by Tom McNab
Packy’s immediate reaction was one of surprise, then one of pleasure. Wiping the smile from his face, he walked menacingly to the centre of the ring where he was joined by Morgan.
“Great to see yuh again, Morgan,” he said, assuming a scowl. His voice dropped. “I got problems,” he whispered. “Anderson’s cutting down on men. If I don’t take you, I get canned. So lie down, for Christ’s sake, in the third.”
Morgan went back to his corner. The picture was clear. Packy was on his last chance. Another defeat and the old man was finished.
Below the ring, seated uncomfortably on one of the lumpy, faded velvet chairs Flanagan puffed uneasily on his cigar as he swopped pleasantries with the Mayor of Bloomington and other local dignitaries, and fobbed off side-bets from betters behind him. From the shouts of the crowd Morgan seemed to have a lot of local support, news of his performance in the Trans-America having preceded him, and the audience also contained a fair number of Trans-Americans. Flanagan sucked hard on his Havana as he looked up again at Packy Paterson, then shivered. On the tight-rope again. He forced a confident smile as Liebnitz passed by with Pollard, and made his way to a seat on Flanagan’s left. The senior journalist, looking white-faced, was shaking his head gloomily.
Cranston had meanwhile brought the two boxers together in the centre of the ring, and stood between them, his hands on their shoulders.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “I want this to be a clean fight. Break when I say break, and keep those punches above the waist. And remember, I am the sole arbiter within this ring. The very best of luck to both of you.”
Packy stepped back, giving Morgan a knowing look. Morgan did not respond.
Sergeant O’Brien clanged the bell for the first round.
Packy came shuffling out, and the two men immediately clinched, with Packy pinning Morgan’s arms to his body.
“Make it look good, Morgan boy,” he whispered, cuffing him with a soft left as Cranston pulled them apart.
Morgan circled Packy, poking out tentative lefts to find his distance: this was no bare-fist fight in which one clubbing blow would finish things. Morgan kept circling, trying to focus his thoughts. Packy’s long, looping left came over and took him on the outside of his right cheek, and the runner cursed himself for his slowness. Packy followed in with his short left hook, but there was no power in it. Colonel Cranston’s pre-fight inspection had also made sure that there was no plaster of Paris either.
Packy then put in several showy rat-a-tat hooks to the body, but still there was no pith in the punches. “Let’s show ’em some class, Morgan,” he puffed, grinning as they clinched, the sweat already streaming down his hairy chest. Morgan responded with some light, fast blows to Packy’s head, followed by hooks with both hands to the stomach, but he too made sure there was no steam in them. The two men gave the crowd some flashy toe-to-toe punching as the bell clanged for the end of the first round, but it was all show.
Morgan sat back on his stool. “What do you think?” asked Hugh anxiously, flapping a towel to cool his man, while Morgan rinsed his mouth. “You don’t look too happy.”
“I know him,” said Morgan. He spat into the water bucket. “It’s Packy Paterson. I’ve fought him before. He won’t go down easy.” He was not even sure whether that was what he wanted. Packy had been like a brother to him. The old man was finished if Morgan put him away. And yet . . .
His mind was at war with itself. Part of him searched desperately back into the past, trying to recall the mass of routines and combination punches which Packy had used, and of the counters which the veteran had taught him. He knew that only the muscular memory of those days with Packy would save him, for he had taken every punch in the old man’s armory at some time or other. But he was tired by thousands of miles of running, and already taking punches that a year ago would have glided harmlessly past. It was fortunate for him that Packy had waltzed the first round; had he taken it seriously Morgan would undoubtedly have been forced to take a count.
He thought of the hundreds of punches he had thudded into Packy’s face and body, in those days when the old man had helped him survive. There had been no profit in it for Packy. Indeed, young men like Morgan were rivals, the natural successors of Paterson and the other ring-scarred veterans. It was impossible to tell a man, let alone a woman, of the comradeship that could develop between men who spent at least an hour every day knocking hell out of each other. But comradeship it was, and the cold certainty with which Mike Morgan normally approached combat melted away in that short minute on his stool, unheeding of Hugh’s anxious advice at his side.
The bell clanged for the second round and Packy came out fast. Obviously, he was not going to wait until the fourth: someone must have told him to put Morgan down. Jab, jab went his left hand into Morgan’s face, without reply. Jab, jab again, puffing Morgan’s right eye. Morgan circled, making the older man move. Again Packy’s left hand went out, this time followed by a right cross over the top of Morgan’s left, splitting his lip on the right. The crowd roared: they had come to see blood, and here it was.
Morgan counter-jabbed, jolting Packy’s head back like a whip. He noticed the pained surprise in the veteran’s eyes. Packy pulled him into a clinch in the neutral corner.
“Take the fall, for Chrissake,” said Packy. “Don’t wanna cut you up.”
Cranston parted them and Morgan moved away. He was still confused. All his reflexes told him to fight, but there was no way in which he could put Packy Paterson down.
The decision was made for him. Packy’s sucker left came over the top. Morgan could see it coming from a long way back, as if in a nightmare, but could do nothing about it. It was inevitably followed in by the short, sharp left jab, straight to Morgan’s chin. The runner went down like a stone, the blur of the booth lights blinding him as he fell. He landed flat on his back, his head striking the floor with a dull thud. He was dimly aware of Cranston counting above him, and dragged himself up on to his elbows, only to fall over once more. One – two – three – four – five – six – seven – eight . . .
On the count of nine Sergeant O’Brien clanged the bell and Hugh rushed into the ring, put his arms under Morgan’s armpits and dragged him back to his corner. In the front row of the audience Flanagan had his face in his hands, whilst beside him Dixie was comforting Kate Sheridan.
Morgan hung limply on his stool, his back resting on the corner-support, arms dangling at his sides, eyes half-closed. Hugh sponged his face with luke-warm water and Morgan’s eyes opened. He shook his head, water and sweat spraying over them both. Hugh looked desperately down at Flanagan, who still sat head down, immersed in his own worries.
“Here, give him this.”
It was Doc, from beneath the ring. He thrust a small bottle of smelling salts into Hugh’s hand.
“Get them under his nose, and quick.”
Hugh unscrewed the container, put his left arm round Morgan’s shoulders and thrust the salts under the boxer’s nose.
Morgan coughed as the acrid smell of the salts reached his nostrils. Hugh slapped his face lightly.
“You with me, Mike?”
Morgan nodded.
“Then listen. Just stay out of trouble for the next three minutes, till your head clears. Use the ring. Make him move.”
Morgan pushed away the smelling salts, shook his head and brushed the tears and sweat from his eyes. His head still spun. It was strange: breathing, legs, body were still in good condition, yet here he was, fighting to secure that level of concentration that would enable him to stay on his feet for another round. He felt his head slowly clear. It had been a good punch, but it had not been of knock-out calibre. Perhaps Packy needed the plaster of Paris to put people away for good nowadays.
Colonel Cranston walked over to him.
“You sure you’re able to continue?” he asked.
“Try to stop me,” growled Morgan, pushing his gloves together and baring his teeth. He looked across at Packy, who was swilling out hi
s mouth, listening to the snarled advice of Professor Anderson, on his left. This was not time for aggression. He must do as Hugh had advised: stay out of trouble until he could clear his head completely and get back into his punching rhythm.
The humid atmosphere in the tent was now intense, with the Trans-Americans on their feet chanting out their man’s name, but Morgan was no longer aware of it. His aim throughout the next minute had, simply, to be to survive, to stay on his feet. The bell went. He circled, making Packy move to him. But he could not stay out of the way of Packy’s sharp prodding left, which was rapidly closing his right eye. Hugh’s words clung in his mind. “Use the ring, make him move.” Somehow Morgan was able to keep on the balls of his feet, circling and swaying to the rhythm of past reflexes. Each time the old man missed, Morgan heard the sharp explosion of breath, the increased heaviness of his breathing. Packy was tiring. Throughout the whole round Morgan hardly threw a punch, circling and dancing, bobbing and weaving as his senses returned and some of the old rhythms and reflexes came back to him, albeit only in flurries. Packy plodded dourly after him, occasionally catching Morgan but never with a solid, punishing punch. The veteran was puffing hard as O’Brien signalled the end of the third round, to the boos of the local crowd.
“Get that man to fight, Colonel,” hissed Anderson. “This ain’t no dancing school.”
“I’ll thank you to keep your comments to yourself, Professor,” spat Cranston in reply.
Morgan meanwhile was back on the low stool, the sweat streaming down his lean body. He was back in the fight. Packy would have to put him away in the fourth to save Anderson his hundred dollars, plus whatever Levy had offered him. The old man would have to come to him. So this was the time to go for the big hit. If Packy did succeed in putting him out, what did it mean? For Packy, another couple of stumblebum years in the booth and a glassy senility in some asylum. And Flanagan now had over forty grand riding on the fight – the future of the Trans-America, not to mention all the bets the Trans-Americans had taken.
“Morgan!” He looked down to his right, below the ring. It was Flanagan.
“The belly,” said Flanagan, putting together a fantasy combination of lefts and rights into the smoky air in front of him. “Go for the body and the head will die.” He put another combination together and replaced his cigar on the left side of his mouth. “You can bank on it.”
He made a fist to Morgan with his right hand and moved back to his seat.
Morgan turned to look at Hugh above him. “He’s right,” said Hugh. “Go for his gut.”
Morgan spat his rinse-water into the bucket, replaced his gum-shield with a grimace and pressed his gloves together. He looked across at Packy. It was so obvious that he should have seen it himself. There were fear and uncertainty in the older man’s eyes as Professor Anderson spat advice at him from beneath the ropes. Time was running out for him. He would have to put Morgan away.
With the sound of the final bell Packy came out crouching, balanced, and immediately took the initiative. The veteran led with a straight left which snapped Morgan’s head back, then ducked to hook him with a right to the stomach, below the belt. Morgan gasped and went down on his left knee, his right glove on the canvas. The old man still packed a wallop: his hardest punch so far. And no longer legal. He looked above him at Packy’s pouting, hairy belly. “Go for the body and the head will die.”
He got up at the count of seven. Cranston cleaned his gloves, held him by both cheeks, looked closely into his eyes, then released him. Left, left into Packy’s face, forcing him into a corner. Then Morgan ducked and drilled six short jabs deep into Packy’s stomach, feeling the old man gasp as he dug them home and the spray of sweat as Packy pulled him into a clinch.
Cranston pushed them apart and Morgan again went in low, boring short lefts and rights deep into Packy’s stomach. He heard the “oof” of Packy’s breath as his punches sank home. He felt the veteran’s legs go soft, and for a moment he considered holding him up.
But no. He again hit Packy with a left jab to the diaphragm. As the old man’s right hand dropped, Morgan threw a left to the point of Packy’s chin. From the moment the punch was thrown he knew that it was the final blow of the fight. Packy went down flat on his back. All the bellowing of Professor Anderson and his fighters could not bring him to his feet.
The Trans-Americans rose as one man, throwing hats, newspapers, jackets in the air. Flanagan had done it again. In the red velvet seat beside Flanagan, Leonard H. Levy smiled limply and stood to shake his rival’s hand. Flanagan ignored him, instead making a flurry of left and right jabs to an imaginary belly, as he continued to look up at the crowded ring.
“I told you, Morgan!” he shouted. “I told you.”
Half an hour later, Mike Morgan stood alongside Kate Sheridan, Hugh McPhail and Dixie Williams in the darkness outside the deserted booth, and watched as the lights on the booth-front went out one by one.
Morgan put both hands on Kate’s shoulders and looked her squarely in the eye.
“There’s something I’ve got to do,” he said quietly. “Wait for me here.” He nodded to the others then walked to the left of the booth, and on to the cluster of caravans behind it. Some of Anderson’s fighters were sitting at a wooden table outside the ring of caravans, drinking and playing cards.
Morgan strode over to the card-players; they continued their game, not once looking up.
“I’m looking for Packy Paterson,” he said squarely. “He around?”
An unshaven, flat-nosed man took a cigarette from his mouth and dropped it to the grass, trampling it in with his feet. He jerked a thumb over his left shoulder.
“In there,” he said. “What’s left of him.”
With a brief word of thanks Morgan made his way in the direction suggested, towards a small caravan painted in dull blue and gold. He could hear Anderson’s voice even as he mounted the caravan’s steps; the word “finished” was repeated several times. He could guess only too well what form the conversation was taking. He knocked at the door, to be greeted a moment later by a flushed Professor Anderson.
“S’pose you’re here to see your old buddy?” said Anderson tersely.
Morgan nodded and walked past Anderson into the dishevelled quarters beyond. At the end of the narrow caravan, on the edge of a bunk, sat Packy Paterson. His head was between his knees, his hands laced together on the back of his neck. Like the card-players, he too did not look up.
“How you feeling, champ?” asked Morgan, looking behind him to Anderson, who made a contemptuous thumbs-down sign as he left the caravan.
Paterson raised his head and attempted a smile, the sweat still streaming down his face.
“Great – a hundred per cent,” he said bitterly. He pointed towards the door. “Looks as though I’m gonna have to find me a new boss, though.”
“That’ll be no problem,” said Morgan. “I’ve got one already lined up.”
He moved to Packy and pulled him to his feet.
“Got one? Who d’you mean?” The fighter’s voice was cautious, and slightly bewildered.
“Me, that’s who,” said Morgan firmly. He grabbed Packy by his shoulders and looked him in the eyes. “Pack your things,” he said. “You’re with the Trans-America – as from now.”
“Doing what?” asked Packy, still bemused, yet reaching up into the cupboard above him for his clothes.
“Taking care of me,” answered Morgan. “Making sure I reach New York.”
21
Showdown with Toffler
“Say those figures again.”
Flanagan leant back in his rocking-chair and closed his eyes.
Willard sat down and took a crumpled sheaf of papers from the caravan desk. He looked at them gloomily, shaking his head.
“It’s scrambled eggs, boss. Now I know what those Wall Street big shots felt like back in the crash of twenty-nine.”
He glanced once more at the clip of papers, shrugged, then dropped them on to the des
k.
“I got bills here for over a hundred grand, another hundred grand in the pipeline. Jesus, we got a lawyer’s bill today for thirty g’s and we haven’t even seen court yet.”
There was a knock at the caravan door.
“Come in,” shouted Flanagan, scowling.
It was Levy, but no longer the smiling, confident Levy of St Louis or Bloomington.
“Hope I’m not troubling you, gentlemen?”
“Never any trouble to pick up forty grand,” said Flanagan, uncorking a bottle of whiskey with his teeth. “Drink?”
“You got your own still here?” Levy mopped his brow and sat down.
“Ice?” continued Flanagan unabashed.
Levy nodded, then took a bundle of notes from his pocket.
“Here you are,” he said. “No one can say that Leonard H. Levy is a welsher.”
He sipped his drink slowly, then leant back in his seat.
“I don’t know how you do it. They haven’t stopped talking back in St Louis about your runners and Silver Star. But I thought I had you cold with Anderson’s pug.”
“It’s the Trans-America,” said Flanagan. “Somewhere in the race we got poets, fighters, lords. You name it, we’ve got it.”
“Looks like it,” said Levy. “Anyway I have a message for you. It’s from a Mr Martin P. Toffler. You may know him. A personal friend of mine. He stood for Congress a few years back. I did some campaigning for him.”
The smile left Flanagan’s face. “I know him,” he said, sharply.
“He’d like to meet you, urgently, tomorrow at seven-thirty p.m.” He fished a card out of his pocket. “At this address.”
Flanagan took the card, looked at it and passed it over his shoulder to Willard. His eyes returned to Levy’s.
“Tell him I’ll be there,” he said. “Seven-thirty p.m. on the button.”