Mink tried to step inside of it, but took the steaming punch flush on the point of the chin. He hit the floor flat on his face.
Faherty was gathering up Darby’s gear when he looked up. “Fats surrendered to the police,” he said. “I don’t get it. If the assault can be proved, he’ll get a stiff sentence.”
“There’s me and Beano,” Darby said. “We can prove it. Even if he has three witnesses. Nobody can deny I got beat up. I’ve got the doctor’s report.”
“Uh-huh.” But Faherty was worried, and Darby could see it.
* * *
HE WAS EVEN more worried at workout time the next day. “You seen Beano?” he asked.
“No. Ain’t he here?” Darby pulled on his light punching-bag mitts. “I saw him last night after the fights. He went down to Central Avenue, I think.”
“He hasn’t come back.” Faherty shrugged. “He’s probably got a girl down there. He’ll be back.
“There’s something else,” he went on. “I’ve got you a fight, if you want it. Or rather, Mary got it. A main event with Benny Barros.”
“Barros?” Darby was surprised. “He’s pretty good, isn’t he?”
“Uh-huh. He is good. But you’ve improved, Darby. You’re getting to be almost as good as you thought you were in the beginning.”
McGraw grinned, running his fingers through his thick hair. “Well,” he said, “that big spar-boy, Tony Duretti, was hitting me with a left today, so I guess I can get better. When do I fight him?”
“Not for two months,” Faherty advised. “In the meantime, we’re taking a trip. You’re fighting in Toledo, Detroit, Cleveland, and Chicago. Once every ten days, then train for Barros.”
“Gosh.” Darby grinned. “Looks like I’m on my way, doesn’t it?” He sobered suddenly. “I wish Beano would get back.”
* * *
TWO DAYS LATER when the plane took off for Toledo, Beano Brown was still among the missing. In Toledo, Darby McGraw, brown as an Indian, his shoulders even bigger than they had been, and weighing one fifty-seven, knocked out Gunner Smith in one round. In Detroit he stopped Sammy White in three and flew on to Cleveland, where he beat Sam Ratner. Ratner was on the floor four times, but lasted the fight out by clinching and running. The tour ended in Chicago with a one-round kayo over Stob Williams.
The morning after their return to the coast, Darby rolled out of bed and dug his feet into his slippers. He shrugged into his robe and walked into the bathroom. There was a hint of a blue mouse over his right eye, and a red abrasion on his cheekbone. Other than that, he had never felt better in his life.
When he had bathed and shaved, he walked outside to the drive that ended at the main house. Mary’s car was parked under a big tree, where she had left it the night before. She’d been strangely quiet all the way home from the airport. It was unusual for her to be quiet after one of his fights, but he had said nothing.
The sun was warm and it felt good. He walked across the yard, dappled with shadow and sunlight, toward the car. He dropped his hand on the wheel, the wheel Mary had been handling the night before, and stood there, thinking of her. Then he noticed the paper. He picked it up, idly curious if there was anything in the sport sheet about his fight with Williams.
He stiffened sharply.
fighter dies in auto accident
Beano Brown, former lightweight prizefighter, was found dead this morning in the wreck of a car on the Ridge Route. Brown, apparently driving back to Los Angeles, evidently missed a turn and crashed into a canyon. He had been dead for several days when found.
“No,” Darby whispered hoarsely. “No!”
The screen door slammed, but he did not notice, staring blindly at the paper. He had known Beano only a short time, but the Negro had been quiet, unconcerned, yet caring. In the past few weeks he had come to think of the man as his best friend. Now he was dead.
“Oh, you found it!” Mary exclaimed. She had come up behind him with Dan Faherty. “Oh, Darby, I’m so sorry! He was such a fine man!”
“Yeah,” Darby replied dully, “he sure was. He didn’t have a car, either. He didn’t have any car at all. He wouldn’t go driving out of town because he couldn’t drive!”
“He couldn’t?” Dan Faherty demanded. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. You can ask Smoke Dobbins, his friend. Smoke offered him the use of his car one day, and Beano told him he couldn’t drive.”
Faherty looked worried. “Without him, it’s only your unsupported word against Fats Lakey and his two pals that you were beat up. We’ll never make it stick.”
“But a killing?” Mary protested. “Surely they wouldn’t kill a man just to keep him from giving evidence in a case like that!”
“I wouldn’t think so,” Dan agreed, “but after all, they could get five years for assault, or better. And Fats wouldn’t have had any trouble getting someone to help him with the job, since he’s Renke’s brother-in-law.”
“He is?” Darby scowled. He hadn’t known that. He did know that Fats was vicious. He suddenly recalled things he had heard Fats brag about, thoughts he had considered just foolish talk at the time. Now he wasn’t so sure.
“Renke manages Benny Barros,” Dan said suddenly. “They’ll be out to get you this time.”
“It still doesn’t seem right,” McGraw persisted. “Not that they’d kill him. Beano was peculiar, though. He kept his mouth shut. Maybe there was something else he knew about Fats or Renke?”
IV
Smoke Dobbins was six-feet-four in his sock feet and weighed one hundred fifty pounds. He was lean and stooped, a sad-faced Negro who never looked so sad as when beating some luckless optimist who tried to play him at pool or craps. Darby McGraw, wearing a gray herringbone suit and a dark blue tie, found Smoke at the Elite Bar and Pool Room.
“You know me?” he asked.
Smoke eyed him thoughtfully, warily. “I reckon I do,” he said at length. “You’re Darby McGraw, the middleweight.”
“That’s right. Beano Brown was my trainer.”
“He was?” Dobbins looked unhappier than ever. He shook out a cigarette and lit it thoughtfully.
“I liked Beano,” Darby said. “He was my friend. I think he was murdered.” He drew a long breath. “I think he knew something. To be more specific, I think he knew something about Renke or Fats Lakey.”
“Could be.” Smoke looked at his cigarette. “Ain’t no good for you to be seen talkin’ to me,” he added. “Plenty of bad niggers around here, most of ’em workin’ for Renke. They’ll tell him.”
“I don’t care,” Darby snapped. “Beano was my friend.”
Smoke threw him a sidelong glance. “He was just a colored man, white boy. Just another nigger!” The man’s voice took on a bitter tone.
“He was my friend,” Darby persisted stubbornly. “If you know anything, tell me. If you’re afraid, forget it.”
“Afraid?” Smoke looked at his shoes. “I reckon that’s just what I am. That Renke, he’s a mighty bad man to trifle with. But,” he added, “Beano was my friend, too.”
Smoke looked up and met the fighter’s eyes then. “Me, I don’t rightly know from nothin’, but I got an idea. You ever hear of Villa Lopez?”
“You mean the bantamweight? The one who died after his fight with Bobby Bland?”
“That’s right. That’s the one. Well…” Smoke took his hat off and scratched his head without looking at Darby. “Beano, he was in Villa’s corner that night. Mugsy Stern was there, too. Mugsy was one of Renke’s boys. At least, he has been ever since.
“Lots of people thought it mighty funny the way Villa died. He lost on a knockout, but he wouldn’t take no dive. He got weak in the third round and Bobby knocked him out. Villa went back to his corner and died.”
“You think Beano knew something?” Darby demanded. He was keeping an eye on a big Negro across the street. The Negro was talking to a white man who looked much like one of those with Fats that night when he got beat up.
“The police? Go to the police, you mean?”
“No, not to the police.” Smoke smiled. “Renke, he’s got money with the police, but Villa, he had six brothers. A couple of them have been with the White Fence Gang. They good with knives. Good to stay away from. Even Renke is afraid of the Lopez brothers. If they thought, even a little thought, that something was smelling in that fight, there would be trouble for Renke.”
“Where are they?” Darby demanded. “Where could I find them?”
“Don’t you go talkin’,” Smoke said seriously. “You talk an’ you sure goin’ to start a full-sized war. Those Lopez brothers, they are from East L.A. and down to San Pedro. Two of them are fishermen.”
Darby McGraw walked down to the car stop when he left Smoke. When he glanced around, the tall colored man was gone. Then he saw two men walking toward him through the gathering dusk. The big Negro and the white man who had been with Fats. The man’s name was Griggs. Darby stood very still, his thumbs hooked in his belt. He looked from one to the other. He was going to have to be careful of his hands, the fight was only three days off. There was no sign of the streetcar.
He waited and saw the space between the two men widening. They were going to take him. They were spreading out to get him from both sides.
“What you askin’ that dinge?” Griggs demanded. “What you talkin’ to that Dobbins for?”
“Takin’ a collection for some flowers for Beano,” Darby said. “You want to put some in?”
“I don’t believe it,” Griggs said. “I think you need a lesson. I thought you’d learned before, but I guess you didn’t.”
They were getting close now, and Darby could see the gleam of a knife in the Negro’s hand, held low down at his side. He stepped away from them, stepping back off the curb. It put Griggs almost in front of him, the big Negro on his extreme left. Griggs took the bait and stepped off the high curb to follow Darby.
Instantly, Darby McGraw sprang, and involuntarily, Griggs tried to step back and tripped over the curb. He hit the walk in a sitting position, and Darby swung his right foot and kicked him full on the chin. Griggs’s head went back like his neck was broken and he slumped over on the ground.
Quick as a cat, Darby wheeled. “Come on!” he said. “I’ll make you eat that knife!”
“Uh-uh,” Smoke Dobbins grunted, materializing from behind a signboard. He held the biggest pistol Darby had ever seen. “You don’t take no chances with your hands. I’ll tend to this boy. I’ll handle him.”
The big Negro’s face paled as Smoke walked toward him. “You drop that frog sticker!” Smoke said. “Drop it or I’ll bore a hole clear through you!”
The knife rattled on the walk. “You get goin’, Darby,” Smoke said. “I’m all right. I got two more boys comin’. We’ll put these two in a freight car, and if they get out before they get to Pittsburgh, my name ain’t Smoke Dobbins.”
McGraw hesitated, and then as the streetcar rolled up, he swung aboard. He did not look back. It was the first time in his life he had ever kicked a man. But Griggs had once slugged him with a blackjack from behind, and they had intended to cut him up this time.
Faherty held a watch on him next day. “You look good,” he told Darby. “Just shorten that right a little more.” He threw the towel around Darby’s neck. “There’s a lot of Barros money showing up. Mary’s worried.”
“She needn’t be,” Darby said quietly. “I want this boy and bad!”
“He’s good,” Dan told him, “he’s three times the man Delano was. He knocked out Ratner. He stopped Augie Gordon, too. He’s probably the best middleweight on the coast.”
“All right, so he’s good. Maybe I’m better.”
Dan grinned. “Maybe you are,” he said. “Maybe you are, at that!”
* * *
BEANO BROWN HAD lived in a cheap rooming house near Central Avenue. Darby knew where it was, and he had a hunch. Beano had always been secretive about his personal affairs, but he had told Darby one thing. He kept a diary.
The night before the fight, Darby borrowed Dan’s car for a drive. He didn’t say why, but he knew where he wanted to go.
It was a shabby frame addition built on the rear of an old red brick building. He had been there once many months ago. A man named Chigger Gamble had lived there with Beano. Chigger was a fry cook in a restaurant on Pico. He was a big, very fat Negro who was always perspiring profusely. If there was a diary, Chigger would know.
Darby parked the car two blocks away near an alley and walked along the dimly lighted street toward the side door of the building. If Beano had been murdered, Darby McGraw was going to see that somebody paid the price of that murder.
In his young life, Darby had learned the virtue of loyalty. Beano had given it to him, and if he was right, and if Smoke was right, Beano had died trying to protect him. In warning Renke away from him, Beano had possibly betrayed the fact that he knew the story behind the death of Villa Lopez. If that theory was correct, and Darby could think of no reason to doubt it, and if Renke had bet a lot of money and Villa had refused to go in the tank, Renke would not hesitate to dope him. Either the dope had killed him or left him so weakened that Bland’s punches had finished him off.
Mugsy might have handled the dope in the corner, and somehow Beano had guessed it. Now Beano had died, and Darby meant to get the evidence if there was any.
The street was dark and the narrow sidewalk was rough and uneven. It ran along a high board fence for a ways. Behind the fence he could see the rooming house. There was a little dry grass growing between the sidewalk and the fence. Darby glanced right and left, then grabbed the top of the fence and pulled himself over. He was guessing that if Renke and Fats had not already found Beano’s place, they would be hunting it. They might even be watching it.
The back door opened under his hand and he stepped into a dank, ill-smelling hallway. Beano and Chigger had lived on the second floor. He went up the back stairs and walked along the dimly lit hall to the door of number twelve.
He tapped lightly, but there was no response. He tapped again. After waiting for a moment, he dropped his hand to the knob and opened the door. He stepped quickly inside, then switched on a fountain-pen type flashlight.
The small circle of light fell on the dead, staring eyes of Chigger Gamble!
Quickly, Darby McGraw turned and felt for the light switch. The lights snapped on.
The room was a shambles of strewn clothing. Darby touched Chigger’s shoulder. The man was still warm. Darby felt for his pulse. It was still, dead. He started to turn for the door to get help when he remembered the diary.
Yet, when he glanced around the room, he despaired of finding it here. Every conceivable place seemed to have been searched. A trunk marked with Beano’s name stood open, and in the bottom of it was an open cigar box. Just such a place as the diary might have been kept. Darby switched off the light and went out the door.
A shadowy figure flitted from another doorway nearby and started down the hall on swift feet. “Hold it!” Darby called. “Wait a minute!”
But the man didn’t wait, charging down the stairs as fast as he could run, with Darby right after him. They wheeled at the landing and the man went out the same door Darby had come in.
The fighter lunged after him and was just in time to see the man throwing himself over the fence. Darby took the fence with a lunge and went after him. He could see a car parked in the shadows near a trestle. He lunged toward the man as he fought to get the door unlocked.
It was Griggs, and the man grabbed wildly at his hip. Darby dropped one hand to Griggs’s right wrist and slugged him in the stomach with the other. He slugged him three times, short, wicked blows, then twisted the right hand away
and jerked out the gun, hurling it far out over the tracks. Then he smashed Griggs’s nose with a left and clipped him with a chopping right to the head.
The big man went down, and Darby bent over him.
In his pocket was a flat, thick book. On the flyleaf it said, BEANO BROWN, 1949.
Darby turned and walked swiftly back to Dan’s car. He was almost there when he saw the other car parked behind it. Suddenly he wished he had kept the gun.
But when the door of the second car opened, a girl stepped out and ran toward him. It was Mary.
“Oh, Darby!” she cried. “Are you all right?”
“Sure. Sure, I’m all right,” he said. “How’d you get here?”
“I followed you,” she said, “but I didn’t see you leave the car and didn’t see which house you went into. Then I saw the man come over the fence, but I couldn’t tell who was after him. I waited.”
“Let’s go,” he said, “we’d better get out of here fast.”
They stopped in an all-night restaurant. “I got it,” he said. “Beano Brown’s diary. If he knew anything about the Lopez fight, it’ll be in here.”
The waiter stopped by their table, putting down two glasses of water. He was thin and dark. He looked at Darby, then at the book in his hand.
“What do you want, Mary?” McGraw asked.
“Coffee,” she said. “Just coffee.”
He opened the diary and started glancing down the pages while Mary looked over his shoulder. Suddenly, she squeezed his arm.
“Darby, that waiter’s on the telephone!” she whispered excitedly. “I think he’s talking about us!”
Darby looked up hastily. “Why should he? What does he know? Unless…unless Renke owns this joint. No, that’s too much of a coincidence to figure we’ve hit one of Renke’s places by accident.”
“Not one of his places, Darby, but Renke’s boss of the numbers racket here. All these places handle the slips. All of them have contact with Art Renke. And he pays off for favors.”
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