The Bruiser

by Jim Tully

  “The Slasher wanted to go to a little place in the West where the mountains rolled away like ridges on a custard pie when it’s old.

  “The waters would help him, he said—it was like the lightnin’ goin’ to a garage for new batteries—but I said nothin’.

  “Time hung heavy as a loaded glove in the place—for the peace was in the mountains and not in the poor Slasher’s heart. And God help us till the day we die-there was a girl there—and that was enough for the Slasher. She was the sweetheart of some Eytalian warbler who played music in the dining-room so the guests couldn’t eat too much—but the Slasher didn’t believe that other men owned women. He just thought they were put around the world like roses—and the man up first got them before the dew fell off their petals. So he was cavortin’ just like the big Saint Bernard puppy he was with the young maiden—when the Eytalian sees them—and may God never allow any more misery in the world if what I tell you is not true—that Eytalian shot the great Slasher with a little Flobert rifle. You wouldn’t have thought it possible—such a tiny bullet endin’ such a mighty man—like a rain-drop floodin’ a mountain.

  “I took him to New York, as lonesome a trip as a man ever had. At such times a man wonders what the meaning of it all is.

  “When I got him to New York the very men who’d framed him were givin’ him a send-off. I was wishin’ that God would lift him out of the coffin to smack them over.

  “The undertaker met us, and I’ll never forget him. He was sympathetic as a second in the other corner. He was runnin’ for some office in the gift of the people. Undertakin’ wasn’t his reg’lar business any more except when a big shot died and he’d get his name in the papers along with the dead. His face was like a lamp with no light and as empty of oil as a gourd. He had the mock reverence of a cat when it’s killed the wrong mouse.

  “We all sat around in the room with the undertaker sayin’, ‘Make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen,’—and all of us starin’ at the box that was loaded with him that would niver get out—

  “And Joe Slack says, ‘He was a good fighter—almost as good as the men of the old days.’

  “‘Ah nuts,’ says I, ‘Joe, you’re always talkin’ of the old days. Wasn’t it you and me that fought four times long before this dead lad was on the way to his mother’s womb— You know in your very soul that this boy would of fought us both in the same ring till our ears dropped off—don’t let your mind get old by sayin’ there’s no good men walkin’ the earth in these days.’

  “And Joe said, ‘Have your own way—I didn’t agree with you in the old days, and I don’t now.’

  “‘It wasn’t us that made the decisions—it was the referee’— But I said no more—after all, it’s not fair to fight old battles over the great dead.

  “Then a drunk reporter comes in, and ‘God rest the soul of the immortal Slasher,’ says he.

  “‘God rest your own soul,’ says I—’it was you that helped to break his heart.’

  “The reporter starts to laughin’— ‘Why, Tim,’ says he, ‘not even God can give rest to what a man ain’t got’— He staggered towards the coffin— ‘Suppose we see what the Dublin Slasher looks like—after all.’

  “The undertaker has two young undertakers with wing collars and black ties open the box.

  “While they were takin’ the lid off, the reporter says to me, ‘Tim, you better have someone warn Jack Dolan’—and everybody laughs.

  “Jack Dolan was the good fighter the Dublin Slasher beat so bad—rockin’ his ribs so loose he was never the same again—

  “And when we were all quiet the reporter says, ‘Don’t let nobody ring a bell when the lid’s off—he’ll hop right outta that coffin and sprinkle us all with embalmin’ fluid.’

  “Well, when the lid’s off, we all look down—I’d seen him so often when the blood was runnin’ in his veins like fire—but I’d never seen him quite like this before—

  “His fists were closed over his breast together like a young priest prayin’. His head was square as a block and his jaws were so tight together you could see the muscles bulge. It was just like he was sayin’: ‘They’ll never hold me here.’

  “A crucifix and a rosary was wrapped around his hands like they was afraid he’d start hittin’—and his shoulders just fit into the coffin. And there he was so still a baby could slap him.

  “The look of him sobered the reporter. He made the sign of the cross on himself and says something in Latin.

  “‘Pray United States,’ says Joe Slack—’to hell with all that Greek.’

  “We’ll let him lie in state here, as it were, for a while,’ says the undertaker— ‘He’ll rest easier with all your kind thoughts flowin’ over him.’

  “Handsome Ed Barney’d been his trainer. He had a big nose—and he stood there wonderin’ what it was all about, and the tears slid down his nose as he wondered—

  “We started the Slasher to the boat at last—and there never was such a congregation of riffraff since the mad world began—men who’d of shot you for a quarter, wept like babies over a lost toy—and forget-me-nots who’d of been nice to a hangman were innocent little girls again. Someone played some music by a fellow called Chopang—and when we got in sight of the boat, Joe Slack said, ‘I’m damn glad it’s a big one—if the Dublin Slasher takes a notion to roll over it might list the ship.’

  “The band was blarin’ and rasslers and fighters and reporters and other thugs mixed their tears and their laughter with pimps and gamblers and lovers of the manly art—along with saloon keepers and priests and bums and other prominent people.”

  Berniece watched Shane.

  “It was hot work followin’ our fighter on his last journey to Ireland—and I couldn’t help thinkin’ that out of the roses on his grave, a big tree might grow—for there’d be no use bringin’ a man to such perfiction and throwin’ him away like a burned stick in the night.

  “Well, that was the end of the Dublin Slasher—oh well, it’s lovely weather outside—and a short night till morning—peace comes then with bullets in his guns.”

  The taxi stopped at a crossing.

  “It’s hell,” said Hot and Cold Daily, after a long silence.

  Berniece glanced sideways at Shane, whose hand went across his forehead.

  “It is that,” agreed Tim, “and may the sun never wither the weeds on his grave.”

  “Gee—a tough break,” from Blinky Miller.

  “He was a great fighter.” Hot and Cold Daily looked at Berniece as if to have his words confirmed.

  “He was that,” agreed Silent Tim. “There was never none greater.” His eyes met Hot and Cold Daily’s. “But it’s all in the game,” he concluded. “The ring’s too big for just one referee, else he’d never of counted the Dublin Slasher out so young.”

  Silent Tim put a hand on Shane’s knee. “And I almost forgot,” he said. “The other girl’s name was Ruby.”

  Hot and Cold Daily sighed, “I’d say it was a case of too much Ruby—”

  Silent Tim looked scornfully at him. “You’d joke in your grave,” he said.

  XXIII

  When they were alone, Hot and Cold Daily said, “I’ve never pulled a fast one on you yet, have I, Tim?”

  “Well, some that were not so slow.”

  “Then we’re even—remember the one you pulled after the fight between Blinky Miller and Jerry Wayne?”

  “I can’t say as I do—mine is a busy life.” Tim’s head shook. “It must have been long ago—poor Jerry!”

  “Well, you made a prime sucker out of me. I still remember it.”

  Silent Tim smiled.

  As a young fellow, Daily reported the fight Jerry Wayne had with Blinky Miller.

  No decision was given. Thousands of dollars were wagered on the result.

  There was a hot dispute as to which had won.

  Quietly, Silent Tim approached young Daily. “Who do you think won, me lad?”

  “Why, Jerry Wayne by a mile, and
I intend to say so out loud in The Bulletin tomorrow.”

  “You’re a young man, but a shrewd judge of fighters,” Tim said.

  Pleased, the callow young reporter left.

  Tim joined the vociferous gamblers.

  “Well, of course,” he drawled some time later, “I have five thousand on my own man—and Jerry had that much on himself. I want to show my faith in the leading newspaper. I’ll pay my money on The Bulletin’s decision—and so will Jerry—”

  “That’s a go,” responded several gamblers in unison.

  Not till long afterward did Hot and Cold Daily learn how Silent Tim Haney had used him.

  “You don’t remember, huh?”

  “No, indeed not—I made it an early rule at the beginning of a turbulent life never to remember an injury.”

  Hot and Cold Daily exploded, “Well, I’ll be damned. Anyhow, we’ll skip it, Tim. I just want to convince you I’m on the level.”

  “What’ll it cost?” Tim asked.

  “Not a red cent. I just want you to encourage your boy to see all he can of Berniece Burue. It’ll do him good.”

  “And why, may I ask?”

  “Well, you can’t keep him caged up forever like a bomb on the way to explode—if you’d had her he wouldn’t of run away the other time.”

  “He was in the Oregon woods.”

  “That’s what you say, but I’ll never double-cross you, Tim.”

  “I’ll never believe it till you die without doin’ it,” Tim said with warmth.

  “Why do you always think the worst of people?”

  “I don’t,” answered Tim, “they’re just what they are. But if you think the worst, you’re generally right. I wouldn’t be mad at Shane for havin’ big muscles, or you a pug nose.”

  “We’ll let my nose ride—I’m asking you to encourage Shane with this girl. He needs her.”

  “Do you remember Jerry Wayne?” came Tim’s incisive question. “Well, he married a girl—and may I never rest easy in my grave if I ever forgive her—that awful little pimple on a great man’s heart—she was born for the preliminary stumble-bum she finally married—but first she married Jerry, long enough to kill his soul and have a funeral for it every day—so she and her damned sparrow friends could sing like crows over it—I know I shouldn’t blame her, but damn her, I do—and I will if I live to be a million—if I ever feel myself gettin’ cool about her, I’ll jump in the fire of the rotten memory of her and get hot all over again.”

  As a newspaperman, Hot and Cold Daily knew that the best stories were those he dared not write.

  Silent Tim continued, “You forgive your enemy so he can sharpen his knife, and no quarrel is ever made up; so I’ll have no more of her.”

  “But don’t judge ’em all alike—this gal’s different.”

  “A different dress, maybe, but still the same—and look what happened to the Dublin Slasher—a big tree cut down because he had a bird in his head—a fine growin’ lad who’d of been heavyweight champion.”

  “Well, Tim, you won’t trust me, eh? I could have crucified your fighter in the paper.”

  “I can say nothing to that. If it’ll make you sleep well, you can go ahead and print whatever you like-but if you do—the arm of God will never be around you—either here or hereafter— He’d scorn you here, and it’d be too hot for Him there.”

  “It’s a good story, Tim—and my job’s to write.”

  “Yes, yes—somebody must clean the streets—and you may as well rake the gutter of your brain as the next man—you don’t dare tell the story—your mother’s ghost—if you weren’t hatched out of a buzzard’s egg-would haunt you.”

  “But, Tim—don’t take it so seriously. It’s like you say—all in the game.”

  “The heart of a great man like Shane should be in the game—a man who can crack a blow as quick as the flick of a tiger’s paw—he should be above your little rapsacality—and you’d tie a skirt to him, like the tail of a kite in a still wind—an eagle with lead wings lookin’ dreary at the sky. Shane wants no such woman—what could she bring him—the latest tune from a songwriter’s vacant brain. He can make stronger music by the swish of his gloves. Why, you’re not married yourself, and all you have to do is wring the diapers of your mind—and you get paid for it—and the boobs read your pother as though you knew what you were writin’ about—why, you’re nothin’ but a lookin’ glass—and all that’s in you is the thoughts and doin’s of bigger and braver men.”

  There was a smile in Hot and Cold Daily’s eye. “But, Tim, why lambast me?—you’d think I was Joe Slack.”

  “My God, you braggart, of course you’re not Joe Slack. Why you’d rattle in his skin. Jaysus Christ—if you say so—”

  “But now listen, Tim, let the girl be close to him. The white velvet in the night—a rainbow in the morning —why you can’t keep a girl like that away from him.”

  “Ho, ho—’white velvet in the night’—you talk like a poet with a floozy in your head. Men never win fights when there’s too much white velvet in the night—let them have the dames who have nothin’ to do—but a fighter who gallivants with gloves and who crashes a man like Bangor Lang to the floor—tell me, damn your Daily soul—what can he have to say to a butterfly with a skirt?”

  “Well, many a good man falls for them—look at Napoleon—” Hot and Cold Daily’s eyes were lit with humor.

  “You look at him—the puny little runt! Shane Rory could of spanked him before every battle—huh—you think of the half-men—”

  “Jim Corbett liked women.”

  “A dancer with gloves—jabbin’ and runnin’ backwards—what could he do with men like Rory and Jones, who punch and go in till they either knock a building down or know what’s holdin’ it up.” He grunted with disgust— “That ham, Corbett, with his ring-around-the-rosy in the ring—a nance weighin’ two hundred.”

  “But Corbett always spoke well of you.”

  Silent Tim jerked his head in surprise. “Why the hell shouldn’t he? I never did a Romeo in the ring—and ‘twas not from my example a lot of sunken-chested fairies begun to flit about with gloves.”

  “But Jim was a decent fellow, Tim.”

  “I’m not sayin’ a word about him as a man—except that he wasn’t much good as a fighter—why his seconds had to carry a big lookin’ glass in the ring—he even complained that Kid McCoy hit him too hard.”

  “There was a good man—McCoy.”

  “Yes—he was the livin’ argument against women,” Silent Tim frowned. “And it’s my job under Heaven to protect Shane Rory.”

  “For fifty percent,” put in Hot and Cold Daily.

  “You’re lyin’ as you sit, Hoten Cold. Sure, I must live, the same as you, unfortunately—but if you can tell me that according to my own lights I ever pointed a finger or deserted a friend, I’ll buy the candles for your funeral—gladly.”

  “All right—never pointed a finger, huh? How about Barney McCoy?”

  “That’s different—he did a Benedict Arnold. I’d rather point a gun at him than a finger.”

  “I don’t suppose you ever crossed anybody up.” Daily’s eyes had a touch of mirth.

  “Never—when I give my word.”

  “The hell of it is, you never give your word, Tim.”

  “You’re right, a man’s word’s his lantern in the dark—it should not be lightly given.”

  He glanced out of the window.

  “Will you let me out at the Royal, I have a late talk on with Daniel Muldowney.”

  “Sure thing, give the old rascal my love,” responded Daily.

  “And what would he be doin’ with your love?” asked Tim.

  “You can’t tell,” laughed Daily.

  “Good night, you scalawag, you woman lover,” Tim said testily.

  With slow step and solemn expression, he went into the building.

  “Good evening, Daniel.”

  “Good evening to you, Tim. What’s on your heavy mind this night?”


  “The weight of the world, Daniel—I’ve been carryin’ it since mornin’.”

  “Put down the load in your old friend’s hands, Timothy. It’s no time to weight yourself down when you’re so near the home stretch—with the greatest man in the world.”

  “And the wildest,” cut in Tim.

  “Never mind that—if he wasn’t that he’d be something else. Gawd, I’d give me soul in hell to punch like him.”

  “But I got a sad letter this mornin’,” said Tim.

  “Oh we’re all gettin’ sad letters—they make the mail slow.”

  “But mine was from some lawyers.”

  For a fleeting second a glint of steel came into Daniel Muldowney’s eyes.

  “Lawyers—trouble?”

  “Yes, Dan, four lawyers.”

  “And what’s it about?”

  “The boy.”

  “You mean our Shaney?”

  “Yes, Daniel.”

  “Four lawyers,” Muldowney snapped the words, “Who are they?”

  “Goldfinger, Goldfinger, Goldfinger and Riley.”

  Muldowney smiled. “That last fellow must be a Jew.”

  “You may be right, Daniel—but there’s one Irishman there, I know—there’s trouble. I know them all—I mean these lawyers.”

  “Where are they located?”

  “Los Angeles.”

  “And what’s the trouble?”

  “It seems that Shaney deported or imported, or some damn thing, a girl from Cheyenne to Frisco and stayed there with her for no moral purpose—her name is Dilly Dally.”

  Again Daniel Muldowney smiled.

  “Can you import a gal with a name like that?”

  “Yes, I saw the little bitch with him in Hollywood.”

  “And was she purty?”

  “Yes, damn her soul,” replied Tim. “And what can we do, Daniel?” His eyes narrowed, his jaws clicked, “Nothin’ will stop me now.”

  As if to soothe a terrible tension, he lapsed into the ancient Irish habit of smoothing it with velvet. Softly he said, “I know this Mr. Riley— Ah, Daniel, he’s a snake on a rock and the warm sun shinin’, he’s quiet as down and glib as a sparrow losin’ a worm. There’s an eternal justice, Daniel—it’s higher than the mountains and lower than the sea—if you do evil, it floats on the wind and strangles you for breath.”