“Stan Reiser.” Hansen nodded as he said it. “Sure, we know; Bernie Satneck is his manager, and the manager is supposed to be the brains. Well, in this case that isn’t so. Bernie is just a tool, a front man.”
Hansen drew thoughtfully on his pipe. “I’ve been around the fight game a long time, had thirty years’ experience around fighters. Once in a while, you strike a wrong gee among them. I think less so than in most professions or trades, because fighting demands a certain temperament or discipline. Despite their associations, most fighters are pretty square guys.”
“You say Reiser isn’t?”
“I know he isn’t. I want to get him completely out of the fight game, and so do some others we know. If you put him down, get him out of the running for the championship, we’ll keep him down. Don’t underestimate the power of the press. Are you sure you don’t want to tell me your story?”
“I’ll fight him in the ring, that’s all,” Tandy said quietly. “Whatever there is between Reiser and me can be settled inside the ropes.”
“Sure. That’s the way I figured it.” Hansen stopped as he was leaving. “I know about your father, but I won’t write that story unless you give me the go-ahead.”
*
—
GUS LEFT TANDY in the room on the day of the fight and went off on an errand across town. Briggs was around somewhere, but where Tandy did not know.
He removed his shirt and shoes and lay down on the bed. He felt anything but sleepy, so he opened a magazine and began to read.
There was a knock on the door and when it opened it was Dorinda Lane.
She was the last person he expected to see and he hastily swung his feet to the floor and reached for a shirt.
“Is it all right for me to come in?”
“Sure,” he said. “You…well, I wasn’t expecting anybody.”
She dropped into a chair. “Tandy, you’ve got to listen to me! I’ve found out something, something I’ve no business to know. I overheard a conversation last night. Bernie Satneck and Stan Reiser were talking.”
“Look.” He got up and walked across the room. “If you shouldn’t, don’t tell me. After all, if Reiser is a friend of yours.”
“Oh, don’t be silly!” Dorinda declared impatiently. “You’re so wrong about that! I never had but one date with him. He had nothing at all to do with my coming to the city. Long before I met you, I had found an agent and was trying to get a singing job through him. Reiser didn’t even recommend me to Nevada Johnson, I’ve just run into him there. But that’s not important, Tandy.” She stepped closer to him. “It’s what Reiser and Satneck have planned!”
“You mean you know? You overheard?”
Dorinda frowned. “Not exactly, I did hear them talking in the club. Stan Reiser believes he can beat you. He was furious when he found that Bernie Satneck wasn’t sure, but he did listen, and Satneck has suggested that they should take no chances. What they have planned, I don’t know, as I missed part of it then, but it has something to do with the gloves, something to get in your eyes.”
Tandy shrugged. “Maybe it could be resin. But they always wipe off the gloves after a man goes down, so it couldn’t be that. Did you hear anything more?”
“Yes, I did. They had quite an argument, but finally I heard Reiser agree that if he hadn’t stopped you by the ninth round, he would do what Bernie wanted.”
Tandy Moore’s eyes grew sharp. He looked down at his hands.
“Thanks, Dory,” he said at last. “That’ll help.”
She hesitated, looking at him, tenderness and worry mingled in her eyes. Yet he was warned and he would be ready. It was nice to know.
*
—
AS HE CRAWLED into the ring, Tandy Moore stared around him in amazement at the crowd. It rolled away from the ring in great banks of humanity, filling the ball park to overflowing. The blowing clouds parted momentarily and the sun blasted down on the spotless white square of canvas as he moved across to his corner.
Gus, in a white sweater, was beside him and Briggs stood at the edge of the ring, then dropped back into his seat. An intelligent-looking man with white brows was in the corner with Gus. He was a world-famed handler of fighters, even more skillful than Gus himself.
The robe was slid from his shoulders, and as Tandy peered from under his brows at Gus, he grinned a little and smiled.
“Well, pal, here we are,” he said softly.
“Yeah.” Gus stared solemnly across the ring. “I wish I knew what they had up their sleeves. They’ve got something, you can bet on it. Neither Bernie Satneck nor Stan Reiser ever took an unnecessary chance.”
Tandy stared down at his gloved hands. He had an idea of what they had up their sleeves, but he said nothing. That was his problem alone. He hadn’t mentioned it to Gus and he was no nearer a solution now than ever. They might not try anything on him, but if they did he would cope with it when the time came.
The referee gave them their instructions and he and Reiser returned to their corners, and almost instantly the bell sounded.
Tandy whirled and began his swift, shuffling movement to the center of the ring. His mouth felt dry and his stomach had a queer, empty feeling he had never known before. Under him the canvas was taut and strong, and he tried his feet on it as he moved and they were sure.
Stan Reiser opened up with a sharp left to the head. It landed solidly and Tandy moved away, watching the center of Reiser’s body where he could see hands and feet both at the same time.
Reiser jabbed and Tandy slipped the punch, the glove sliding by his cheekbone, and then he went in fast, carrying the fight to the bigger man.
He slammed a right to the ribs, then a left and right to the body. Stan backed up and he followed him.
Reiser caught him with a left to the head, and Tandy landed a right. He felt the glove smack home solidly in Stan’s body, and it felt good. They clinched, and he could feel the other man’s weight and strength, sensing his power.
He broke and Stan came after him, his left stabbing like a living thing. A sharp left to the mouth, then another.
Both men were in excellent shape and the murderous punches slid off their toughened bodies like water off a duck’s back.
Just before the bell, Reiser rushed him into the ropes and clipped him with a wicked right to the chin.
Tandy was sweating now and he was surprised to see blood on his glove when he wiped his face.
When the bell rang for the second, he went out, feinted, and then lunged. Reiser smashed a right to the head that knocked him off balance, and before he could get his feet under him, the bigger man was on him with a battering fury of blows.
Tandy staggered and retreated hastily, but to no avail. Stan was after him instantly, jabbing a left, then crossing a right. Tandy landed a right uppercut in close and Stan clipped him with two high hooks.
Sweaty and bloody now, Tandy bored in; lost to the crowd, lost to Gus, to Dorinda, and to Briggs, living now only for battle and the hot lust of combat. It lifted within him like a fierce, unholy tide. He drove Stan back and was in turn driven back, and they fought, round after round, with the tide of battle seesawing first one way and then another, bloody and desperate and bitter.
In the seventh round, they both came out fast. The crowd was in a continuous uproar now. Slugging like mad, they drove together. Stan whipped over a steaming right uppercut that caught Tandy coming in and his knees turned to rubber. He started to sink and Stan closed in, smashing a sharp left to the face and then crossing a right to the jaw that drove Tandy to his knees.
His head roaring, Tandy came up with a lunge and dove for a clinch, but Stan was too fast. He stepped back and stopped the attempt with a stiff left to the face that cut Tandy’s lips, and then he rushed Tandy, smashing and battering him back with a furious flood of blows, driving him finally into the ropes with a sweeping left that made Tandy turn a complete somersault over the top rope!
His head came through them a
gain and he crawled inside, with Reiser moving in for the kill.
Retreating, Tandy fought to push his thoughts through the fog from the heavy punches. He moved back warily, circling to avoid Reiser. The big man kept moving in, taking his time, more sure of himself now, and set for a kill.
Tandy Moore saw the cruel lips and the high cheekbones, one of them wearing a mouse, he saw a thin edge of a cut under Stan’s right eye, and his lips looked puffed. His side was reddened from the pounding Tandy had given it, and Tandy’s eyes narrowed as he backed into the ropes. That eye and the ribs!
Reiser closed in carefully and stabbed a left. More confident now, Tandy let the punch start, then turned his shoulders behind a left jab that speared Stan on the mouth. It halted him and the big fighter blinked.
Instantly, Tandy’s right crossed over the left jab to the mouse on the cheekbone.
It landed with a dull thud and Stan’s eyes glazed. His nostrils alive with the scent of sweaty muscles and blood, Tandy jabbed, then crossed, and suddenly they were slugging.
Legs spread apart, jaws set, they stood at point-blank range and fired with both hands!
The crowd came up roaring. The pace was too furious to last and it finally became a matter of who would give ground first. Suddenly Tandy Moore thrust his foot forward in a tight, canvas-gripping movement. Tandy saw his chance and threw a terrific left hook to the chin but it missed and a right exploded on his own jaw and he went to the canvas with a crash and a vast, roaring sound in his skull.
He came up swinging and went down again from a wicked left hook to the stomach and a crashing right to the corner of his jaw.
Rolling over, he got to his knees, his head filled with that roaring sound, and vaguely he saw Stan going away from him and realized with a shock that he was on his feet and that the bell ending the round was clanging in his ears!
One more round! It must be now or never! Whatever Reiser and Bernie had planned, whatever stratagem they had conceived, would be put into execution in the ninth round, and in the next, the eighth, he must win. He heard nothing that Gus Coe said. He felt only the ministering hands, heard the low, careful tone of his voice, felt water on his face and the back of his neck, and then a warning buzzer sounded and he was on his feet ready for the bell.
VI
THE BELL RANG and Tandy went out, a fierce, driving lust for victory welled up within him until he could see nothing but Stan Reiser. This was the man who had beaten his father, the man who had whipped him, the man who was fighting now to win all he wanted, all he desired. If Tandy could win, justice was at hand.
He hurled himself at Reiser like a madman. Toughened by years of hard work, struggle, and sharpened by training, he was ready. Fists smashing and battering he charged into Reiser, and the big heavyweight met him without flinching. For Stan Reiser had to win in this round, too. He must win in this round or confess by losing that he was the lesser man. Hating Tandy with all the ugly hatred of a man who has wronged another, he still fought the thought of admitting that he must stoop to using other methods to beat this upstart who would keep him from the title.
Weaving under a left, Tandy smashed a right to the ribs, then a left, a right, a left. His body swayed as he weaved in a deadly rhythm of mighty punching, each blow timed to the movements of Stan Reiser’s body.
The big man yielded ground. He fell back and tried to sidestep, but Tandy was on him, giving no chance for a respite.
Suddenly the haze in Tandy’s head seemed to clear momentarily and he stared upon features that were battered and swollen. One of Stan’s eyes was closed and a raw wound lay under the other. His lips were puffed and his cheekbone was an open cut, yet there was in the man’s eyes a fierce, almost animal hatred and something else.
It was something Tandy had never until that moment seen in a boxer’s eyes. It was fear!
Not fear of physical injury, but the deeper, more awful fear of being truly beaten. And Stan Reiser had never been bested in that way. And now it was here, before him.
It was an end. Reiser saw it and knew it. Nothing he could do could stop that driving attack. He had thrown his best punches, used every legitimate trick, but there was one last hope!
Tandy feinted suddenly and Reiser struck out wildly, and Tandy smashed a right hand flush to the point of his chin!
Stan hit the ropes rolling, lost balance, and crashed to the floor. Yet at seven he was up, lifting his hands, half blind, but then the bell rang!
*
—
THE NINTH ROUND. Here it was. Almost before he realized it, the gong sounded and Tandy was going out again. But now he was wary, squinting at Stan’s gloves.
Were they loaded? But the gloves had not been slipped off. There was no time, and no chance for that under the eyes of the crowd and the sportswriters. It would be something on the gloves.
He jabbed and moved away. Stan was working to get in close and there was a caution in his eyes. His whole manner was changed. Suddenly Reiser jabbed sharply for Tandy’s head, but a flick of his glove pushed the blow away and Tandy was watchful again.
The crowd seemed to sense something. In a flickering glimpse at his corner, Tandy saw Gus Coe’s face was scowling. He had seen that something in Reiser’s style had changed; something was wrong. But what?
Stan slipped a left and came in close. He hooked for Tandy’s head and smeared a glove across his eye. The glove seemed to slide on the sweat, and Tandy lowered his head to Stan’s shoulder and belted him steadily in the stomach. He chopped a left to the head and the referee broke them. His right eye was smarting wickedly.
Something on the gloves! And in that instant, he recalled a story Gus had told him; it was mustard oil! So far he’d gotten little of it, but if it got directly in his eyes—
He staggered under a left hook, blocked a right, but caught a wicked left to the ribs. Sliding under another left, he smashed a right to the ribs with such force that it jerked Reiser’s mouth open. In a panic the bigger man dove into a clinch, and jerking a glove free ground the end of it into Tandy’s eye! He gritted his teeth and clinched harder.
“You remember me; the newsboy?” Tandy hissed as they swung around in a straining dance.
The referee was yelling, “Break!”
Stan hooked again but Tandy got his shoulder up to take the blow. “I’m going to take you down and if I don’t I’ll tell my story to anyone who’ll listen!” Panic and fear haunted Stan Reiser’s eyes and then something in him snapped; there was no longer any thought of the future just a driving, damning desire to punish this kid who would dare to threaten him.
Tandy jerked away and Stan hooked viciously to the jaw. Staggering, he caught the left and went to the canvas. He rolled over and got up, but Stan hooked another wicked left to his groin, throwing it low and hard with everything he had on it!
Tandy’s mouth jerked open in a half-stifled cry of agony and he pitched over on his face, grabbing his crotch and rolling over and over on the canvas!
Men and women shouted and screamed. A dozen men clambered to the apron of the ring; flashbulbs popped as the police surged forward to drag everyone back. Around the ring all was bedlam and the huge arena was one vast roar of sound.
Tandy rolled over and felt the sun on his face, and he knew he had to get up.
Beyond the pain, beyond the sound, beyond everything was the need to be on his feet. He crawled to his knees and while the referee stared, too hypnotized by Tandy’s struggle to get up to stop the fight, Tandy grabbed the ropes and pulled himself erect.
Blinded with pain from his stinging eyes, his teeth sunk into his mouthpiece with the agony that gnawed at his vitals, Tandy brushed the referee aside and held himself with his mind, every sense, every nerve, every ounce of strength, concentrated on Stan Reiser. And Reiser rushed to meet him.
Smashing Reiser’s lips with a straight left, Tandy threw a high hard one and it caught Reiser on the chin as he came in. Falling back to the ropes, fear in every line of his fa
ce, Stan struggled to defend against the tide of punches that Tandy summoned from some hidden reserve of strength.
With a lunge, Reiser tried to escape. As he turned Tandy pulled the trigger on a wicked right that clipped Stan flush on the chin and sent him off the platform and crashing into the cowering form of Bernie Satneck!
Stan Reiser lay over a chair, out cold and dead to the world. Bernie Satneck struggled to get out from beneath him.
Then, Gus and Briggs were in the ring and he tried to see them through eyes that streamed with tears from the angry smart of the mustard oil.
“You made it, son. It’s over.” Gus carefully wiped off his face. “You’ll fight the champ, and I think you’ll beat him, too!”
Dory was in the ring, her eyes bright, her arm around his shoulders.
“It’s just a game now, Gus.” He sank to the mat, gasping. “I’ll do whatever you say.”
“Your poor face.” Dorinda’s eyes were full of tears, her hand cool on his cheek.
“Just don’t complain about my beard.” He grinned. “It could be weeks before I can shave.”
Gus and Briggs got him to his feet. “Hell,” he grumbled, “I hope it isn’t weeks before I can walk.”
Supported by his two friends, trailed by Dorinda, who had caught up his robe and towel, Tandy limped toward the dressing rooms.
“I wish my dad could have seen,” he whispered. “I wish my dad could have seen me fight.”
IT’S YOUR MOVE
OLD MAN WHITE was a checker player. He was a longshoreman, too, but he only made his living at that. Checker playing was his life. I never saw anybody take the game like he took it. Hour after hour, when there was nobody for him to play with, he’d sit at a table in the Seaman’s Institute and study the board and practice his moves. He knew every possible layout there could be. There was this little book he carried, and he would arrange the checkers on the board, and then move through each game with an eye for every detail and chance. If anybody ever knew the checkerboard, it was him.
He wasn’t a big man, but he was keen-eyed, and had a temper like nobody Iever saw. Most of the time he ignored people. Everybody but other checker players. Imean guys that could give him a game. They were few enough, and with the exception of Oriental Slim and MacCready, nobody had ever beat him. They were the best around at the time, but the most they could do with the old man was about one out of ten. But they gave him a game and that was all he wanted. He scarcely noticed anybody else, and you couldn’t get a civil word out of him. As a rule he never opened his face unless it was to talk the game with somebody who knew it.
Off the Mangrove Coast (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 4