James Chase - The Dead Stay Dumb

A little guy with a hand-mike got into the ring and started blowing. He got the crowd worked up all right. The only thing worth noting was Franks went six pounds heavier than Sankey.

Gurney was conscious of a dryness in his throat and his heart’s heavy thumping. He pushed his hat to the back of his head and rubbed his glistening forehead with his hand. Dillon sat like a rock, his hands limply on his knees and his jaw moving slowly, clamping on the gum.

Gurney watched the referee call the two men in the centre of the ring. Sankey came out, his dressing-gown like a cape on his shoulders. Franks only had a towel across his back.

They stood there listening to the referee giving them the same old line. Gurney wished they’d get on with it.

They went back to their corners Cigar-smoke spiraled slowly to the ceiling. The crowd was tense, silent and waiting.

Sankey shed his dressing-gown, holding on to the ropes, rubbing his shoes in the resin. The handlers bundled themselves out of the ring as the gong rang.

Franks came out cautiously, his chin on his chest. Sankey almost ran at him. He swung a left and a right, but Franks went under them, socking Sankey in the body. Sankey didn’t like it; he went into a clinch, roughing Franks round, cuffing his head with half-arm punches that didn’t worry Franks. He hung on until the referee smacked his arm, then, as he was going away, Franks caught him with a right swing to the side of his head. The crowd howled with joy. Sankey came back at him, but Franks tied him up in a clinch. They wrestled some more and again Franks caught him as he broke.

Gurney shifted, crossed his legs and uncrossed them. “What the hell’s he playin’ at?” he asked.

The other two didn’t say anything.

Franks was coming in fast again; Sankey backed against the ropes, smothering most of what Franks was handing out to him. Sankey sent over a tremendous right that caught Franks as he was coming in. It caught him too high up to hurt him, but it stopped him, and Sankey got off the ropes and danced away. Franks bored in and they both exchanged short jabs to the head and body. The gong went just as Sankey was getting going. It was Franks’ round all right.

The crowd buzzed and buzzed all round them. Gurney sat back, conscious of the sweat that was running down his back. He said to Dillon, “You said the fifth, didn’t you?”

Dillon said, “Don’t get into a spin. It’s in the bag. That punk’s got to put up a show.”

Sankey lay back in his corner, his face sullen.

Hank flapped a towel over him, telling him to take it easy.

The gong went for the second round.

It was Franks who came out fast this time. He was almost into Sankey’s corner before Sankey got his hands up. The crowd roared at them. Sankey’s left jumped into Franks’ face, jerking his head back, but he was coming in with such steam that it didn’t stop him. He banged Sankey into his corner, bringing both hands hard into his body. You could hear those two blows out in the street.

Sankey jerked up with both of them, his mouth going slack. A wild look came into his eyes, but he kept his hands up. Gurney screamed at him, “Push him off! Get away from him!”

Franks brought over a round-house swing. It landed on Sankey’s head. Sankey went down on his knee. Franks was keeping cool. He immediately walked away to a neutral corner, letting the referee start a count. The hall shook with the noise. People stood up on their chairs, yelling themselves hoarse.

Morgan’s shrill yell drifted to Sankey. “Wait for it! Stay where you are!”

Sankey got up at nine. He seemed all right. Franks came at him, just a little reckless. Sankey saw an opening and lammed in. Franks didn’t like it. He was shaken. They were both glad to clinch. And this time Franks missed Sankey when they broke. Sankey kept Franks away with left jabs, running backwards all round the ring, poking with his left. Franks just wanted to get in and sock. Towards the end of the round Franks got in. Sankey tried to tie him up, but it was like holding on to a buzz-saw. Franks let go four hooks one after the other. They sank into Sankey’s ribs, making the crowd give a sighing groan. Sankey’s knees went. He was in trouble, trying to keep his hands up when the bell went.

Dillon got to his feet. “Go to his corner,” he said to Gurney savagely. “Tell him to fight. He won’t last to the fifth at this rate. Let that palok Franks see you. Give him a signal or something.”

Gurney pushed his way to the aisle and made his way to Sankey’s corner. Hank was working on him desperately. He was looking worried. Gurney said, “For God’s sake, you gotta watch that fella.”

Sankey glared at him. Great red blotches on his ribs showed the beating he was taking. “A rigged fight, huh?” he snarled. “This sonofabitch’s killin’ me.”

Before Gurney could say anything the gong went. Out came Franks, weaving and bobbing, with Sankey backpedaling, snorting heavily through his nose. Gurney put his elbows on the canvas, watching closely.

Sankey tried a left, but Franks’ head moved, then Franks caught him with a left and a right. Sankey began to bleed from his mouth. He drew his lips off his gum-shield, snarling at Franks. He kept circling until the crowd began to yell at him. He flung over another left that landed as Franks was going away, and tried to follow it up with a terrific right swing. It whistled over Franks’ head, who came in close and socked with both hands. Sankey pushed him off and jabbed away, landing too high up to do any damage.

Sankey was getting sore as hell. Every time Franks came in he belted Sankey in the ribs. They were landing solid. Sankey just couldn’t keep him out. He was taking an awful beating in the body. The round finished with a flurry in the far corner. Sankey managed to uppercut Franks with the heel of his glove, cutting Franks’ nose.

Sankey came back to his corner flat-footed. Gurney could see the muscles in his legs fluttering. He flopped on his stool and his handlers went to work on him.

Gurney said, “Keep him off this round. He’s goin’ to dive in the fifth.”

“I can’t stay,” Sankey said; he was almost crying. “The bastard’s spillin’ my guts.”

Gurney snarled, “You’ll stay all right, or you’ll run into more grief outside.” He looked across at Franks, who was lying back taking in great lungfuls of air. They weren’t even working on him.

The gong went for the fourth.

Sankey went out with a little more spring. He was desperate. He drove a right at Franks, connected, and followed it with a left. Franks went back on his heels, covering up. The crowd rose to their feet, howling.

Gurney shouted, “Get after him… beat the hell out of him!…”

In went Sankey, swinging punches from all angles. Franks rode the dangerous ones and smothered the wild swings. Then he suddenly jabbed a left in Sankey’s face, bringing him up short, and crossed with his right. It caught Sankey between the eyes. There was a sharp silence when Sankey went down on his hands and knees, then the crowd screamed with excitement. Franks went to a corner, opposite Gurney. He was breathing slowly, his great chest rising and falling without effort.

Gurney shouted, “Next round, or you get it!”

Franks showed no sign that he heard.

The referee was standing over Sankey, shouting the count in his ear. Sankey’s muscles were fluttering as he tried to drag himself off the canvas. They were all shouting at him. The gong stopped the count at eight.

They got Sankey into his corner by dragging him. Hank gave him a shot of rye, tugging his ears and pouring water on his head. Hank was scared stiff. Dillon came up and leant over the ropes.

“Get a grip on yourself, you big slab of ——,” he snarled.