by Jack Tunney
“I’m afraid you’re in the way,” I said, my voice was soft. I kept my gaze leveled at Big Mouth, but had the other two in my periphery. The one in the middle had stepped forward just an inch or two, I guessed he’d be first.
“I think you’ve seen too many movies, Yank. Give us a look, Mary.” Big Mouth nodded his chins toward the basket.
“Let’s go,” I said and turned round, pulling Mary out of the way.
I’d guessed correctly, the middle one came first, reached for my left shoulder. I spun round, caught him with a right upper cut just under the chin, lifting him off the ground. You could hear his teeth clack as I connected.
IRISH DUKES
Another Two-Fisted Fight Card Novel
by Jack Tunney
(Mike Faricy)
FIGHT CARD
Created by Paul Bishop and Mel Odom
OTHER TITLES IN THE FIGHT CARD SERIES
FIGHT CARD: FELONY FISTS
FIGHT CARD: THE CUTMAN
FIGHT CARD: SPLIT DECISION
FIGHT CARD: COUNTERPUNCH
FIGHT CARD: HARD ROAD
FIGHT CARD: KING OF THE OUTBACK
FIGHT CARD: A MOUTH FULL OF BLOOD
FIGHT CARD: TOMATO CAN COMEBACK
FIGHT CARD: BLUFF CITY BRAWLER
FIGHT CARD: GOLDEN GATE GLOVES
FIGHT CARD: IRISH DUKES
e-Book Edition – first published November 2012
Copyright © 2012 Mike Faricy
This is a work of fiction. Characters, corporations, institutions and organizations mentioned in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously without any intent to describe actual conduct.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission from the publisher.
Cover by Keith Birdsong
ROUND 1
Berlin, Germany 1951
I shot another combination, right, left, right. The Russian ducked and came back at me with two sharp rights like he had the previous nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine times. After his second jab, he dropped his left slightly. I tagged him hard above the left eye with my right cross and rocked his head back. I went to follow up, but he seemed unfazed. Just like the thousand times before, he stepped back with that flat footed gait all the Soviets seemed to have. I think I heard a couple cat calls and maybe a whistle or two, but they quickly died out.
It was the final fight of the night, me and this Russian, Vladimir something. His shaved head seemed impervious to everything I’d thrown at him. His ice blue eyes showed absolutely no emotion.
We were battling it out in one of the new steel hangers the engineers had thrown up last year when the airlift had been in full swing. The air was blue with smoke, so hazy I was amazed any lights hanging from the steel rafters penetrated the cloud. It was standing room only for the crowd of a couple thousand guys. Everyone was screaming, the sound bounced back and forth off the steel walls growing to a constant roar.
I’d been told his name a million times over the last six weeks, but I couldn’t think of it right now. To tell the truth, I couldn’t think of anything at the moment, except for how exhausted I was after going five rounds.
My arms were so tired after hitting this granite headed Russian, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to even take a swing in the sixth round. Maybe that was his style – to just take the beating until I was so exhausted I wouldn’t be able to lift my arms, let alone land a glove. All I knew is everything I’d thrown at him so far didn’t seem to be having an effect.
Berlin was a long way from St. Vincent’s Asylum For Boys – the Chicago orphanage where Father Tim first taught me to box - but here I am. I was the only middleweight in our division, newly promoted Sergeant Kevin Crowley, battling it out for the honor of the army, democracy and the Western Powers against this rock headed Soviet Communist in an airplane hanger at Templehof airbase in Berlin.
The Russian shot a sharp right, another, then a left cross. I caught him with two quick rights as his left cross whistled past me. Pop, pop. Then I wondered if that was a smile I caught on his face?
I felt like I’d been punching my fists against a concrete wall all night and now he was smiling. Finally, the bell rang. I bounced back to my corner and tried not to look too exhausted as Sergeant-Major Eugene Taylor shoved a stool between the rope, climbed in himself, and glared at me. His neck rolled over his shirt collar and that usually red face took on a crimson color. His lips formed a sort of mad-dog snarl and I thought for half a second he was going to bite me.
“What in the stars and stripes are you doing out there, Crowley? I told you three rounds ago to quite fooling around and take this commie out.”
“Yeah, but Sarge, I keep…”
He squirted water into my mouth, “Shut up. I don’t want to hear it, moron. We got everyone’s pay riding on you out there and you’re clowning around? How’d you like to go back to buck private and extended latrine duty?”
That sounded just fine to me at the moment. I was on a thirty day leave effective midnight tonight, and my transfer to Japan would be here waiting when I got back, so what did I care?
“And you can forget about your leave, and your transfer too. I’m getting a feeling there just might be another emergency on the horizon and all leaves and transfers for recently promoted buck sergeants who didn’t win their match will be canceled. You read me, Crowley?”
I spit into the bucket, answered, “Loud and clear, Sarge.”
He glared at me for a moment, pulled the two inch cigar out of his mouth, examined the soggy chewed stub, then bit the end off and spit it outside the ring.
“See you remember it and stop clowning around. Got near the entire division here watching. They’ll string you up if you blow this thing, and I ain’t gonna do nothing to stop ‘em. Stars and stripes, Crowley. I even got some rope back in the locker room.”
Fortunately, the bell rang bringing Sergeant-Major Taylor’s pep talk tirade to an end.
I got up, danced into the middle of the ring, tried to pretend I was raring to go again. I pistoned my arms, hoping to shake off the invisible concrete blocks weighing down my fists.
Vladimir was still in his corner, laughing. It looked like he was telling everyone the punch line to a joke and couldn’t be bothered. He wasn’t even worried about coming out to face me. He laughed again, nodded at something they said, then made his way out toward me. He had that wide, upright stance all the Ruskies seemed to have and he was wearing a smile.
I think I used the same wide stance the first time I went up against Father Tim. I was nine, with a chip on my shoulder, a temper and an edge to my personality. Father Tim knocked the chip off, taught me control, which allowed the nuns to smooth out the edges. Slow and steady, Kevin, slow and steady, he’d say.
I figured two right jabs followed by a left, right, left combination would get Vladimir moving to his left. I was wrong. It was three right jabs, followed by the combination before he moved left. Then I caught him with a left hook, and a left jab. He ducked my right, left combination, came back with two right jabs, then stepped off to his left, again. He blocked my right uppercut and was unfazed by my left.
I tagged him with a right cross that caught his nose, which looked to have been broken so many times I figured it must be merely ornamental, it couldn’t have been of any use. None of the times I hit the thing seemed to have any effect.
I was missing something, I’d felt it all night, but couldn’t quite catch what it was. He would step in, throw a couple of punches then step out. I’d hit him everywhere but on
the chin and none of the punches I landed seemed to have an effect, he stepped back and… Wait - everywhere, but on the chin…
I continued sweating through to the eighth round. More right jabs followed up by left, right combos. We’d danced to the same tune so many times I’d lost count, and it had gotten me nothing but tired. I could hear Father Tim’s voice in my head, Slow and steady Kevin, slow and steady. After eight rounds, I seemed to have the slow part down pretty well.
Vladimir smirked for a moment, came in with another set of right jabs, three again followed by his left, right combination. I blocked the left, let the right glance off, staggered a few steps and came up pretending to look slightly dazed. Vladimir pasted a large smile on his face and flat footed toward me with more right jabs.
Instead of blocking them I fell back clumsily a couple of steps. I was vaguely aware of the roar of the crowd screaming for blood. I was afraid they were screaming for mine. A crowd of GI’s figured they were watching their month’s pay about to disappear. Sergeant-Major Taylor was no doubt running to the locker room to get his rope.
Vladimir stepped in with three more right jabs. I raised my eyebrow like I was trying to clear my head. He threw a left, right, left combination and there it was - the big, loopy right winding up to take me out. I slumped slightly, but stepped in as I did, then delivered my right upper cut to his chin. It was the first time I saw his chin. I drove up with my feet, through the hips like Father Tim taught me. The crowd was roaring, I think, but I couldn’t hear them.
I think I heard a snap when I connected full force with Vladimir’s chin the punch still going for the moon. The blow lifted him off his feet a good six inches and he landed flatfooted maybe ten inches back with his eyes going somewhere north of his forehead.
I delivered a left to his jaw that slammed him helpless into my right. My right, left follow up combination missed completely, but only because Vladimir was on the canvas. The referee, some Polish guy who’s supposed to be neutral took his sweet time moving me into my corner.
“Give him the count! Give him the count you dumb…” Sergeant-Major Taylor screamed next to my ear. Fortunately, he was directing his instructions at the Polish ref and not me. Words shot back past me in Polish, I didn’t know what they meant, but I understood the tone while he stood there and stared at Taylor for a long moment.
Although Sergeant-Major Taylor was behind me I could feel the heat of his glare. The Polish ref finally turned away, hoping to see Vladimir on his feet, but no such luck. He began his count, shooting a glance or two at Sergeant-Major Taylor, but counting none the less. Vladimir’s feet twitched for a moment, but he was out cold.
The ref had no choice but to raise my hand. I could suddenly hear the cheering and saw the caps flying. All my pals were screaming. Taylor climbed into the ring and slapped me on the back, “That’s my boy, that’s my boy.”
I glanced over to our corner and thought I saw a coil of rope. I couldn’t be sure because I got swept away as a tide of GI’s carried me out and around the ring on their shoulders.
Vladimir was still out on the canvas. GI’s were stepping over him and following us out of the ring. No one from the Russian’s corner went to help him. They began to walk away as I was carried deeper into the celebrating crowd. I glanced back and Vladimir was still lying there, alone.
***
Sergeant-Major Taylor sent Corporal Schmidt over at 0-dark-thirty the following morning with a jeep to take me to the airstrip. There was a Royal Air Force crew flying up to Belfast with whom I would be hopping a ride. Schmidt dropped me and my duffel off at the back door to a hanger. He handed me a thick envelope labeled medical records and a note that said to look for Captain Ed Lane, RAF.
I found Lane in a group with five other British Soldiers. They weren’t too hard to spot as they were the only guys standing around holding mugs of tea. At least they weren’t wearing white scarves around their necks. I would have laughed if it weren’t for my hangover and the ninety minutes of sleep I’d had.
“Right, you’re the Yank what KO’d the Russian last night?” Captain Lane asked. He looked like one of those guys from the movies, lean, dark haired, with green eyes and a pencil line mustache probably called his pals “mate” and they all said “cheerio”.
I nodded and maybe grunted, “Yes sir.”
“Couple of the lads caught it. Well done, we all made a few quid off you.” Captain Lane smiled, studied me up and down, made a practiced assessment of my green behind the gills look then said, “Right, so off with you. Climb in that bird just outside the door. We’ll finish our tea and be on our way to RAF Aldergrove.”
I remember taking off, vaguely, but then I fell asleep just as we broke above Berlin cloud cover. The continual drone of the engines and last night’s free beer combined to keep me comatose until our landing jolted me awake when we hit the runway.
“Enjoy your flight, Yank?” one of the crew members laughed as he walked past me. I’d been strapped onto a bench seat the entire flight and sat up, attempting to crack out a kink in my neck. We seemed to taxi forever before we eventually stopped.
Captain Lane proved to be a pretty good guy, even going as far as getting one of his crew to connect me with a lorry heading into Great Victoria Street Station where I caught a non-stop down to Dublin.
ROUND 2
I had the better part of an hour and a half train ride before we pulled into Dublin’s Amiens Street Station. As far as I knew, I’d been born here, in Dublin. At least that’s what the records said. I never knew my dad, and had just a vague memory of my mom. She died of some heart trouble when I was little. We were in Chicago by then, my mom and me, which was how I ended up at the St Vincent’s Asylum for Boys.
All I had from my parents was a two-by-three inch, black and white photograph of my mom holding baby me on her lap. In the photo, she’s sitting outside on a chair, in front of what must have been the side door to their mansion. Penciled on the back was her name, Neambh, my name, Kevin and an address, 14 Grays Square, Liberties, Dublin. Not much of an inheritance. I don’t know what my father looked like.
My plan was to find my family, the Crowleys. Who knew? Maybe they had a castle, or were some sort of royalty? They were bound to welcome a long lost American GI. I could see them getting the family together, probably in some big dining room, maybe the size of the Berlin Mess Hall, but with a long oak table, red velvet chairs and fancy portraits on the wall.
“That’s your father there, Lord Kevin, the Tenth Earl of Peaches and Cream. We’ve been saving this treasure chest for the day you’d return. Here, try on this crown and see if it fits.”
I slid the photo back in the inside pocket of my Class A uniform then pulled out the envelope with my medical records. Leave it to Sergeant-Major Taylor to send my shot records, just in case. He must have stuffed three or four copies in there it was so thick.
I opened the envelope, stared, closed it and opened it again. It was stuffed all right, with cash - lots of it.
I didn’t move my head, but looked left and right, using my peripheral vision. There were a handful of people in the train car and none of them were paying attention to me. I used my thumb to fan through the bills, moving my lips as I counted. There was upwards of two grand. More cash than I’d ever seen in my entire life. More cash than I’d ever dreamed about.
I moved my eyes left and right again, to make sure no one was watching, and then counted the bills once more. There was still over two grand. I cautiously slid the envelope back into my inside pocket and pretended to look out the window. I didn’t see the countryside passing by. I didn’t see the farms. I didn’t see the sheep. I just kept thinking about the envelope holding over two thousand dollars.
I tried to do the math - a couple of grand plus divided by eight rounds in the ring… I gave up after a few attempts to carry the numbers in my head. I just knew it was a hell of a lot per round. I sat back, closed my eyes and hoped I could get to sleep. I couldn’t.
I kne
w the betting odds had been stacked against me but over two thousand dollars? Holy cow, I hadn’t even been Sergeant-Major Taylor’s first choice. He wanted to sneak in some guy named Denton or Dalton or something from one of the infantry divisions but the guy ran afoul of the MP’s down around Munich so Taylor was stuck with me.
Once word got out that I’d be the one facing old Vladimir the odds against me rose like a rocket. Taylor tried to get the fight postponed but the Soviets wouldn’t have it, I think they smelled blood, well and dollars. Any way, careful what you wish for.
After what seemed like a year we pulled into Amiens Street Station. I was aware of people stopping to stare at my uniform, but there was nothing I could do about it. I hailed a cab outside the station, tossed my bag in back and closed the door once I settled in.
“Where to, soldier boy?” The cabbie smiled when he spoke then pulled away from the curb.
“I’ll need to go to a bank first, then I need to go to…” I pulled out the photo, read the address on the back. “Grays Square, Liberties, Dublin.”
“Grays Square? Off Meath Street is it?”
“I don’t really know.”
He eased into what little traffic there was, nodded, said, “A bank and then the Liberties.” He didn’t speak another word until we pulled to the curb in front of a white stone building with pillars. It looked more like a Greek Temple instead of a bank.
“Bank of Ireland. They’ll take care of the likes of you. Want me to wait, Yank?”
“Yes, if you would, please.”
“Maybe leave your bag here, just so I know you’ll be coming back.”
I thought about it, realized I couldn’t pay him with dollars and nodded. “I’ll be right back.”
“And I’ll be right here,” he said.