* * *
THE NEXT NIGHT three men loafed in the expensive suite at the Astor where Hendryx maintained an unofficial headquarters. Rack Hendryx did not confine himself merely to managing the heavyweight champion of the world. From behind a score of “fronts” he pulled the wires that directed a huge ring of vice and racketeering. Even Bat McGowan knew little of this, although he surmised a good deal. The three had become widely known figures: Bat McGowan, the champion; Rack Hendryx, his manager; and Tony Mada, Hendryx’s quiet, thin-lipped bodyguard.
“Say, when’s this punk going to show up?” McGowan growled irritably. “He hasn’t taken a powder on you, has he?”
“Not a chance. Ruby’s bringing’ him up the back way. We can’t have nobody gettin’ wise to this. Why, the damned papers would howl bloody murder about the fans payin’ to see the champ an’ only seein’ some punk gym fighter who can’t take it on the chin!” Hendryx laughed harshly.
“What about the guys that already seen him?” McGowan demanded.
“He’s from South Africa. An Irishman from Johannesburg. He only fought here once, and that was some little club in the sticks. Ruby Ryan also saw him in the gym.”
There was a sharp rap at the door, and when Mada swung it open, Ryan stepped in with Barney Malone at his heels. For a moment, there was silence while Malone and Bat McGowan stared at each other.
“Well, I’ll be—” McGowan exclaimed. “The punk sure does look like me, don’t he?” Then he walked over and looked Barney Malone up and down. “Don’t you wish you could fight like me, too?”
“Maybe I can,” Malone snapped, his eyes narrowing coldly.
McGowan sneered. “Yeah?” Quick as a flash he snapped a left hook to Malone’s head, a punch that caught the newcomer flush on the point of the chin. Without a sound the young fighter crumpled to the floor!
“Are you crazy?” Rack Hendryx grabbed McGowan by the arm and jerked him back, face livid. “What the hell d’you think you’re tryin’ to do, anyway? Crab the act?”
“Aw, what the hell—the punk was gettin’ wise with me. I might as well put him in his place now as later.”
Helped by Ruby Ryan, Malone was slowly getting to his feet, shaking his head to clear it. The old trainer’s Irish face was hard, and the light in his eyes when he looked at McGowan was not good to see.
“Now lay off, you big chump!” Hendryx snapped angrily. “What d’you think this is, an alley?”
Malone looked at McGowan, his eyes strange and bleak. “So you’re a champion?” he said coldly. McGowan stepped forward, his fist raised, but Hendryx and Mada intervened.
“You should know, lollypop.” Bat turned and picked up his hat, then looked back at Malone and laughed.
“Just another cream puff! Well, you can double for me, but don’t get any ideas, see, or I’ll beat you to jelly.” He turned and walked out.
“Forget that guy, Malone,” Hendryx broke in, noticing the gleam in the youngster’s eye. “Just let it slide. We got to talk business!”
“Nothing doing.” Barney Malone looked at Hendryx and shook his head. “Not for a guy like that!”
“Come on…Bat won’t be around much. He’ll be busy with the girls. An’ where can you lay your mitts on five hundred a week? Forget that guy; this is business.”
“All right,” Malone said. “But not for five hundred. I want five hundred, and ten percent of the take from all exhibitions I work as champion!”
“Not a chance!” Hendryx snapped angrily. “What you tryin’ to do, pull a Jesse James on me?”
“Then let me out of this joint,” Malone said grimly. “I’m through.”
For a half hour they argued, and finally Hendryx shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, Malone, you win. I’ll give it to you. But remember—one move that looks like a double cross and I give Tony the nod, see?”
Malone glanced at Tony Mada, and the little torpedo parted his lips in a nasty grin. Whatever else there was about the combination, there wasn’t any foolishness about Tony Mada. He was something cold and deadly.
* * *
A MONTH AND nine exhibitions later, in the dressing room of the Adelphian Athletic Club, Barney Malone sat on the table, taping his hands. The champion’s silk robe over his broad shoulders set them off nicely. He looked fit and ready.
“This Porky Dobro is tough, see?” Ryan advised. “He’s tougher than we wanted right now, but we couldn’t dodge him. He knows McGowan, an’ has a grudge against him. You gotta be nasty with this guy, Barney. Get tough, heel your gloves, use your elbows and shoulders, butt him, hold and hit—everything! That’s the way the champ works; he was always dirty. This guy will expect it, so give him the works. But, no matter what, don’t let him near that jaw of yours…you can outbox him, so don’t try anything else.”
“That’s right, kid,” Hendryx agreed. “You been doin’ fine. But this Dobro isn’t like the others, he’s bad medicine—an’ he ain’t going to be scared!”
* * *
HENDRYX WALKED OUT, with Mada at his heels. Malone watched them go, and then looked back at Ruby Ryan. The old Irishman was tightening a shoelace.
“How’d you happen to get mixed up with an outfit like that, Ruby?”
Ryan shrugged. “Same way you did, kid. A guy’s got to live. Rack knew I was a good trainer, an’ he hired me. I made McGowan champ. Now they both treat me like the dirt under their feet.”
They hurried down the aisle to the ring, where Porky Dobro was already waiting for them. He was a heavy-shouldered fighter with a square jaw and heavy brows. A typical slugger, and a tough one.
“All right, champ, box him now!” Ryan murmured as the bell sounded.
Dobro broke from his corner with a rush. He was a huge favorite locally, and it was the real thing for the hometown fans to see a local heavyweight in a grudge battle with the world’s champion.
Dobro rushed to close quarters but was stopped abruptly by a stiff left jab that set him back on his heels. Before he could regain his balance, Malone crossed a solid right to the head, and hooked two lefts to the body, in close. Dobro bored in, taking more blows. Bobbing and weaving, he tried to go under Malone’s left, but it followed him, cutting, stabbing, holding him off.
Then Barney’s left swung out a little, and Dobro managed to drive in close, where he clinched desperately, cursing. Malone tied him up calmly and pounded his body with a free hand. Ryan was signaling from his corner and, remembering, Malone jerked his shoulder up hard under Dobro’s chin. As the crowd booed, he calmly pushed Dobro away and peeled the hide from a cheekbone with the vicious heel of his glove.
The crowd booed again, and Dobro rushed, but brought up sharply on the end of a left that split his lips and started a stream of blood. Before he could set himself, Malone fired a volley of blows to his body. The bell sounded, and the crowd mingled cheers with the booing.
“Nice goin’, kid,” Ryan assured him. “You should be in the movies. You look so much like McGowan, I hate you myself! But keep up the rough stuff, that’s what we want.”
The clang of the bell had scarcely died when Dobro was across the ring, but again he met that snapping left. He plunged in again, and again the left swung a little wide, letting him in. Then Malone promptly tied him up.
As they broke, Dobro took a terrific swing at Malone’s jaw, slipped on some spilled water, and plunged forward, arms flailing. Stumbling, he tried to regain his balance, then plunged headfirst into a steel corner-post! He slumped, a dead weight, upon the canvas, suddenly still.
Quickly, Malone bent over him, helping him to his feet, face white and worried. The referee and the man’s seconds crowded around, working madly over the fighter, who had struck with force enough to kill. Malone was suddenly conscious of a tugging at his arm, and looked up to find Ruby Ryan motioning him to the corner.
“He’s all right, kid,” Ryan assured him. “But if he came to and found you bent over him, worried like that, the shock would probably kill him! Remember, you’re suppo
sed to hate him and everything about him.”
Finally, Dobro came around, but insisted on going on with the fight after a brief rest.
When the bell sounded again, Dobro came out fast, seemingly none the worse for his bump, but Malone stepped away, sparring carefully. Dobro plunged in close and slammed a couple of stiff punches to the body, then hooked a hard left to the head without a return. Malone stepped away, boxing carefully. He could still see Dobro’s white face and queer eyes as he lay on the canvas, and was afraid that a stiff punch might—
A jolting right suddenly caught him on the ear, knocking him across the ring into the ropes. He caught himself just in time to see Dobro plunging in, his eyes wild with killer’s fire. Malone ducked and clinched. As Dobro’s ear came close, he whispered:
“Take it easy, you clown, an’ I’ll let you ride awhile!”
Then the referee broke them, and Malone saw Dobro’s brow wrinkle with puzzlement. He realized instantly that he had overplayed his hand. Hesitant to batter Dobro after his fall, he had acted as Bat McGowan would never have acted. Dobro bored in, and Malone put a light left to his mouth, but passed up a good shot for his right. Suddenly, in close, his eye caught Dobro’s; Dobro went under a left and clinched.
“Say, what is this?” he growled. “You’re—”
Panic-stricken, Malone shoved him off with a left and hooked a terrific right to the chin that slammed Dobro to the canvas. But he was up at nine, boring in, still puzzled, conscious that something was wrong. Malone put two rapid lefts to the face, and then stepped back, feinting a left and then letting it swing wide again. But this time, as Dobro lunged to get in close, Malone caught him coming in with a short, vicious right cross to the chin that stopped him dead in his tracks. Dobro weaved and started to drop, already out cold, but before he could fall, Malone whipped in a steaming left hook that stretched him on the canvas, dead to the world.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING, Ruby Ryan walked into the room where Barney Malone was playing solitaire and handed him a paper.
“Take a gander at that, son. Looks like they’re eating it up; but just the same, I’m worried. Porky is dumb enough, but even a dumb guy can stumble into a smart play.”
On one side of the sport sheet, black headlines broadcast the fight of the previous evening:
McGOWAN STOPS DOBRO IN SECOND
Champ Looks Great in Grudge Battle
with Slugging Foe
But across the page, and in a column of comment, Ma-lone read further:
How does he do it? In the past thirty days, Bat McGowan has flattened ten opponents in as clean-cut fashion as ever a champion did. But in the same space of time, he has been seen drunk and carousing no less than seven times. Even Harry Greb in his palmy days never displayed such form as the champion has of late, while at the same time burning the candle at both ends.
We have never cared for McGowan; the champion has been as consistently dirty, and as unnecessarily foul as any fighter we have ever seen. But last night with Porky Dobro, he intentionally coasted after the man had been injured by a fall. It was the act of a champion—but somehow, it wasn’t like McGowan as we have known him.
“Well, what do you think, kid?” Ryan looked at him curiously. “You’re making the champion a reputation as a good guy.”
“It’s all the same to me, Ruby. Champion or no champion, I’ve been giving the fans a run for their money. I’m going to keep it up, even if McGowan does get the credit.”
“You know, son, you’ve changed some lately, do you realize that?”
“How d’you mean?”
“You stopped Porky Dobro in the second round last night. The last time they fought, McGowan needed seven rounds to get him, and had quite a brawl. And Dobro stayed the distance with him twice before, once in Reno, and again in Pittsburgh. You’ve improved a lot.”
* * *
THERE WAS A sharp rap at the door, and Ryan looked up, surprised. When he opened the door it was to admit Bat McGowan, Tony Mada, and a very excited Rack Hendryx.
“All right, Ryan, you were smart enough to tip me off to this ghost fighter business. Now give me an out!”
“What’s up?”
“Almost everything. Major Kenworthy called me this morning and told me to come to the Commission offices, and right away. I went, and they want to know why McGowan is gallivanting around the country, knocking off setups and not defending his title. They say the six months are up, and they want him to defend his title at once. They had Dickerson, the promoter, up there, and had papers all ready to sign, and wanted to know if I had any objections to letting the champ defend his title against Hamp Morgan—and in just six weeks! McGowan here can’t get in shape to fight in that time!”
“Hamp Morgan, eh?” Ryan frowned. “He’s a tough egg, and been comin’ up fast the past few months. Can’t you stall a little?”
“Stall? What d’you think I’ve been tryin’ to do? They say the champ’s in great shape, they saw him beat Dobro and a couple of other guys. There’s a lot of talk now, and they say it will draw like a million bucks. And when we got the fight for the title, we posted ten thousand bucks in agreeing to defend the title in six months!”
“Why not let Barney fight?” Ryan asked softly.
“Malone? Say, what are we talkin’ about? Hamp Morgan is no setup!” McGowan snarled angrily. “Think I want that punk to lose my title for me? You’re nuts!”
“Yeah? What about Porky Dobro? How long did it take you to stop him last time? And did he or did he not bust you around plenty?” Ryan demanded. “Maybe Barney can’t take it—but how many of these bums been touchin’ him? Well, I’ll tell you—none of them have! He was hurt on the ship workin’ his way over from South Africa and hasn’t been able to take ’em around the head since. But he can box, an’ he can hit.”
“Maybe we don’t have a choice, Ruby,” Hendryx said thoughtfully. “Bat is hog-fat. He’d be twenty pounds over Malone’s weight easy.”
“Hey!” the champ scowled at Hendryx.
“You are! You’d be in a hell of a spot if the Commission put you on a scale. I ain’t made much money with this title, an’ I can’t afford to gamble. It looks to me like Barney has to fight Morgan.”
Bat turned suddenly, facing Malone. “Well, what d’you say about it? Are you game? Or are you yella?”
Barney Malone got up slowly. For a minute he stared coldly at Bat McGowan. Then he turned to face Hendryx. “You’re the one that has it to lose. Sure, I’ll fight Morgan. I’ve been playin’ champ a month now, an’ I like it!”
“Kind of cocky, ain’t you?” McGowan said suddenly, his eyes hard. “It seems to me you’re gettin’ pretty smart for a guy with a glass chin! Why, I just brushed you with a left and flattened you the first time I ever laid eyes on you!”
“Fight him yourself!” Barney snapped back.
“Forget it,” Hendryx barked. “Sit down, Bat, an’ shut up. What’re you always gettin’ hard around Barney for? He’s been doin’ your dirty work, and makin’ money for all of us.”
“Why? Because he’s yella, because he’s too pretty to suit me! Because he thinks he’s a nice boy! Why, I’d—”
“You’d nothing!” hissed Hendryx. “If you were just another pug I’d have your knees broken—I’d have you whacked! You’re the pretty face around here, and you’re lettin’ someone else do all the work. Now everybody listen close; Malone you win this fight or I’ll make you sorry…and Bat, you stop drinkin’ and get yourself in shape! If you don’t make me some money I’m gonna let you swing, understand?”
* * *
FOR A LONG time after they’d left, Malone stared out the window into the gathering darkness. Ryan walked up finally and stood by his chair.
After a moment—“Well, kid,” he began, “we’ve come a long way together. When I first spotted you in that gym, I knew you had it. If you don’t get careless, none of these punks are goin’ to hit you. But just remember, Barney—the champ knows, see? An’
if you ever let McGowan start a fight with you, he’ll try to kill you!”
“I know. Hell, Ruby, everything looked good when I left Capetown. I’d had seventeen fights, and won them all by knockouts. Then I had that fall, and the doc told me I could never fight again. But I have to fight. It’s all I know. I was stopped twice in the gym, and then practically knocked out that day by McGowan.”
“Ain’t there anything a doctor can do?” Ryan asked.
“Doesn’t seem so. But this doc told me I might get over it, in time. An’ Ruby, do you remember the Dobro battle? He hit me twice on the head, an’ though one of them hurt, I didn’t go down.”
* * *
SIXTY THOUSAND PEOPLE crowded the vast open-air arena to see Bat McGowan defend his heavyweight title against Hamp Morgan, the Butte, Montana, miner. For only six weeks the publicity barrage had been turned on the title fight, but it had been enough. Morgan’s steady string of victories and the champion’s ten quick knockouts in as many exhibitions had furnished the heat for the sportswriters. They all agreed that it should be a great battle. Morgan had lost but two decisions, and these almost three years before. The champion looked great in training, and everyone marveled at his recent record even during a long period of dissipation. The betting was three-to-one on the champ.
In Hamp Morgan’s dressing room “Dandy Jim” Kirby was giving his fighter a few last-minute tips. Salty Burke, Morgan’s sparring partner and second, whom Barney Malone had knocked out on the day Ryan spotted him, stood nearby. Porky Dobro had dropped in to wish Morgan the best of luck and a better “break” than he himself had got. Though they had all been competitors at one time or another, there was one thing they could all agree on: No one liked the champ.
“You know, Hamp,” Dobro mused, “it’s funny, but Bat eased up on me in the last scrap we had. He was boxing like a million, had me right on the spot after I got hurt, and then offered to let me ride. If I hadn’t known him so well, I’d have sworn there was something crooked about the deal. McGowan has a trick of cussing a guy in the clinches, an’ a funny way of biting his lip, an’ that night he didn’t do either!”
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