The Bruiser (18 page)

A pounding came to Shane's door.

Blinky listened. “It's some lost newspaper guys. There's a thousand in town from all over the world.”

The voices soon subsided in the press headquarters. Smoking, eating, talking, drinking, a score of reporters lounged about in a large four-room suite.

A long table, loaded with food and liquor was in the middle of one room. Several waiters stood about ready to serve. Red and white banners with pictures of Sully and Shane were on the walls. In large black letters were the words,

Reporters came and went constantly. Between introductions and greetings, there was a continual hubbub.

“It'll be a dazzler today all right—hotter'n your ma's cook stove with biscuits in the oven,” a weazened little reporter with faded blue eyes volunteered.

“Yeap,” drawled another, “twilight in purgatory—and we poor devils working—oh well, the riddles of life and the ring are many.”

“How'd you like to fight under this sun?” the first reporter asked.

“Okeh by me if I got a million bucks.”

“But I'm telling you,” a third reporter was overheard, “Rory won't take all that Sully gives—he'll bring the saffron outta that guy just as sure's fog's in London.”

“What do you mean—the saffron out of Rory?” asked the reporter with the faded blue eyes.

“Just what I said— I saw his second fight with Sully, and he wilted.”

“Well, I saw him against Torpedo Jones. He'd carry all my dough if I had ten million.” The reporter had not spoken before. “If he's yellow, then I'm color blind—”

“But Sully ain't Jones.”

“I'll say he ain't—he don't belong in the same ring with Jones.”

“That's what you think—I saw him go against Jones—the Nigger got the duke but I'd of called it even,” again drawled the reporter who had talked about it being twilight in purgatory.

“Ho ho—Sully'll run him outta the ring.” A new arrival reached for a drink.

“Well,” snapped a blond reporter, with heavy jowls and defiant eyes,—”you're not asking me—but I'm telling you something—there's no guy on earth can make the Roaring Rory run—I know him longer'n he thinks I do—I worked on a little dinky paper in Wyoming when he fought there—they come in his dressing room—two of them—tall as pines and blue revolvers longer'n your arms— ‘Sonny,' one of them says, ‘you're a nice lookin' boy, and you got a lot of
years ahead of you—and we don't even know where your folks are.'

“‘Well,' Rory says.

“And they says—'Oh nothing—a lot of the boys have money on the McCoy and they'd be disappointed
if he lost.'

“‘What about the boys who bet on me?' asks Rory.

“‘Oh well—that's just too bad.'

“‘All right,' says Rory, ‘have it your own way'—”

The reporter stopped talking.

“I told you he was yellow,” a scribbler cut in.

“Well, what the hell happened?” two reporters asked at once.

“Rory knocked McCoy out presto—he never once looked at the guys with the guns—no siree,—I saw that with my own two eyes—so nobody can tell me about any yellow in that battlin' hombre. He may have too much brains to want 'em scrambled—but he's not yellow.”

“Well,—there's another name for it,” said the reporter who brought the charge. “There's something wrong with him.”

“Maybe he's got a streak of sensibility in him,” said the reporter with the faded blue eyes.

“Call it whatever you want, but he's got no business in there with Sully with any kind of a streak.”

“That's right,” someone said.

The blond reporter sneered,—”You're all nuts—if talk was money you'd be rich as Hearst—a fellow'd think Rory was a palooka to hear you saps talk. What do you think, Joe?” The reporter turned to a battered
hulk of a man who poured whisky in black coffee.

“It's all Sully,” came quickly from him.

“Let's feel your head,” the blond reporter laughed. He was joined by the others. “The great Joe Slack picks another loser—why the devil can't an old time fighter pick a winner?” The blond reporter looked at Joe Slack, “Can you tell me?”

“I'm pickin' one,” was the answer. “Sully'll hit Rory so hard you'll think he's shot from an airplane.”

Laughter followed. Pleased with himself, the old fighter poured more whisky into his cup.

“Are you going to the fight, Joe?” a reporter asked.

“Sure—I got two ringside seats.”

“Are you going twice?”

“Nope— I sold one ticket.”

“How much?”

“Eighty bucks.”

“How'd you get two tickets?”

“I'm reportin' the fight, ain't I? Don't I have a secretary?”

“That's right,” returned the questioner, amid laughter.

“How'd you happen to get so much?”

“Eighty dollars for a fifty buck seat ain't so much when there ain't no more.” The old fighter smiled crookedly at his questioner and said, “I wouldn't give eight bucks to see all the champeens that ever lived in a battle royal—no sir—not in a thousand years.”

“It'll be a thousand years before you ever get eighty bucks again.”

Joe Slack's cup shook as he chuckled. “Well, that may be—but I'm worth it—that's more'n I can say for a lot of word-slingers.”

“That's right, Wood-Yard Kipling,” spoke up a reporter, “when a guy gets too old to fight he always thinks he can write—you oughta be an editor.”

“Oh I don't know,” responded Joe Slack, “I get by all right— I can sleep nights.”

All turned from Slack when a young reporter asked, “How heavy's the gloves?”

“Is it possible?” asked the blond reporter, “Your name just can't be Hot and Cold Daily—can it? You know just too much about the fight racket—the gloves weigh two pounds each.”

“Don't let him kid you,” another reporter said more kindly, “they're five ounces.”

“Who're you coverin' this fight for, the
Sunday School Herald?
”

“Naw—
The Christian Science Monitor.”

The laughter died away as Hot and Cold Daily and several other New York writers entered. With them was Jack Gill.

The other reporters were deferential.

“Make way for the big shots,” the blond reporter said— “Hey, Mr. Daily—” he brought the young reporter before him, “Here's Damon Runyon, Junior, doing the big brawl for the
Youth's Companion.”

Daily and his group greeted the youngster.

“Ever covered a fight like this before?” asked Daily.

“I never have.”

“Well, you oughta do a good job—I'd like to see your story.”

“Thanks, Mr. Daily.”

“Don't mention it—if you get stuck in describin' the rounds—just say any old thing—nobody has 'em right anyhow—and the rest don't care.” Hot and Cold Daily motioned to the waiter, “Give us some beer.”

“I've got something stronger.”

“Not in this heat—we've got to see the fight— Anybody goin' over to see 'em weigh in?” he asked.

“I guess not,” replied the blond reporter, “Some of the fellows just left—the wires'll get it.”

Daily turned to Gill. “Have a little beer, Jack.”

“Nope—a small soda—some lemon in it.”

“Who'll win, Jack?” the blond reporter asked.

“If it goes the limit—a draw—a knockout—God knows.”

“Think Rory has a chance?”

The fighter turned.

“A chance—for cripes sake—he'd have a chance with a cyclone.”

“You've known him a long time, ain't you, Jack?”

“Yep—he was my sparrin' partner—did a semi to me in Wichita—a dead right guy.”

“Are you goin' to be in his corner?”

“If Tim wants me.”

Silent Tim entered Shane's suite.

“Get him ready, Blinky—it's time to weigh in—he's got to pass a physical examination.” He looked at the rugged Shane. “You can't tell—he might be sick.”

Addressing him direct, “You're even money now, Shane—everything points to the biggest crowd in the history of the game.”

“We can draw 'em.” Blinky flustered about Shane, who glanced in the mirror. “All ready.”

Silent Tim telephoned the clerk. “Tim Haney—car at the side door— Let's go.”

“Now there'll be a crowd there, Shaney, what with the doctor and the commissioners and the politicians all wantin' their mugs in the paper—if Sully speaks, you speak—if he don't, you don't—any man knows what you say'll be said in the ring—with punches hard enough to make it rain.”

Surrounded by photographers and reporters, the scales were at one end of the huge room. Shane followed Sully on the scales. “Two hundred and one-three pounds less—” reporters wrote hurriedly.

Sully glanced at the beam and started away.

“Pose for a picture.” Wilson stopped him.

Shane stood near him as the cameras worked.

Neither man spoke.

Sully's chief second smiled at Blinky.

“Any statement, gentlemen?”

“We'll win,” said Wilson.

“So'll we,” from Silent Tim.

The champion and his manager were the first to leave for the arena. The fight was an hour away. On arriving, they went to the dressing-room assigned. Sully looked across the hallway. His adversary was just entering the building. Lithe, his jaws set, and walking swiftly, Shane raised his hand casually in token of greeting. Wilson glanced with narrow eyes.

As Shane stripped, the perspiration rolled from him.

Blinky Miller looked and said, “That's swell.”

The door of Sully's room closed, the chief second spread out all first aid medicine for cuts and wounds. Bandages were put on the table.

Wilson surveyed the chief second's work and said, “I 'll mope on over to Rory's to see them bandage his hands.”

“Okeh,” returned the chief second; Then to Sully, “Sit down, Champ—take a load off your feet.”

“I 'm just lookin' in,” said Wilson to Blinky Miller. He glanced casually at the soon-to-be bandages. “That's all right,” he said, “I'll trust you fellows—walk over'n look at ours,” he suggested to Blinky.

“All right.” Blinky went to Sully's dressing-room and glanced at the roll of gauze and then across the table, saying,

“Okeh—go ahead.” He left with unconcern.

The chief second worked hurriedly. Seizing a small pail of water, opening the plaster of Paris can, he put
two tablespoonfuls in water and stirred with a small brush, while Sully wrapped the gauze bandages around his hands.

Soon the chief second painted the gauze. It began to absorb the solution. He applied another coat, saying, “It'll soon be like iron, Sully, old boy.”

The fighter grunted.

The chief second took a roll of two-inch gauze and wrapped it over the hardening plaster of Paris. He then admired his work with a smile, while the plaster of Paris hardened.

They sat for some minutes. Wilson returned and surveyed Sully's bandaged hands and nodded approval.

“The first prelim's on,” he said.

“It'll soon be over now,” said the chief second, looking at the scowling Sully. “You'll knock that gazabo outta the stadium.” He felt Sully's hands. “They're like cement.”

A knock came to the door.

The chief second opened it. A uniformed usher handed him an envelope, and hurried across to Shane's dressing-room.

The paper read:

The three exchanged glances, and Wilson said quickly— “What luck—”

The chief second cut the bandages. “I wonder if that one-eyed Miller crossed us.”

Another knock came to the door.

Wilson opened it carefully. The roar of the audience could be heard.

“The second preliminary's on,” an usher said.

“All right,” snapped Wilson, slamming the door and turning to the chief second, “Miller's your pal, eh?”

Sully's hands bare, the bandages hidden, another knock came. Wilson opened it. Two newspaper writers entered.

“Well, how's your fighter?” asked a reporter.

“Never better, Edson,” answered Wilson. “Get ready for a battle.”

“What round'll the finish be in?”

“We're not saying—before eight though.” Wilson looked at Sully.

“She's a fifteen rounder, and hot as a furnace.”

“We know all about that,” said Wilson.

“But you're goin' to know a lot more before you get through with Rory—all I 'm tellin' you is to be ready for anything.” Hot and Cold Daily was emphatic. “You'd better send Sully in there ready to fight'll his heart cracks—I wouldn't steer you wrong, Wilson.”

“Thanks, old pal,” said Wilson, adding, “We did it twice before.”

The chief second threw a robe over Sully, who glanced at the woven image of the skull on his trunks.

Hot and Cold Daily sneered, “You mean you think you did it—ever hear of the imponderables?”

“What they got to do with fights?” asked Wilson.

“A damn sight more'n you think,” returned Hot and Cold Daily.

A buzzer sounded.

“All right, we're ready,” snapped Wilson.

Two men, wearing caps and sweaters, stood at the door.

“Bring everything, boys,” commanded Wilson.

A voice droned, “Ready for the main event.”

Sully, his three seconds, and Wilson filed past Shane's dressing room.

The newspapermen stopped at Shane's door.

The challenger was ready for the ring.

His trunks were tight-fitting. Long, snake-like muscles crawled around his body as he moved. His eyes had the hard glitter of murder.

The newspaper writers glanced with admiration at his nut-colored, powerful body.

“How's it going, Shane?” asked Hot and Cold Daily.

“You know,” answered Shane.

An executioner was never more grim. From old custom he went first toward the ring.

“Good luck, Shane,” said Hot and Cold Daily.

“Thanks, Buddy.” Shane looked ahead.

“Is he goin' to win?” a bystander asked.

Blinky Miller rewarded him with a look of disdain. Then hurrying to follow the quick and powerful moving fighter, he threw back, “He'll die in there if he don't.”

The reporters went to the press row.

“We're going to see a fight, eh,” said Hot and Cold Daily to Jimmy Foster of the
World-Wide News Service
.

“It's in the air,” Foster returned.

“It's in the bag,” Daily chuckled, “There's no fake about this fight.”