ideas about getting to Miami in a car with money in my pocket this wouldn’t have happened.
Suppose I double-crossed Petelli? What chance had I of avoiding a bullet? Petelli wasn’t
bluffing. He couldn’t afford to let me double-cross him and get away with it. If he did, his
grip on the other fighters would be weakened, and, besides, he wasn’t the type to allow
himself to be gypped out of forty thousand dollars without settling the score.
I was hooked, and I knew it, and I cursed myself. I lay on the bed in the half light and
sweated it out, and the hands of the clock crawled on and on. I couldn’t make up my mind
what I was going to do. I was still at it when Roche put his head around my door.
“Seven-thirty, Johnny; time to be up and doing. Are you okay?”
26
I got off the bed. “I guess so. Will I get a taxi?”
“I’ll drive you there myself. I’m just going to have a wash. I’ll be ready in five minutes.”
“Fine.”
I splashed water on my face, combed my hair and then put on the clothes Brant had
brought. They fitted me all right, but I didn’t get a kick out of them. If my own clothes hadn’t
been so shabby I wouldn’t have worn this outfit. A tap came on the door, and Alice looked in.
“Why, Johnny, how smart you look.”
“I guess that’s right.”
I wondered what she would have said if she knew the price I was paying for this rig-out.
“Tom’s getting the car. Good luck, Johnny.”
“Thanks. I’m glad you won’t be there.”
“Tom wanted me to go, but I don’t like fights. I’ll have my fingers crossed for you.”
“You do that. Well, so long. Thanks for all you’ve done.”
“But you’ll be coming back, won’t you?”
Would I? I wished I knew.
“Why, sure, but thanks all the same.”
“Put this in your pocket. It’s brought me luck, and I want it to bring you luck, too.”
I looked at the sliver medallion she placed in my hand. It showed the head of some saint,
and I looked at her, surprised.
“Thanks, Alice, but maybe I’d better not have it. I might lose it.”
“Put it in your pocket and forget about it. It’ll bring you luck.”
And that’s what I did. I put it in my pocket and forgot about it. As I ran down the steps to
the street, Petelli’s big Cadillac pulled up. Benno was at the wheel, and Brant was sitting at
the back.
“Thought we’d pick you up,” Brant said, leaning out of the window. “Feeling okay?”
27
“Yeah. I’m driving up in Roche’s car.”
“You’re driving up in this one,” Pepi snarled, coming up behind me. “We’re not losing
sight of you until the fight’s over.”
Roche hadn’t appeared. There was no point in making trouble.
“Tell Tom I’ve gone with the boys,” I called to Alice, who was watching from the cafe
door.
I got in beside Brant. We drove rapidly through the deserted streets. Practically the whole
of Pelotta’s population had turned out for the fight. As we neared the blazing lights of the
stadium, Pepi said without looking round, “The third, Farrar, or it’s curtains.”
“Save your breath,” I said. “I heard it the first time.”
We drove up the broad concrete drive-in. It was already packed with cars, but Benno
weaved his way through without reducing speed.
Brant said in an undertone, “As soon as it’s over I’ll have the dough for you in cash. The
car’s parked at the back. It’s full of petrol and rearing to go. Okay?”
I grunted.
Benno swung the Cadillac into the vast parking-lot, and we all got out. We walked quickly
across the tarmac to a side door. As Pepi pushed it open, a blast of hot, sweat-stinking air
came out to meet us.
“It’s packed solid in there,” Brant said. “Not a seat to be had.”
We climbed a flight of concrete steps, meeting people as they moved to their seats. Some of
the guys recognized me and slapped me on the back, wishing me luck. At a gangway I paused
to look into the arena. One of the preliminary fights was on. The ring, under the dazzling
white lights, looked a mile away, and the roar of the crowd seemed to shake the whole
building.
“Some house,” Brant said. “Better get changed, Farrar.”
There was the usual mob of pressmen and hangers-on waiting outside my dressing-room,
but Brant wouldn’t let them in. He got the door shut with difficulty, leaving Pepi outside to
talk to them.
28
Waller was waiting to take charge of me.
“Don’t wait,” I said to Brant. “Henry can do it all.”
“Now, look …” Brant began, but I cut him short.
“I don’t want you around, and I don’t want you in my corner. Henry can do all that’s
necessary.”
Brant shrugged his fat shoulders. His face turned crimson.
“Well, okay, if that’s the way you feel. But there’s no need to get sore at me. I can’t help
it.”
“Maybe you can’t, but you got me into this, and I don’t want you in my comer.”
As he turned to the door, he said, “Don’t pull anything smart, Farrar. You’re in this now up
to your ears, and there’s no out for you.”
“Dust!”
When he had gone I began to strip off. Waller stood around, a worried expression on his
ebony face.
“You relax, Mr. Farrar,” he said. “This ain’t no way to go into the ring.”
“Okay, okay, don’t bother me, Henry,” I said, and stretched out on the rubbing-table. “Lock
the door. I don’t want anyone in here.”
He locked the door, then came over and began to work on me.
“Are you going to win this fight?” he asked presently.
“How do I know? Your guess is as good as mine.”
“I don’t think so.” He went on kneading my muscles for a while, then he said, “Mr.
Petelli’s been around too long. I reckon he’s done a lot of harm to the game in this town. Is
this another fixed fight?”
“You know it is. I should have thought the whole damned town knows it by now. What else
can you expect when Petelli lays ten grand on the Kid? I’ve been told to go in the third.”
Waller grunted. We didn’t look at each other.
29
“You shouldn’t get sore with Mr. Brant,” he said. “He’s a good guy. What can he do
against Mr. Petelli? If Mr. Petelli says for you to dive in the third, what can Mr. Brant say? If
he says no, those two gunmen will fix him. Mr. Brant’s got a wife and kids to think of.”
“Lay off, Henry. Maybe Brant can’t help it, but I’d just as soon not have him around. You
can take care of me, can’t you?”
“If you’re going in the third, you don’t need taking care of,” Waller said sadly.
There was some truth in that.
“Suppose I don’t take a dive?” I said. “Suppose I fight the Kid and lick him? What chance
have I got of getting out of here alive?”
Waller looked uneasily around the room as if he feared someone might be listening.
“That’s crazy talk,” he said, his eyes rolling. “Get that idea, out of your head.”
“No harm in wondering. Where’s that window lead to?”
“You relax. There’s no sense talking this way.”
I slid off the table, crossed the room and looked out
of the window. A good thirty feet
below me was the car-park. I leaned out. A narrow ledge ran below the window to a stack
pipe, leading to the ground. It wouldn’t be difficult to get down to the car park, but that didn’t
mean I could get away.
Waller pulled me from the window;
“Get back on the table. This ain’t the way to act just before a fight.”
I got on to the table again.
“Think those Wops would shoot me, Henry, or is it bluff?”
“I know they would. They shot Boy O’Brien for pulling a double-cross a couple of years
back. They bust Bennie Mason’s hands when he got himself knocked out after Mr. Petelli had
bet he’d go the distance. They threw acid in Tiger Freeman’s face for winning in the seventh.
Sure, they’d shoot you if that’s what Mr. Petelli wants them to do.”
I was still churning it over in my mind when Brant yelled through the door it was time to
get down to the ring.
30
Henry helped me into the scarlet and blue dressing-gown Petelli had sent over for me to
wear. It was a gaudy affair, with Johnny Farrar stitched in big white letters across the
shoulders. At one time I would have been proud and happy to have worn it, but right now it
made me feel bad.
As I reached the top of the ramp leading into the arena, they played the Kid in with a
fanfare of trumpets. The crowd was giving him a big hand, and when he vaulted over the
ropes into the ring, they howled their appreciation.
Brant joined me. He was sweating and worried.
“Okay, let’s go,” he said. “You first; the rest of us behind you.”
The rest of us consisted of Brant, Waller, Pepi and Benno. I walked down the ramp towards
the ring. It was a long walk, and the crowd stood up and yelled ail the way. I wondered
bleakly what kind of noise they’d be making on my return trip.
I reached the ring, ducked under the ropes and went to my corner. The Kid, in a yellow
dressing-gown, was clowning in his corner, making out he was bow-legged, and then
pretending to throw punches at his handlers. The crowd enjoyed it more than his handlers did.
I sat down, and Henry began putting on the tapes. The Kid’s fat manager stood over me,
watching, and breathing whisky and cigar fumes in my face. It was because of his vile breath
that I turned my head and looked at the crowd just below me, and it was then that I saw her.
VI
The announcer, a bald-headed little runt in a white suit a little too big for him, was bawling
into a hand mike, but I didn’t hear what he was saying. Even when he introduced me Waller
had to prod me before I stood up to acknowledge the yells of the crowd.
I couldn’t keep my eyes off the woman who was sitting just below my corner: near enough,
if we both stretched out our arms, for us to touch fingers. Even as I waved to the crowd, I
continued to stare at her, and she was worth staring at.
I’ve seen a good many beautiful women in my time, on the movies and off, but never one
like this. Her hair was jet black and glossy, parted in the centre, a thin white line as exact as if
it had been drawn with a sharp-edged tool and a ruler in marble. Her eyes were big and black
and glittering. Her skin was like alabaster, and her mouth wide and scarlet. She was lean and
lovely and hungry-looking.
31
Unlike the other women sitting at the ringside, she wasn’t wearing an evening gown. She
had on an apple-green linen suit, a white silk blouse and no hat. Her shoulders were broad,
and to judge from her long, slim legs, she would be above the average height when she stood
up. Under that smart, cool and provocative outfit was a shape that drove the fight, Petelli and
the rest of the set-up clean out of my mind.
She was looking up at me, her eyes wide and excited, and we exchanged glances. The look
she gave me turned my mouth dry and sent my pulse racing. Even a Trappist monk would
have known what that look was saying, and I wasn’t a Trappist monk.
“What’s the matter with you?” Waller mumbled as he laced my gloves. “You look like
someone’s already socked you.”
“Could have,” I said, and smiled at her, and she smiled back: an intimate, we-could-have-fun-together kind of smile that hit me where I lived.
I turned to see who she was with: an expensive-looking item in a fawn seersucker suit. He
was handsome enough with his dark, wavy hair, his olive complexion and his regular
features, but his good looks were marred by his thin, hard mouth and the viciously angry
expression in his eyes as he returned my curious stare.
“Get out there,” Waller said, and shoved me to my feet. “The ref’s waiting. What’s the
matter with you?”
And the referee was waiting, and the Kid was waiting too. I joined them in the middle of
the ring.
“It’s all right, chummy,” the Kid sneered. “You don’t have to hue your corner that long. I
ain’t going to hit you just yet.”
“All right, boys,” the referee said sharply, “let’s cut out the funny stuff and get down to
business. Now, listen to me …”
He started on the old routine I had heard so often before. While he was talking, I asked
myself why she had looked at me like that. I don’t claim to know much about women, but I
knew that smile was an open invitation.
“Okay, boys,” the referee said when he was through with the routine stuff, “back to your
corners, and come out fighting.”
“And, chummy, you’ll know you’ve been in a fight when you leave feet first,” the Kid said,
32
slapping me on the back.
And so would he, I thought, as I returned to my corner.
Waller took off my dressing-gown and I turned to get a last look at her.
She leaned forward, her eyes sparkling.
“Knock that smug smile off his face, handsome,” she called. “It’s time someone did.”
Her escort put his hand on her arm, scowling, but she shook it off impatiently.
“And good luck …”
“Thanks,” I said.
Outraged, Waller got between her and me.
“Keep your mind on this fight,” he said as the bell went.
The Kid came out fast, his chin tucked down into his left shoulder, a cocky grin on his face.
He led with a left that was a foot short, weaved away and tossed over a right. That was short
too. I moved around him looking for an opening. I wanted to land one hard jolt that would
slow him down. I could see he was a lot faster on his feet than I was.
He caught me with a left to the face: not a hard punch. I countered with a left and right to
the body. His left jumped into my face again, and he tried a right cross, but I ducked under it
and socked him in the body. He got in close and began hammering away at my ribs, but I tied
him up, and the referee had to pull us apart. I got in a good left jab to his face as we broke,
and he didn’t like it. He moved away fast, snorting, then came in again, throwing rights and
lefts. I smothered everything he handed out, stepped in and nailed him with a block-buster
that sent him down on his hands and knees.
The crowd went mad. A knock-down in the first two minutes of the fight was something
they hadn’t expected, and they rose to their feet, screaming for me to go in and smash the
Kid.
I h
ad gone to a neutral corner while the referee began his count. I was a little worried. I
hadn’t meant to hit him that hard. He remained on hands and knees, looking up at the
referee’s arm, a glazed stare in his eyes. But he got up at the count of seven and immediately
started back-pedalling. I went after him, hitting him with rights and lefts, but pulling my
punches, not wanting to get him into more trouble, but putting up a show to please the crowd.
33
They were pleased all right. Every now and then I landed with an open glove, and the slap it
made sounded as if I were killing him.
He finally got his head clear and began to fight back. He was snarling and scared. I could
tell how scared he was by the way he threw punches that were yards short. All he was
thinking about now was to keep clear of my right. He had had one dose of it and he didn’t
want another.
The round ended with us leaning on each other and slamming at each other’s ribs. At close
quarters he was good, and he got in a couple of digs that hurt.
The bell went and I returned to my corner. While Waller was working over me, I looked in
her direction.
She was staring up at me, not smiling, her eyes angry, her mouth set. I knew what was the
matter with her. She hadn’t been fooled by those open-glove slaps even if they had fooled the
crowd. Waller shoved a sponge of cold water in my face. He was smart enough to see who
was distracting my attention, and he moved around so his body blocked her from my sight.
Brant came up as Waller was drying my face.
“What are you playing at?” he demanded in a breathless whisper. His face was white and
strained. “Why did you hit him like that?”
“Why not? He’s in here for a fight, isn’t he?”
“Petelli says …”
“Oh, the hell with Petelli!”
The bell went for the second round, and I moved out of my-corner. The Kid came out
cautiously, an apprehensive expression on his face. He kept pushing his left out, trying to
keep me away, but I had the longer reach. I poked one in his face, stepped in and hooked him
high up on the head. He fought back, catching me with a right and left that had a lot of steam
in them, and for a few seconds we mixed it, socking each other about the body while the
crowd roared its approval. The Kid was the first to break off.
Strictly for Cash Page 4