On an impulse, Kelly got up and stepped across the aisle. He reversed the seatback in front of the man and sat down facing him.
“Pretty damn hot,” he said.
The man smiled. “Yes. Yes it is,” he said.
“No new trains out here yet, huh?”
“No,” said the man. “Not yet.”
“Got all the new ones back in Philly,” said Kelly. “That’s where”—he gestured with his head—“my friend ’n I come from. And Maxo.”
Kelly stuck out his hand.
“The name’s Kelly,” he said. “Tim Kelly.”
The man looked surprised. His grip was loose.
“Maxwell,” he said.
When he drew back his hand he rubbed it unobtrusively on his pants leg.
“I used t‘be called ‘Steel’ Kelly,” said Kelly. “Used t’be in the business m‘self. Before the war o’ course. I was a light heavy.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. That’s right. Called me ‘Steel’ cause I never got knocked down once. Not once. I was even number nine in the ranks once. Yeah.”
“I see.” The man waited patiently.
“My fighter,” said Kelly, gesturing toward Maxo with his head again. “He’s a light heavy too. We’re fightin’ in Maynard t’night. You goin’ that far?”
“Uh—no,” said the man. “No, I’m—getting off at Hayes.”
“Oh.” Kelly nodded. “Too bad. Gonna be a good scrap.” He let out a heavy breath. “Yeah, he was—fourth in the ranks once. He’ll be back too. He—uh—knocked down Dimsy the Rock in late ’94. Maybe ya read about that.”
“I don’t believe …”
“Oh. Uh-huh.” Kelly nodded. “Well … it was in all the East Coast papers. You know. New York, Boston, Philly. Yeah it—got a hell of a spread. Biggest upset o’ the year.”
He scratched at his bald spot.
“He’s a B-two y‘know but—that means he’s the second model Mawling put out,” he explained, seeing the look on the man’s face. “That was back in—let’s see—’90, I think it was. Yeah,’90.”
He made a smacking sound with his lips. “Yeah, that was a good model,” he said. “The best. Maxo’s still goin’ strong.” He shrugged depreciatingly. “I don’t go for these new ones,” he said. “You know. The ones made o’ steeled aluminum with all the doo-dads.”
The man stared at Kelly blankly.
“Too— … flashy—flimsy. Nothin’ …” Kelly bunched his big fist in front of his chest and made a face. “Nothin’ solid,” he said. “No Mawling don’t make ’em like Maxo no more.”
“I see,” said the man.
Kelly smiled.
“Yeah,” he said. “Used t‘be in the game m’self. When there was enough men, o’ course. Before the bans.” He shook his head, then smiled quickly. “Well,” he said, “we’ll take this B-seven. Don’t even know what his name is,” he said, laughing.
His face sobered for an instant and he swallowed.
“We’ll take ’im,” he said.
Later on, when the man had gotten off the train, Kelly went back to his seat. He put his feet up on the opposite seat and, laying back his head, he covered his face with the newspaper.
“Get a little shut-eye,” he said.
Pole grunted.
Kelly sat slouched back, staring at the newspaper next to his eyes. He felt Maxo bumping against his side a little. He listened to the squeaking of Maxo’s joints. “Be all right,” he muttered to himself.
“What?” Pole asked.
Kelly swallowed. “I didn’t say anything,” he said.
When they got off the train at six o’clock that evening they pushed Maxo around the station and onto the sidewalk. Across the street from them a man sitting in his taxi called them.
“We got no taxi money,” said Pole.
“We can’t just push ’im through the streets,” Kelly said. “Besides, we don’t even know where Kruger Stadium is.”
“What are we supposed to eat with then?”
“We’ll be loaded after the fight,” said Kelly. “I’ll buy you a steak three inches thick.”
Sighing, Pole helped Kelly push the heavy Maxo across the street that was still so hot they could feel it through their shoes. Kelly started sweating right away and licking at his upper lip.
“God, how d’they live out here?” he asked.
When they were putting Maxo inside the cab the base wheel came out again and Pole, with a snarl, kicked it away.
“What’re ya doin’?” Kelly asked.
“Oh … sh—” Pole got into the taxi and slumped back against the warm leather of the seat while Kelly hurried over the soft tar pavement and picked up the wheel.
“Chris-sake,” Kelly muttered as he got in the cab. “What’s the—?”
“Where to, chief?” the driver asked.
“Kruger Stadium,” Kelly said.
“You’re there.” The cab driver pushed in the rotor button and the car glided away from the curb.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Kelly asked Pole in a low voice. “We wait more’n half a damn year t‘get us a bout and you been nothin’ but bellyaches from the start.”
“Some bout,” said Pole. “Maynard, Kansas—the prizefightin’ center o’ the nation.”
“It’s a start, ain’t it?” Kelly said. “It’ll keep us in coffee ‘n’ cakes a while, won’t it? It’ll put Maxo back in shape. And if we take it, it could lead to—”
Pole glanced over disgustedly.
“I don’t get you,” Kelly said quietly. “He’s our fighter. What’re ya writin’ ’im off for? Don’t ya want ‘im t’win?”
“I’m a class-A mechanic, Steel,” Pole said in his falsely patient voice. “I’m not a day-dreamin’ kid. We got a piece o’ dead iron here, not a B-seven. It’s simple mechanics, Steel, that’s all. Maxo’ll be lucky if he comes out o’ that ring with his head still on.”
Kelly turned away angrily.
“It’s a starter B-seven,” he muttered. “Full o’ kinks. Full of ’em.”
“Sure, sure,” said Pole.
They sat silently a while looking out the window, Maxo between them, the broad steel shoulders bumping against theirs. Kelly stared at the building, his hands clenching and unclenching in his lap as if he was getting ready to go fifteen rounds.
“That a B-fighter ya got there?” the driver asked over his shoulder.
Kelly started and looked forward. He managed a smile.
“That’s right,” he said.
“Fightin’ t’night?”
“Yeah. Battling Maxo. Maybe ya heard of ’im.”
“Nope.”
“He was almost light heavyweight champ once,” said Kelly.
“That right?”
“Yes, sir. Ya heard o’ Dimsy the Rock, ain’t ya?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Well, Dimsy the—”
Kelly stopped and glanced over at Pole who was shifting irritably on the seat.
“Dimsy the Rock was number three in the light heavy ranks. Right on his way t‘the top they all said. Well, my boy put ’im away in the fourth round. Left-crossed ’im—bang! Almost put Dimsy through the ropes. It was beautiful.”
“That right?” asked the driver.
“Yes sir. You get a chance, stop by t’night at the stadium. You’ll see a good fight.”
“Have you seen this Maynard Flash?” Pole asked the driver suddenly.
“The Flash? You bet. Man, there’s a fighter on his way. Won seven straight. He’ll be up there soon, ya can bet ya life. Matter o’ fact he’s fightin’ t’night too. With some B-two heap from back East I hear.”
The driver snickered. “Flash’ll slaughter ’im,” he said.
Kelly stared at the back of the driver’s head, the skin tight across his cheek bones.
“Yeah?” he said, flatly.
“Man, he’ll—”
The driver broke off suddenly and looked back. “Hey, you ain’t—�
� he started, then turned front again. “Hey, I didn’t know, mister,” he said. “I was only ribbin’.”
“Skip it,” Pole said. “You’re right.”
Kelly’s head snapped around and he glared at the sallow-face Pole.
“Shut up,” he said in a low voice.
He fell back against the seat and stared out the window, his face hard.
“I’m gonna get ’im some oil paste,” he said after they’d ridden a block.
“Swell,” said Pole. “We’ll eat the tools.”
“Go to hell,” said Kelly.
The cab pulled up in front of the brick-fronted stadium and they lifted Maxo out onto the sidewalk. While Pole tilted him, Kelly squatted down and slid the base wheel back into its slot. Then Kelly paid the driver the exact fare and they started pushing Maxo toward the alley.
“Look,” said Kelly, nodding toward the poster board in front of the stadium. The third fight listed was
MAYNARD FLASH
(B-7, L.H.)
VS.
BATTLING MAXO
(B-2, L.H.)
“Big deal,” said Pole.
Kelly’s smile disappeared. He started to say something, then pressed his lips together. He shook his head irritably and big drops of his sweat fell to the sidewalk.
Maxo creaked as they pushed him down the alley and carried him up the steps to the door. The base wheel fell out again and bounced down the cement steps. Neither one of them said anything.
It was hotter inside. The air didn’t move.
“Refreshing like a closet,” Pole said.
“Get the wheel,” Kelly said and started down the narrow hallway leaving Pole with Maxo. Pole leaned Maxo against the wall and turned for the door.
Kelly came to a half-glassed office door and knocked.
“Yeah,” said a voice inside. Kelly went in, taking off his hat.
The fat bald man looked up from his desk. His skull glistened with sweat.
“I’m Battling Maxo’s owner,” said Kelly, smiling. He extended his big hand but the man ignored it.
“Was wonderin’ if you’d make it,” said the man whose name was Mr. Waddow. “Your fighter in decent shape?”
“The best,” said Kelly cheerfully. “The best. My mechanic—he’s class-A—just took ‘im apart and put ’im together again before we left Philly.”
The man looked unconvinced.
“He’s in good shape,” said Kelly.
“You’re lucky t‘get a bout with a B-two,” said Mr. Waddow. “We ain’t used nothin’ less than B-fours for more than two years now. The fighter we was after got stuck in a car wreck though and got ruined.”
Kelly nodded. “Well, ya got nothin’ t’worry about,” he said. “My fighter’s in top shape. He’s the one knocked down Dimsy the Rock in Madison Square year or so ago.”
“I want a good fight,” said the fat man.
“You’ll get a good fight,” Kelly said, feeling a tight pain in his stomach muscles. “Maxo’s in good shape. You’ll see. He’s in top shape.”
“I just want a good fight.”
Kelly stared at the fat man a moment. Then he said, “You got a ready room we can use? The mechanic ‘n’ me’d like t’get something t’eat.”
“Third door down the hall on the right side,” said Mr. Waddow. “Your bout’s at eight thirty.”
Kelly nodded. “Okay.”
“Be there,” said Mr. Waddow turning back to his work.
“Uh … what about—?” Kelly started.
“You get ya money after ya deliver a fight,” Mr. Waddow cut him off.
Kelly’s smile faltered.
“Okay,” he said. “See ya then.”
When Mr. Waddow didn’t answer, he turned for the door.
“Don’t slam the door,” Mr. Waddow said. Kelly didn’t.
“Come on,” he said to Pole when he was in the hall again. They pushed Maxo down to the ready room and put him inside it.
“What about checkin’ ’im over?” Kelly said.
“What about my gut?” snapped Pole. “I ain’t eaten in six hours.”
Kelly blew out a heavy breath. “All right, let’s go then,” he said.
They put Maxo in a corner of the room.
“We should be able t’lock him in,” Kelly said.
“Why? Ya think somebody’s gonna steal ’im?”
“He’s valuable,” said Kelly.
“Sure, he’s a priceless antique,” said Pole.
Kelly closed the door three times before the latch caught. He turned away from it, shaking his head worriedly. As they started down the hall he looked at his wrist and saw for the fiftieth time the white band where his pawned watch had been.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“Six twenty-five,” said Pole.
“We’ll have t‘make it fast,” Kelly said. “I want ya t’check ’im over good before the fight.”
“What for?” asked Pole.
“Did ya hear me?” Kelly said angrily.
“Sure, sure,” Pole said.
“He’s gonna take that son-of-a-bitch B-seven,” Kelly said, barely opening his lips.
“Sure he is,” said Pole. “With his teeth.”
“Hurry up,” Kelly said, ignoring him. “We ain’t got all night. Did ya get the wheel?”
Pole handed it to him.
“Some town,” Kelly said disgustedly as they came back in the side door of the stadium.
“I told ya they wouldn’t have any oil paste here,” Pole said. “Why should they? B-twos are dead. Maxo’s probably the only one in a thousand miles.”
Kelly walked quickly down the hall, opened the door of the ready room and went in. He crossed over to Maxo and pulled off the covering.
“Get to it,” he said. “There ain’t much time.”
Blowing out a slow, tired breath, Pole took off his wrinkled blue coat and tossed it over the bench standing against the wall. He dragged a small table over to where Maxo was, then rolled up his sleeves. Kelly took off his hat and coat and watched while Pole worked loose the nut that held the tool cavity door shut. He stood with his big hands on his hips while Pole drew out the tools one by one and laid them down on the table.
“Rust,” Pole muttered. He rubbed a finger around the inside of the cavity and held it up, copper colored rust flaking off the tip.
“Come on,” Kelly said, irritably. He sat down on the bench and watched as Pole pried off the sectional plates on Maxo’s chest. His eyes ran up over Maxo’s leonine head. If I didn’t see them coils, he thought once more, I’d swear he was real. Only the mechanics in a B-fight could tell it wasn’t real men in there. Sometimes people were actually fooled and sent in letters complaining that real men were being used. Even from ringside the flesh tones looked human. Mawling had a special patent on that.
Kelly’s face relaxed as he smiled fondly at Maxo.
“Good boy,” he murmured. Pole didn’t hear. Kelly watched the sure-handed mechanic probe with his electric pick, examining connections and potency centers.
“Is he all right?” he asked, without thinking.
“Sure, he’s great,” Pole said. He plucked out a tiny steel-caged tube. “If this doesn’t blow out,” he said.
“Why should it?”
“It’s sub-par,” Pole said jadedly. “I told ya that after the last fight eight months ago.”
Kelly swallowed. “We’ll get ’im a new one after this bout,” he said.
“Seventy-five bucks,” muttered Pole as if he were watching the money fly away on green wings.
“It’ll hold,” Kelly said, more to himself than to Pole.
Pole shrugged. He put back the tube and pressed in the row of buttons on the main autonomic board. Maxo stirred.
“Take it easy on the left arm,” said Kelly. “Save it.”
“If it don’t work here, it won’t work out there,” said Pole.
He jabbed at a button and Maxo’s left arm began moving with little, circling motions
. Pole pushed over the safety-block switch that would keep Maxo from counterpunching and stepped back. He threw a right at Maxo’s chin and the robot’s arm jumped up with a hitching motion to cover his face. Maxo’s left eye flickered like a ruby catching the sun.
“If that eye cell goes …” Pole said.
“It won’t,” said Kelly tensely. He watched Pole throw another punch at the left side of Maxo’s head. He saw the tiny ripple of the flexocovered cheek, then the arm jerked up again. It squeaked.
“That’s enough,” he said. “It works. Try the rest of ’im.”
“He’s gonna get more than two punches throwed at his head,” Pole said.
“His arm’s all right,” Kelly said. “Try something else I said.”
Pole reached inside Maxo and activated the leg cable centers. Maxo began shifting around. He lifted his left leg and shook off the base wheel automatically. Then he was standing lightly on his black-shoed feet, feeling at the floor like a cured cripple testing for stance.
Pole reached forward and jabbed in the FULL button, then jumped back as Maxo’s eye beams centered on him and the robot moved forward, broad shoulders rocking slowly, arms up defensively.
“Christ,” Pole muttered, “they’ll hear ‘im squeakin’ in the back row.”
Kelly grimaced, teeth set. He watched Pole throw another right and Maxo’s arm lurch raggedly. His throat moved with a convulsive swallow and he seemed to have trouble breathing the close air in the little room.
Pole shifted around the floor quickly, side to side. Maxo followed lumberingly, changing direction with visibly jerking motions.
“Oh, he’s beautiful,” Pole said, stopping. “Just beautiful.” Maxo came up, arms still raised, and Pole jabbed in under them, pushing the OFF button. Maxo stopped.
“Look, we’ll have t‘put ’im on defense, Steel,” Pole said. “That’s all there is to it. He’ll get chopped t‘pieces if we have ’im movin’ in.”
Kelly cleared his throat. “No,” he said.
“Oh for—will ya use ya head?” snapped Pole. “He’s a B-two f’Chrissake. He’s gonna get slaughtered anyway. Let’s save the pieces.”
“They want ’im on the offense,” said Kelly. “It’s in the contract.”
Duel: Terror Stories Page 35