“Think you can take that, Farnum?” He pulled the junkyard operator to his feet. “What do you say? Talk or take a beating.”
“Shut up, Farnum,” Cortina muttered, “or I’ll kill you!” Paddy hit Cortina between the eyes, and the man fell hard. Paddy walked over, and setting the case flat on the table, he popped the latches.
TEN MINUTES LATER he came out and got into his car. With him he had Farnum and Cortina. The Italian’s face was raw and bloody, but Farnum was scarcely more than frightened, although one eye was growing black, and his lips were puffed. Paddy put the case in the trunk of his rented car.
SAMMY WAS PACING up and down the arena corridor when he came in.
“Paddy!” He rushed over, his face worried. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” Brennan said quietly. He carried the heavy case to the door of the shower room and set it inside. He turned back to Sammy. “Let’s get dressed.”
He was bandaging his hands when Vino came in with Bickerstaff. Vino’s sallow face cracked into a brief smile, and he gave Brennan a limp hand.
“Just dropped in. How about a little talk?”
“Sure,” Paddy said. “Sure enough, I’ll talk. Take a powder, Sammy.”
Sammy hesitated. Then he turned and went out, closing the door softly behind him.
Bickerstaff sat down astride a chair, leaning on the back of it. He wore a cheap blue serge suit, and his black shoes were high-topped, but showed white socks above them. His pink, florid face looked hard now, and his small blue eyes were mean.
“Get on with it,” Brennan said, drawing the bandage across his knuckles again and smacking his fist into his palm. “What’s up?”
“You got plenty, kid,” Vino said. “You sure made a hit beating Bristow that way. There is a big crowd out here tonight.”
“You’re telling me?” Brennan said. “So what?”
“We spent a lot of dough on Ketchell,” Vino said carefully. “He’s good, plenty good. Maybe he can beat you.”
“Maybe.”
“It’s like this, Paddy,” Vino said, striving to be genial. “We ain’t in this racket for our health. Suppose you beat Ketchell. Who will you fight next? The champ? Maybe. If not there ain’t a good shot in sight. Then, we lose a lot of gold. We paid off to get him where he is.”
“What’s on your mind?” Brennan demanded. “Get to the point.” He cut a band of tape into eight narrow strips.
“Suppose you lose?” Vino suggested. “Suppose you take one in the sixth. It ain’t too late to lay some bets. Then we give you a return fight, see? We all make dough. Anyway,” he added, “you should tie up with us. Ketchell won’t last. You will. You need a smart manager.”
“Yeah?” Brennan asked. “How smart? An’ where does Sammy get off?”
“Look,” Bickerstaff suggested. “I got a couple of youngsters, a middle and a welter. Let Sammy take care of them. You need somebody smart, Brennan. You got color, you got a punch, you can make some real gold in there.”
“What gives you the idea I think you’re smart?” Paddy asked. He was putting the strips between his fingers and sticking them down. “I haven’t seen any champions you boys handled. Ketchell wouldn’t be in the spot he’s in now if Dicer hadn’t been killed.”
Vino took his cigarette from his mouth very carefully. He held it in his fingers, the burning end toward him, and looked up like gangsters do in the movies.
“Maybe he would, maybe not,” he said noncommittally.
“I’d like to have had another crack at Garry,” Brennan said. “I wanted that guy.”
Bickerstaff’s face was frozen.
“I thought you two were pals,” he said.
“Us?” Brennan shrugged, sliding from the rubbing table to his feet, beginning to move his arms around. “We were once. When things got serious, when he started thinking about the title…well, you know how those things are, the friendship didn’t last.”
Vino stood very still.
“Yeah?” he said.
Bickerstaff spoke up. “What about this fight? You ain’t got but a few minutes.”
“I’m not going to play,” Brennan said. “What would I get? I can beat Ketchell. What can you guys do for me that I can’t do for myself?”
“We can take care of you,” Bickerstaff said. “Ketchell hasn’t lost any fights since we had him.”
“You got a break,” Brennan said. “Just like I did when Garry got killed.” He shook his head. “You know, I heard about you guys, I heard you were smart. I thought maybe when Garry got it that you guys pulled the strings. I figured you were wise, that you stood by your fighters, that you saw they won, or they lost for good money. But when I got down there, it was only an accident. So I say nuts to you.”
“We can be tough,” Bickerstaff said, his eyes hard.
“Don’t make me laugh,” Brennan told him, jabbing with his left. “What good would it do you to get tough with me after Ketchell’s finished? That wouldn’t be smart. I’m looking for a manager, but I want somebody smart.”
Vino’s eyes were cold. “Just what is this, Brennan? You’re stalling.”
“Sure.” Paddy stopped and hitched up his tights. “Sure, I’m stalling. You said you weren’t in this racket for your health. Well, I’m not either. I’m going where the dough lays. I can’t see how I’m going to make out with you guys. So I’m going out there and cop a Sunday on Ketchell’s chin.”
The door opened, and Sammy stuck his head in.
“Better get set, Brennan. It’s time to go.”
When the door closed, Bickerstaff looked at Vino, then back at Brennan.
“Listen,” he said. “What if we showed you how smart you would be to tie up?”
Brennan chuckled. “You look like tinhorns to me. What if some of the big mobs wanted in?”
Vino snapped his cigarette into the shower.
“I am the big mob,” he said flatly.
“Yeah? You and every dago kid down on the corner.”
Vino’s eyes hardened, he straightened, but Bickerstaff cut in. “Get smart, kid. We take care of our boys. Look at Ketchell.”
“An accident,” Brennan said. “A car accident saved him.”
“There’s accidents, and accidents,” Vino said, softly.
“Tryin’ to kid me?” Brennan pulled his robe around his shoulders. “I saw that car and there was a witness.”
“Only dumb guys make it plain,” Bickerstaff said. “We know our stuff.”
“Well, that would be a joke on Garry, the rat,” Brennan said. “He thought he was the smart one.”
“You get in there with Ketchell,” Vino said. “You take one in the sixth. Make it look like an accident. Then we’ll bill you with him again for a big gate, and you win. We’ll see you get the title if you sign with us. And we’ll take care of you.”
“Listen, Vino,” Brennan said. “It sounds good, but don’t give me this ‘accident’ malarkey. You got lucky and so you’re acting like a big shot. If you’re real lucky maybe I’ll run into a truck while I’m climbing into the ring!”
“Don’t be stupid, you punk!” Vino stepped close. “I fixed Garry. He wouldn’t play, see?” He paused, staring at Brennan. “I don’t like boys that don’t play. So I had that truck there; I had witnesses there. I even had a guy ready if the truck didn’t finish it. Now you do as you’re told or we’ll finish you!”
Bickerstaff’s face was strained. “Vino,” he said, “what if he drops a dime on us?”
“Yeah?” Vino sneered. “If I even thought he’d dime us out, I’d cook him. One sign that he ain’t going to play ball, and he gets it.”
“I don’t rat,” Brennan said quietly. “I don’t have to rat. All right, I’ll play ball. I’ll play it the way you never saw it played before.”
THE LIGHTS WERE bright over the ring. Paddy Brennan felt good, getting away from Vino and Bickerstaff. He rubbed his feet in the resin, and the old feeling began to come over him. He trotted to his corner, where Sammy was waiting.
“What’s up, kid? You goin’ to tell me? Is it a flop?”
Brennan rubbed his feet on the canvas, dancing a little.
“In the sixth,” he said. “They want me out in the sixth. They want to give you a welter and a middle and take me for themselves.”
Sammy looked up, and Brennan realized how small he was.
“Oh?” he said. “So they want that, do they?”
“Keep your chin up, Sammy,” Brennan said. “Let’s get this one in the books. Then we’ll talk.”
When the bell clanged, Ketchell came out fast. He looked fit, and he moved right. He’d come up the easy way, but he’d had the best schooling there was. Paddy had a feeling this wasn’t going to be easy. Ketchell’s left licked out and touched his eye. Paddy worked around Ketchell, then feinted, but Tony backed off, smiling.
Brennan walked in steadily, feinted, feinted again, and then stabbed a quick left to the face and a right to the chin. The punches shook Ketchell and made him wary. His left jabbed again, and then again.
He circled, went in punching. He shot a left to the head, and bored in, punching for the body, then to the head, then took a driving right that bounced off his chin. It set him back on his heels for a second, and another one flashed down the groove, but he rolled his head and whipped a right to the body that made Ketchell back up.
When the round ended, they were sparring in the center of the ring, and Paddy Brennan went to his corner, feeling good. The bell came, but not soon enough. He leaped to close quarters and started slugging. He felt punches battering and pounding at him, but he kept walking in, hitting with both hands. Once Tony staggered, but he stepped away in time before Brennan could hit him again.
Then a solid right smashed Paddy on the head, and a left made the cut stream blood. Momentarily blinded, a right smashed on his chin and he felt himself falling, and then a flurry of blows came from everywhere, and he fought desperately against them. When he realized what was happening again, the referee was saying nine, and then the bell was ringing. He staggered to his corner and flopped on the stool. Sammy was working over him.
“Watch it, kid,” Sammy said, gasping. “Take nine every time you’re down.”
“Once was enough,” Paddy said. “I’m not going down again.”
“Once?” Sammy’s voice was very amazed. “What do you mean—once?” He paused, staring at Brennan intently. “What round is this?” he demanded.
“End of the second,” Brennan said. “What’s the matter? You punchy?”
“You are,” Sammy said. “This is the fifth coming up. You’ve been down four times.”
Then the bell rang again, and Paddy went out. Ketchell was coming in fast and confident. A raking left snapped at his face, and Paddy rolled his head. Suddenly, something inside him went cold and vicious. Knock him down four times? Why, the—
His right thudded home on Ketchell’s ribs with a smash like a base hit, then he hunched his shoulders together and started putting them in there with both hands. Ketchell backed up.
Suddenly Paddy Brennan felt fine again. His head was singing, his mouth was swollen, but he hooked high and low, battering Ketchell back with a rocking barrage of blows. A right snapped out of somewhere, and he barely slipped it, feeling the punch take his shoulder just below his ear.
Then, suddenly, Ketchell was on his knees with his nose broken, and blood bathing his chest and shoulders. The bell sounded wildly through the cheering, roaring crowd.
It was the sixth.
When he stood up, he could see Vino down there. Vino’s eyes were on him, cold and wary. Paddy Brennan remembered Dicer.
He walked out fast, and Ketchell came in, but he could see by Ketchell’s eyes what he was expecting. Paddy feinted and slid into a clinch, punching with one hand free.
“They make it easy for you, don’t they?” he said. “Even murder?”
Brennan broke and saw Ketchell’s face was set and cold. There was a killer in him. Well, he’d need it. Paddy walked in, hooking low and hard, smashing them to the head, slipping short left hooks and rights and all the while watching for that wide left hook of Ketchell’s that would set him up for the inside right cross. Through the blur, he saw Ketchell’s face, and he let his right down a little where Ketchell wanted it and saw the left hook start.
His own right snapped, and he felt his glove thud home. Then his left hooked hard but there was nothing in front of him and he moved back. He could see Tony Ketchell on the floor, and hear someone shouting in the crowd. He could see Bickerstaff on his feet, his face white, and behind him, Vino, his face twisted, lips away from the teeth. Then the referee jerked his arm up, and he knew he had won the fight.
CLARA CAME RUNNING to meet him in the dressing room. She had been crying, and she cried out when she saw his face.
“Oh, your poor eye!” She put up her hand to touch it, and then he grabbed her and swung her away…Vino was standing in the door with a gun in his hand.
“You’re a real smart kid, huh? Back up, sister. Lover boy and I are walking to my car. You’ll be lucky if you get him back.”
Brennan lunged with his right in the groove and saw the white blast of a gun and felt the heat on his face. Then his right landed, and Vino went down.
All of a sudden, Clara had him again, and the room was full of people. Sergeant O’Brien was picking Vino up, and Vino was all bloody, and his face twisted in hate.
“Get offa me, copper!” he snarled. “You haven’t got anything on me I can’t get fixed—”
“You’re under arrest for murder,” O’Brien said to Vino. “You and Bickerstaff and Cortina. And when this hits the papers the boys in Brooklyn won’t fix you up, they’re going to drop you like a hot potato.”
Vino’s face turned a pasty white.
“You got nothing but this pug’s say-so,” he declared.
“Oh, yes, we have,” O’Brien said. “We’ve got Farnum’s statement, and Cortina’s. But we don’t need them. We were in the next room when you talked to Brennan. We had a wire recorder microphone hung on the shower partition. It was Paddy’s idea.”
When they had gone, Brennan sat down slowly on the table.
He pulled Clara toward him. “They’re all big money fights from now on, Clara. There’ll be time now…time for us.”
“But we’ll fix that eye first,” she said. “I don’t intend to have my man dripping blood all over everything.”
She hesitated.
“I can’t stand seeing you hurt, but, Paddy—I guess it’s the Irish in me—oh, Paddy, it was a grand, grand fight, that’s what it was!”