He wasn’t sure what he had expected to see, but it wasn’t a boxing ring and a professional-looking match under way!
He snapped his fingers. Boxing. Junior wanted to learn to be a boxer and his father objected.
“Might as well dry off,” Gunny told himself.
The smell of sweat, blood, and cigar smoke assaulted Gunny as soon as he opened the door. He shook the rain off as he stepped inside.
“Don’t let the weather in!” a gruff man in shirtsleeves and a colorful vest snarled.
Gunny pulled the door shut behind him and turned to face the ring. Shouts and catcalls bounced off the low ceilings, and the room was dark. All the lights seemed to be aimed at the ring.
He paid his admission and moved away from the door. A fight was already in progress. A small wiry fighter, his dark skin coated with sweat, was ducking and swaying. A thicker, more powerful man was jabbing. The smaller man dodged and feinted.
“Look at that speed,” the man in the vest said with admiration. “He’s like a ballet dancer.”
Gunny nodded. The smaller fighter had a lithe, catlike way of moving that made the bigger man look stodgy.
“But does he have power?” Gunny asked. “Heart?”
The man in the vest nodded. “This is his third fight tonight. I’m betting he’ll win this one too.”
“He’s doesn’t even look tired!” Gunny said, amazed.
The man in the vest shoved a fat, stinky cigar into his mouth. “He’s young.”
Gunny’s eyes adjusted to the low light, and he recognized a few faces. Interesting. Both Chubby Malloy and Ambrose Jackson were focused intently on the ring.
The fighters were circling now, and Gunny’s mouth dropped open. The smaller fighter was Junior!
Now he could make out what the crowd down near the ring was shouting: “Kid Wright! Kid Wright!”
If Junior has a nickname, he must come here a lot, Gunny realized. No one seemed to be rooting for the bigger guy. Junior was a definite favorite.
Gunny’s eyes went back to the ring. No wonder, he thought. The kid was good! In a flurry of moves, an uppercut, a twist, and a body blow, the larger fighter was suddenly down on the mat. A roar went up, the referee made the count, the bell rang and Junior had won again.
“Kid Wright doesn’t seem able to lose,” the man in the vest said, smiling. “The payouts are smaller because he’s such a sure thing. It’s nice to know there are things in life a man can count on.”
Three men helped drag the loser out of the ring, while Junior beamed and waved his gloved hands. Then he ducked under the ropes and out of the ring. He stood nearby, gulping down water.
“Up next!” an announcer declared, “Kid Wright and Action Anderson.”
Gunny sensed an immediate change in the crowd. He could feel the tension rise and there were whispers all around. Gunny wondered who this Action Anderson was.
A hulking giant lumbered into the ring. On the other side of the ropes, Junior suddenly went back to looking like a boy again. A small one.
“That guy will kill Junior!” Gunny exclaimed.
He pushed his way down to the ring. This is crazy, he thought. Why would anyone want such a mismatched competition?
Someone who wanted Junior to lose. If Junior is the favorite, and someone bets on his opponent, the payout would be huge if Junior loses.
“Junior!” Gunny clamped a hand on Junior’s shoulder.
“What are you doing here?” Junior asked. He shrugged off Gunny’s hand. “You’re going to try to stop me, aren’t you.” He glared at Gunny. “Just like my dad.”
“You bet I am,” Gunny said. “You can’t go into the ring with that gorilla.”
“You don’t think I’m any good.”
“That’s just it—you are good. You could probably be great, but you have to live long enough to train,” Gunny said. “That guy will do you major damage—maybe permanently.”
Suddenly Chubby Malloy appeared on Junior’s other side. “Listen to him, Kid. Don’t go out losing, go out victorious!”
Gunny tensed. The last time Chubby and Junior met, Junior spit in the large man’s face. Yet Chubby stood here giving Junior good advice. Clearly, Chubby had forgotten about that incident. Junior was another story. According to Delia, Junior now agreed that neither Jed nor Chubby killed his father. But that was according to an eleven-year-old girl….
Junior’s jaw clenched. Was he still blaming Chubby? Gunny wondered. Would he do something foolish—and potentially dangerous?
“Chubby’s right,” Gunny advised. “He doesn’t want you hurt. And you will be if you go into that ring.”
Junior looked at Chubby, who nodded. Junior’s shoulders slumped.
“But everyone will think I’m chicken!” Junior protested.
“No, they’ll think you’re smart.”
“But Ambrose says—”
“Forget about Ambrose!” Gunny snapped. “That man is only trouble. He doesn’t have your best interests in mind. Believe me.”
Junior stared at Gunny. Gunny hadn’t meant to speak quite so forcefully.
Junior’s eyes widened and his brow furrowed. “Do you think that Ambrose had something to do with my father—”
Before Junior could finish the sentence, a towering man in a cheap, shiny suit stepped up to them. “In the ring,” a man ordered Junior. “Now.”
“Who are you?” Gunny asked.
“I’m the owner,” the man replied. “And Junior here was paid for four bouts. Unless, of course, he got knocked out. And clearly, Kid Wright is still standing.”
“This is a ridiculous pairing,” Chubby told the owner. “And everyone here knows it.” He faced Junior. “I want you to stay in one piece, Kid. I’d like you to be a local contender at my club. I’m putting in regular bouts.”
Junior’s eyes widened in amazement. “Really?”
“But if you get your brains rattled or your eyes popped out in a fight with that giant over there,” Gunny said, “you’re not ever going to get that shot.”
“The man speaks true,” Chubby said.
Junior looked from Gunny to Chubby. “I guess you’re right,” he said finally.
“Good!” Chubby grinned. “Let’s go outside to talk. It’s too hard to hear in here.” Chubby led Junior toward the door.
What a turn of events, Gunny thought as he followed them. He and Chubby working together to help Junior! And Junior was actually letting them! He finally had some good news to report to Jed.
A huge paw landed on Gunny’s shoulder. The owner.
Do they grow them extrabig for this club? Gunny wondered. Gunny was a big man himself, but the owner towered over him.
“A fight is starting in thirty seconds,” the owner said.
“Sorry, can’t stay.” Gunny squirmed to get out of the man’s grip. It didn’t work.
“If Junior isn’t back in the ring, someone had better take his place.”
“Fine by me,” Gunny said. “Now I really do need to catch up with my—”
“These people paid money to see four fights,” the owner said, his eyes narrowing. “Since you’re the one who talked Junior out of fighting, I guess you’re the one who has to tell them there won’t be a fight. And you can refund all that money.”
The crowd was growing impatient. Boos and catcalls and angry shouts filled the air.
Gunny took in a deep breath and let it out again in a long, slow exhale. “I guess Action Anderson will be facing Gunny Van Dyke tonight,” Gunny said grimly.
NINE
There seemed to be nearly as much laughter as cheering when Gunny stepped into the ring. The shorts the owner found for him to wear were ratty, and the sleeves on the robe were miles too short. The gloves didn’t fit much better.
There was a flurry of activity throughout the club when the patrons realized this wasn’t some joke. Changing their bets, Gunny figured. The only person who sat still in his seat, a big grin on his face, was Ambrose. He must have bet
on Action in the first place.
“Grandpa!” Action Anderson jeered. “This is going to be easy!”
“I’m not your grandpa,” Gunny snapped.
The referee had them touch gloves. “Have a good clean fight,” he said.
Gunny suspected that “good” and “clean” weren’t in Action’s vocabulary.
Clang! Action’s fist connected with Gunny’s cheekbone before the final reverberation of the starting bell had sounded. Gunny’s head whipped back, but his hands instinctively blocked Action’s next move.
Gunny sprang backward. He had to get a sense of Action’s style. Action was younger, more experienced, outweighed him, and had serious power behind each blow: Gunny needed to fight smart, not hard.
They circled once around, Action tossing out little jabs and laughing, as if it were all a big game. Gunny stayed focused, moving, studying, learning. Action leans to the right, Gunny noted as he blocked an uppercut.
A shout from the crowd made Action’s eyes flick to the ropes. He grinned, then he came in with another hook. It missed the mark.
That failed punch gave Gunny crucial information: Action wasn’t paying complete attention. And he lurched off balance if he had to reach out to connect with Gunny.
Good, good, Gunny told himself, moving in an ever-widening circle. That’s it, keep laughing, Action. I’ve got some surprises for you.
Everything beyond Action fell away for Gunny. The room became a black backdrop, the shouts and calls from the crowd a dull, oceanlike roar. All that mattered was sensing Action’s next move.
Gunny had done some boxing in the army, and his muscles began to remember the training from long ago. His body recalled the twists, the ducks, the feints. His hands picked up speed, letting him land now more than he missed.
Action is a brawler, Gunny noted. A slugger who relies on a power punch, not footwork or finesse. Action’s follow-ups were slow—he didn’t work combinations. And, more important, he followed a predictable pattern.
If I can stay out of reach, avoid Action’s one good punch, I might have a shot. Gunny couldn’t match Action’s power, but he had speed that the big lug didn’t have.
“Don’t want to get in and dance, Grandpa?” Action taunted. “You’re staying awfully far away.”
“Don’t like your breath,” Gunny snapped. But Action’s comment made him think. Action wasn’t paying complete attention because he underestimated Gunny. Let him.
Gunny began to slow down a bit, breathing heavily, as if he were already getting worn out. The more he faked it, the more Action smirked—and the sloppier Action became.
Crack! Blood spurted from Action’s nose. Surprise crossed Action’s ugly broad face, swiftly replaced by anger.
Action’s right hook shot out toward Gunny’s ribs, and Gunny stepped backward rather than block. Frustrated, Action’s left immediately followed—not a good move for Action—taking him slightly off balance. That little wobble gave Gunny his opening. He rushed in with two sharp blows to Action’s midsection, then an uppercut that knocked Action’s head up and back. He stumbled into the ropes. Gunny pounced, pummeling the huge fighter, sensing the fight leaving his opponent. At last Action sank to the floor of the ring.
“Eight…nine…ten!” The referee blew his whistle after Action failed to get up on his own. The bell clanged, and the crowd roared. The referee grabbed Gunny’s wrist and held his arm aloft to take in the cheers.
“I got beat by a grandpa,” Action mumbled. “An old man.”
“I may look old to you, sonny,” Gunny said, “but I’m not out.”
Dazed, Gunny made his way out of the ring. People clapped him on the back, congratulating him. But Gunny just wanted to get dressed and out of there.
The cold night air refreshed him. The rain had left the street smelling a bit better. Gunny chanced a deep breath. His ribs were sore, his face hurt, but he didn’t think anything was broken.
“Where’s Chubby?” Gunny asked Junior, who stood leaning against the building.
Junior straightened up quickly. “What happened to your face?” Junior asked. “You’re bleeding!”
Gunny’s reached up and tentatively touched his cheek. He pulled his hand away and saw the blood. He hadn’t been aware of it in the ring.
The door flew open and Ambrose Jackson and his entourage piled out of the club. They were all in high spirits.
“Great showing!” Ambrose told Gunny. “When you got in the ring with Action, I thought you’d bought it for sure!” He and his group climbed into a waiting car. “Gotta hand it to you—you got heart, baby!” Ambrose called out the window. “Even if you did cost me a bundle of cash!” The car sped away.
Junior gaped at Gunny. “You did the fight?”
Gunny shrugged it off. “I took your spot. But you shouldn’t have been there in the first place. This is a dangerous neighborhood and those fights aren’t regulated. It’s just too risky.”
“It’s the only place I can make money boxing,” Junior said. “I need to—I have to help out. Now that…” His voice trailed off.
“Not this way, Junior,” Gunny said gently. “Your father would be proud that you want to take over as the man in the family. But he wouldn’t want you to get hurt for it.”
“But he just wouldn’t listen!” Junior exploded. “Not about Ambrose. Not about boxing.” Pain contorted his features, and he looked back down at his feet.
“Your dad was right about Ambrose,” Gunny said. “You have to stay away from that man.”
Junior studied Gunny’s face. “You think it was Ambrose who killed my father?”
Gunny looked down at the ground. He worried what Junior would do if he confirmed Junior’s suspicion.
“You do, don’t you!” Junior exploded. “I’ll kill him!”
Exactly what Gunny did not want to hear. Gunny grabbed Junior’s arms and held him firmly in place. “You will do no such thing,” he ordered. “You try anything with Ambrose and it’s your life that’s over, not his.”
“But he—”
“He will come at you with guns blazing,” Gunny said. “Let the adults handle it.”
“I’m not a little kid!” Junior shouted. “I need to—”
“You need to stay safe,” Gunny cut him off. “For your mother. For Delia.”
Now it was Junior who stared down at the ground. Gunny hoped his words had sunk in. If Junior went after Ambrose, Gunny would have failed to keep his promise to Jed.
“In that ring,” Gunny said, “Junior, you were really good. I bet your dad would have come around to boxing. In time.”
Junior looked up with a grateful, hopeful expression. “You think?”
“I know.”
Junior’s huge, relieved smile made Gunny think for the first time that maybe, just maybe, Jed wasn’t crazy to have asked him to watch out for Junior.
TEN
The previous day’s rain had left the racetrack muddy. The early morning sun hadn’t had a chance to do its work, and the horses were kicking up mud as they went through their paces.
This was the closest racetrack—the one Marvin and Jeffrey would most likely have attended if they had a thing for the ponies. The question was, would Gunny also find something to link them both to Ambrose? And, more important, would he find Marvin Halliday alive and kicking?
It was still early and most of the folks there now were with the race or die-hard gamblers trying to scout the winners by watching the warm-ups. If Marvin or Jeffrey were regulars, these were the people who would know it.
My, my, my. Delia was right. A very agitated Marvin Halliday was right at trackside. Other spectators were scattered along the track, but they seemed to have an unspoken agreement to keep out of one another’s way.
Gunny tromped down to the track. “Where have you been?” he demanded, startling Marvin. “Everyone’s looking for you—me, the cops, everyone!”
A horrified expression crossed Marvin’s face. “You can’t tell anyone you found me!�
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Gunny was taken aback. That was not the response he had expected. “You know that Jed has been arrested, right? The cops are even wondering if you’re dead.”
Marvin laughed hollowly. “Faking my own death could be a solution…”
“You’ve got to come with me now. Go to the cops.”
Marvin shook his head. “Not a chance.”
“But Jed—”
Marvin cut him off. “Jed will get off—he’s innocent.”
“There’s no guarantee of that,” Gunny argued. “There’s a lot of evidence against him.” Then the significance of Marvin’s words hit him. “You know for a fact that Jed’s innocent, because you saw who did it!”
Marvin noticed someone over Gunny’s shoulder and went pale. “I’ve got to get out of here—now!”
“NO! You’re coming with me!” Gunny shouted. He grabbed Marvin’s arms. With a huge surge of energy, Marvin let out a loud bellow and shoved Gunny hard. Gunny stumbled and Marvin slipped away.
He righted himself, and now the streams of fans pouring into the track blocked his path. He gazed up into the stands. They were filling up fast. He didn’t see Marvin anywhere.
But he did see Mr. Ambrose Jackson. Gunny was more certain than ever that Ambrose was the guy Marvin was hiding from—and Jeffrey Wright’s killer.
“That mud is going to change things,” said a short slim man taking a spot next to Gunny near the guardrail. He stared down at the racing form in his hands. “And I had my winners all picked.”
“Play the ponies a lot?” Gunny asked.
“Every chance I get.” The man grinned. “You?”
“First time for me.”
The man’s smile broadened. “Oh, then let me tell you all about it! You need a system. And you gotta know all about the jockeys, and which horses like the mud and which need hard turf—”
The blare of the announcements drowned out the lecture by the friendly man.
The man leaned into Gunny. “I’ve got money on Red Robin. He’s the favorite to win, so I won’t get a big return. But I do like a sure thing!”
Book One of the Travelers Page 9