“For cats’ sake,” I snarled through my pulped lips, “will you cock-eyed sea horses dry up and let a sufferin’ man suffer in his own way?”
“Don’t think you rate so high, just because you’re a little bunged up,” growled Bill; but they was a catch in his voice. From the way he gripped my hand, I knowed exactly how he felt.
* * *
THE IRON MAN; OR, FALL GUY; IRON MEN
First published in Fight Stories, June 1930. Also published as “Fall Guy” and “Iron Men”
CONTENTS
1. — UNTITLED
2. — SCENTING THE KILL
3. — WHITE-HOT FIGHTING FURY
4. — IRON MIKE’S DREAD
5. — THE ROLL OF THE IRON MEN
6. — A CINCH TO WIN!
7. — FRAMED
1. — UNTITLED
A CANNON-BALL for a left and a thunderbolt for a right! A granite jaw, and chilled steel body! The ferocity of a tiger, and the greatest fighting heart that ever beat in an iron-ribbed breast! That was Mike Brennon, heavyweight contender.
Long before the sports writers ever heard the name of Brennon, I sat in the “athletic tent” of a carnival performing in a small Nevada town, g1ng at the antics of the barker, who was volubly offering fifty dollars to anyone who could stay four rounds with “Young Firpo, the California Assassin, champeen of Los Angeles and the East Indies!” Young Firpo, a huge hairy fellow, with the bulging muscles of a weight-lifter and whose real name was doubtless Leary, stood by with a bored and contemptuous expression on his heavy features. This was an old game to him.
“Now, friends,” shouted the spieler, “is they any young man here what wants to risk his life in this here ring? Remember, the management ain’t responsible for life or limb! But if anybody’ll git in here at his own risk—”
I saw a rough-looking fellow start up — one of the usual “plants” secretly connected with the show, of course — but at that moment the crowd set up a yell, “Brennon! Brennon! Go on, Mike!”
At last a young fellow rose from his seat, and with an embarrassed grin, vaulted over the ropes. The “plant” hesitated — Young Firpo evinced some interest, and from the hawk-like manner in which the barker eyed the newcomer, and from the roar of the crowd, I knew that he was on the “up-and-up” — a local boy, in other words.
“You a professional boxer?” asked the barker.
“I’ve fought some here, and in other places,” answered Brennon. “But you said you barred no one.”
“We don’t,” grunted the showman, noting the difference in the sizes of the fighters.
While the usual rigmarole of argument was gone through, I wondered how the carnival men intended saving their money if the boy happened to be too good for their man. The ring was set in the middle of the tent; the dressing-rooms were in another part. There was no curtain across the back of the ring where the local fighter could be pressed to receive a blackjack blow from the confederate behind the curtain.
Brennon, after a short trip to the dressing-room, climbed into the ring and was given a wild ovation. He was a finely built lad, six feet one in height, slim-waisted and tapering of limb, with remarkably broad shoulders and heavy arms. Dark, with narrow gray eyes, and a shock of black hair falling over a low, broad forehead, his was the true fighting face — broad across the cheekbones — with thin lips and a firm jaw. His long, smooth muscles rippled as he moved with the ease of a huge tiger. Opposed to him Young Firpo looked sluggish and ape-like.
Their weights were announced, Brennon 189, Young Firpo 191. The crowd hissed; anyone could see that the carnival boxed weighed at least 210.
The battle was short, fierce and sensational, and with a bedlam-like ending. At the gong Brennon sprang from his corner, coming in wide open, like a bar-room brawler. Young Firpo met him with a hard left hook to the chin, stopping him in his tracks. Brennon staggered, and the carnival boxer swung his right flush to the jaw — a terrific blow which, strangely enough, did not seem to worry Brennon as had the other. He shook his head and plunged in again, but as he did so, his foe drew back the deadly left and crashed it once more to his jaw. Brennon dropped like a log, face first. The crowd was frenzied. The barker, who was also referee, began counting swiftly, Young Firpo standing directly over the fallen warrior.
At “five!” Brennon had not twitched. At “seven!” he stirred and began making aimless motions. At “eight!” he reeled to his knees, and his reddened, dazed eyes fixed themselves on his conqueror. Instantly they blazed with the fury of the killer. As the spieler opened his mouth to say “ten!” Brennon reeled up in a blast of breath-taking ferocity that stunned the crowd.
Young Firpo, too, seemed stunned. Face whitening, he began a hurried retreat. But Brennon was after him like a blood-crazed tiger, and before the carnival fighter could lift his hands, Brennon’s wide-looping left smashed under his heart and a sweeping right found his chin, crashing him face down on the canvas with a force that shook the ring.
The astounded barker mechanically began counting, but Brennon, moving like a man in a trance, pushed him away and stooping, tore the glove from Young Firpo’s limp left hand. Removing something therefrom, held it up to the crowd. It was a heavy iron affair, resembling brass knuckles, and known in the parlance of the ring as a knuckle-duster. I gasped. No wonder Young Firpo had been unnerved when his victim rose! That iron-laden glove crashing twice against Brennon’s jaw should have shattered the bone, yet he had been able to rise within ten seconds and finish his man with two blows!
Now all was bedlam. The barker tried to snatch the knuckle-duster from Brennon, and one of Young Firpo’s seconds rushed across the ring and struck at the winner. The crowd, sensing injustice to their favorite, surged into the ring with the avowed intention of wrecking the show! As I made my way to the nearest exit I saw an infuriated townsman swing up a chair to strike the still prostrate Young Firpo. Brennon sprang forward and caught the blow on his own shoulder, going to his knees under it; then I was outside and as I walked away, laughing, I still heard the turmoil and the shouts of the policemen.
Some time later I saw Brennon fight again, in a small club on the West Coast. His opponent was a second-rater named Mulcahy. During the fight my old interest in Brennon was renewed. With incredible stamina, with as terrific a punch as I ever saw, it was evident his one failing was an absolute lack of science. Mulcahy, though strong and tough, was a mere dub, yet he clearly outboxed Brennon for nearly two rounds, and hit him with everything he had, though his best blows did not even make the dark-browed lad wince. With the second round a half minute to go, one of Brennon’s sweeping swings landed and the fight was over.
I thought to myself: that lad looks like a champion, but he fights like a longshoreman, but I won’t attach too much importance to that. Many a fighter stumbles through life and never learns anything, simply because of an ignorant or negligent manager.
I went to Brennon’s dressing-room and spoke to him.
“My name is Steve Amber. I’ve seen you fight a couple of times.”
“I’ve heard of you,” he answered. “What do you want?”
Overlooking his abrupt manner, I asked: “Who’s your manager?”
“I haven’t any.”
“How would you like me to manage you?”
“I’d as soon have you as anybody,” he answered shortly. “But this was my last fight. I’m through. I’m sick of flattening dubs in fourth-rate joints.”
“Tie up with me. Maybe I’ll get you better matches.”
“No use. I had my chance twice. Once against Sailor Slade; once against Johnny Varella. I flopped. No, don’t start to argue. I don’t want to talk to you — or to anybody. I’m through, and I want to go to bed.”
“Suit yourself,” I answered. “I never coax — but here’s my card. If you change your mind, look me up.”
* * *
2. — SCENTING THE KILL
WEEKS stretched into months. But Mike Brennon was not a man one could for
get easily. When I dreamed, as all fight fans and fighters’ managers dream, of a super-fighter, the form of Mike Brennon rose unbidden — a dark, brooding figure, charged with the abysmal fighting fury of the primitive.
Then one day Brennon came to me — not in a day-dream, but in the flesh. He stood in the office of my training camp, his crumpled hat in his hand, an eager grin on his dark face — a very different man from the morose and moody youth to whom I had talked before.
“Mr. Amber,” he said directly, “if you still want me, I’d like to have you manage me.”
“That’s fine,” I answered.
Brennon appeared nervous.
“Can you get me a fight right away?” he asked. “I need money.”
“Not so fast,” I said. “I can advance you some money if you’re in debt—”
He made an impatient gesture. “It’s not that — can you get me a fight this week?”
“Are you in trim? How long since you’ve been in the ring?”
“Not since you saw me last; but I always stay in shape.”
I took Brennon to my open-air ring where Spike Ganlon, a clever middleweight, was working out, and instructed them to step for a few fast rounds. Brennon was eager enough, and I was astonished to see him put up a very fair sort of boxing against the shifty Ganlon. True, he was far out-stepped and out-classed, but that was to be expected, as Ganlon was a rather prominent figure in the fistic world. But I did not like the way Mike sent in his punches. They lacked the old trip-hammer force, and he was slower than I had remembered him to be. However, when I had him slug the heavy bag he flashed his old form, nearly tearing the bag loose from its moorings, and I decided that he had been pulling his punches against Ganlon.
The days that followed were full of hard work and careful coaching. Brennon listened carefully to what Ganlon and I told him, but the result was far from satisfying. He was intelligent, but he could not seem to apply practically the things he learned easily in theory.
Still, I did not expect too much of him at first. I worked with him patiently for several weeks, importing a fairly clever heavyweight for his sparring partner. The first time they really let go, I was amazed and disappointed. Mike shuffled and floundered awkwardly with futile, flabby blows. When a sharp jab on the nose stung him, he quit trying to box and went back to his old style of wild and aimless swinging. However, these swings were the old sledge-hammer type, and his erratic speed had returned to him. I quickly called a halt.
“I’m wrong,” I said. “I’ve been trying to make a boxing wizard out of you. But you’re a natural slugger, though you seem to have little of the natural slugger’s aptitude. Looks like you’d have learned something from your actual experience in the ring.
“Well, anyway, I’m going to make a real slugger like Dempsey, Sullivan and McGovern out of you. I know how you are; you’ve got the slugger’s instinct. You can box fairly well with a friend when you’re just doing it for fun, but when you’re in the ring, or somebody stings you, you forget everything but your natural style. It’s no discredit to a man’s mentality. Dempsey was a clever boxer when he was sparring, but he never boxed in the ring. And he swung like you do, till DeForest taught him to hit straight.
“Still, Mike, I’ll tell you frankly that at his crudest, Dempsey showed more aptitude for the game than you do. Now, this is for your own good. Dempsey, Ketchell and McGovern, even when they were just starting, used instinctive footwork and kept stepping around their men. They ducked and weaved and hit accurately. You go in straight up and wide open, and a blind man could duck your swings. You’ve unusual speed, but you don’t know how to use it. But now that I know where I’ve been making my mistake, I’ll change my tactics.”
For a time it seemed as though my dreams were coming true — that Mike was a second Dempsey. In spite of his urging that I get him a fight, I kept him idle for three months — that is, he was not fighting. For hours each day I had him practice hooking the heavy bag with short smashes to straighten his punches and eliminate so much aimless swinging. He would never learn to put force behind a straight punch, but I intended making him a vicious hooker like Dempsey. And I tried to teach him the weave of that old master and the trick of boring in, protected by a barricade of gloves and elbows until in close; and the fundamentals of footwork and feinting. It was not easy.
“Mike,” said Ganlon to me, “is a queer nut. He’s got a fighter’s heart and body, but he ain’t got a fighter’s brain. He understands, but he can’t do what you teach him. He has to work for hours on the simplest trick — and then he’s liable to forget it. If he was a bonehead, I’d understand it. But he’s brainy in other ways.”
“Maybe he fought so long in second-rate clubs he formed habits he can’t break.”
“Partly. But it goes deeper. They’s a kink in his brain.”
“What do you mean, a kink?” I asked uneasily.
“I dunno. But it’s somethin’ that breaks down his coordination and keeps his mind from workin’ with his muscles. When he tries to box he has to stop and think, and in the ring you ain’t got time. You see a punch comin’ and in that split-second you got to know what you can’t do and what you can do to get outa the way and counter. ‘Course, you don’t exactly study it all out, but you know, see? That is, if you’re a fast boxer. If you’re a wide-open slugger like Mike, you don’t think nothin’. You just take the punch as a matter of course, spit out your teeth and keep borin’ in.”
“But any slugger is that way,” I objected. “And we’re not trying to teach Mike to be clever, in the technical sense of the word.”
Ganlon shook his head. “I know. But Mike’s different. He ain’t cut out for this game. Even these simple tricks are too complicated for him. Well, he’s got to learn some defense, or he’ll be punched cuckoo in a few years. All the great sluggers had some. Some weaved and crouched, like Dempsey; some wrapped their arms around their skull and barged in, like Nelson and Paolino. Them that fought wide open didn’t last no time, ‘specially among the heavies. The padded cell and paper-doll cut-outs for most of ‘em. It don’t stand to reason a human skull can stand up under the beatin’s it gets like that.”
“You’re a born croaker. Mike’s rugged but intelligent. He’ll learn.”
“At anything else, yes — at this game — maybe.”
Not long after my talk with Spike, Brennon came to me.
“Steve,” he said, “I’ve got to have a fight. I need money — bad.”
“Mike,” said I, “it’s none of my business, but I don’t see why you should be so desperately insistent. You’ve been at no expense at all, here in the camp. You said you weren’t in debt, and you’ve refused my offer to loan you—”
“What business is it of yours?” he broke in, white at the lips.
“None at all,” I hastened to assure him. “Only as your manager, I’ve got your financial interests at heart, naturally. I apologize.”
“I apologize, too, Steve,” he answered abruptly, his manner changing. “I should have known you weren’t trying to pry into my private affairs. But I’ve got to have at least—” And he named a sum of money which rather surprised me.
“There’s only one way to get that much,” I answered. “Understand, I don’t believe you’re ready to go in with a first-string man. But since money is the object — Monk Barota is on the coast now, padding his kayo record. He’ll be looking for set-ups. The promoter at the Hopi A.C. is a friend of mine. I can get you a match with him at close to the figure you named. You understand that a bad defeat now might ruin you. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. But you’re in fine shape, and if you fight as we’ve taught you, I believe you can whip him.”
“I’ll whip him,” Mike nodded grimly.
I hoped he was more sincere in his belief than I was. I really felt in my heart that he was not ready for a first-rater and I had intended building him up more gradually. But there was fierce, driving intensity about him when he spoke of the money he needed that broke down my res
olution. Brennon was, in many ways, a character of terrific magnetic force. Like Sullivan, he dominated all about him, trainers, handlers and matchmakers. But only in the matter of money was he unreasonable, and this quirk in his nature amounted to an obsession.
Mainly through my influence, Brennon, an entirely unknown quantity, was matched with Barota for a ten-rounder; at ringside the odds were three to one on the Italian, with no takers. My last instructions to Mike were: “Remember! Use the crouch and guard Ganlon taught you. If you don’t have some defense, he’ll ruin you!”
The lights went out except those over the ring. The gong sounded. The crowd fell silent — that breathless, momentary silence that marks the beginning of the fight. The men slid out of their corners and —
“Oh, my gosh!” wailed Ganlon at my side. “He’s doin’ everything backward!”
Mike wore his old uncertain manner. Under the lights, with his foe before him and the roar of the crowd deafening him, he was like a trapped jungle beast, bewildered and confused. Barota led — Mike ducked clumsily the wrong way, and took the punch in the eye. That flicking left was hard for any man to avoid, but Mike incessantly ducked into it.
Ganlon was raving at my side. “After all these months of work, he forgets! You better throw in the sponge now. Look there!” as Mike tried a left of his own. “He can’t even hook right. The whole house knows what’s comin’. Same as writin’ a letter about it.”
Barota was taking his time. In spite of the fact that his foe seemed to have nothing but a scowl, no man could look into Mike Brennon’s face and take him lightly. But a round of clumsy floundering and ineffectual pawing lulled his suspicions. Meanwhile, he flitted around the bewildered slugger, showering him with stinging left jabs. Ganlon was nearly weeping with rage as if his pupil’s inaptness somehow reflected on him.
Delphi Works of Robert E. Howard (Illustrated) (Series Four) Page 168