James Chase: Strictly For Cash

“With that build and that hook you’re a natural. How long have you been out of the game?”

“Too long. I’m not interested. If that’s all you’ve got to talk about let’s part while we’re still friends.”

“Now wait a minute. Roche tells me you put Weiner away in the second. Is that right?”

“It’s no dollars in your pocket if I did.”

“Heading for Miami aren’t you?” He put down the toast and hitched forward his char “Now, listen, soon as I saw you I knew you were a killer. Use your head, Farrar. What do you think you’re going to do in Miami dressed like that? How far do you think you’ll get before some bull tosses you in the can? Even if you keep to the back streets you won’t last ten minutes. If you haven’t a good front, you’re out in Miami.”

“That’s my funeral: not yours.”

“I know.” He took off his hat and peered inside it as if looking for something he had lost. “But I’m not talking because I like the sound of my voice. How would you like to arrive in Miami in a tropical suit and all the trimmings and driving your own car? Okay, it’s not much of a car, but it goes. And how would you like to have five hundred bucks in your pocket to give you a start?”

He was dangling a nice fat worm on a sharp hook before me, and I knew it, but I listened just the same. I knew I shouldn’t make much of a showing in Miami in the clothes I had on, and this had been worrying me. A tropical suit, five hundred bucks and a car sounded about right to me.

“Go on talking,” I said. “It won’t hurt me to listen.”

“That’s a fact,” he said, and grinned, showing six gold-capped teeth. “That’s my proposition. Deputize for MacCready, and that’s what you’ll get. How does it strike you?”

“Not bad. What makes you think I rate that high?”

“I don’t know you do. If you’ve got anything beside that hook, then you can’t be so bad. Suppose you come down to the gym and show me just what you can do?”

I hesitated. In a couple of hours Josh Bates would be pulling out of Pelotta for Miami. I could either go with him and travel as a bum or stick around here for four more days and then travel in my own car with money in my pocket. But before I got the car and the money I had to fight a heavyweight I’d never seen or heard of, and I wasn’t in anything like strict training. I might even land up with a broken jaw myself.

“Just how useful is this guy you want me to fight?”

“Not bad,” Brant said. “He’s fast and pins his faith on a right cross.” He stood up. “But you don’t have to worry about him. I don’t expect you to beat him. All I want you to do is to stay with him for a few rounds and make a show. The dough’s all on him. But if he gets too hot for you can always do an el foldo.”

“That’s something I’ve never done, and don’t intend to do.”

“Just a suggestion,” he said blandly. “Suppose we go over to the gym. We can talk better after I’ve seen the way you shape.”

We went over to the gym. It lay at the end of a dark, evil-smelling alley off Pelotta’s main street. It wasn’t much of a place: one big room, equipped with two training rings, punching bags, some dirty mats scattered over the floor, a row of changing booths and a few shower cabinets, most of which didn’t work.

The place was deserted when we got there.

“Waller, Joe’s sparring partner, will be along any minute now,” Brant said. “He’s a good trial horse and you can hit him as hard as you like. If you don’t he’ll hit you. Let’s have three rounds with all the action you can cram into them.”

He went over to a locker and handed out some kit. While I was changing Waller came in. He was a big, battered Negro with sullen, bloodshot eyes. He nodded briefly to Brant, gave me an indifferent glance and went into one of the booths to change.

When I had stripped off, Brant looked me over critically, and whistled.

“Well, you ain’t carrying any fat. You look in pretty good shape to me.”

“I’m all right,” I said, and ducked under the ropes. “But if I’d known this was going to happen I’d have laid off smoking. It’s my wind I’ve got to watch.”

Waller climbed into the ring. He was built like a gorilla, but in spite of his size I noticed he was eyeing me thoughtfully.

“Listen, Henry,” Brant said to him, “let’s have a fight. I want to see how good this guy is. Don’t pull your punches and keep after him.”

The Negro grunted.

“And that goes for you, too, Farrar,” Brant went on. “Well, if you’re ready. Okay? Then come out fighting and make a meal of it.” He touched the bell.

Waller came forward like a gigantic crab, his head hunched down into his heavy shoulders. We moved around the ring, feeling each other out. I got in a couple of quick jabs and swayed away from a vicious looping right he threw at me. I managed to pin him with another left. None of my punches had any steam in them. I wanted to test my timing. I knew it wasn’t sharp. Every now and then Waller caught me with a dig that hurt. He kept shuffling away from me, making me come to him, and countering every time I landed on him. Suddenly he stopped in his tracks and let fly a right that landed high up on the side of my head. I was rolling by the time it landed, but it was a good solid punch, and it shook me.

As he rushed in I let go a left: the first punch I’d thrown with any steam in it. He went back as if he had run into a brick wall. I could see the surprise on his face.

We moved around. He was more cautious now. That left had startled him. I got in two jabs and collected a dig in the body that made me grunt.

I was now having trouble with my breathing. You’ve got to be in strict training to take the heavy bangs I was taking and not worry about them. If I was going to keep out of trouble I’d have to stop him, and stop him quick.

He saw my wind was going and began to pile on the pressure. He was a difficult target to hit, and for the moment all I could do was to jab away at his face and head and hope for an opening. I smothered most of the punches he was throwing, but some of them landed and they hurt. I was glad when the bell went and I could flop on the stool and take a breather.

Brant sponged the blood from my nose, his fat face thoughtful.

“You’ve been out of training too long,” he said. “You’re not timing your punches right. Better take it easy in the next round. Box him this time and keep away from him.”

I didn’t say anything. I had my own ideas what to do. I’d have to finish him in this round or I wasn’t going to last.

Waller hadn’t bothered to sit down. He lolled against the ropes, looking bored.

“Okay?” Brant asked as he reached for the gong-string.

“Yeah,” I said, and came out slowly.

Waller moved in, set to nail me. He slung a left. I shifted so it slid over my shoulder and hit him three times to the body. I heard him gasp as he went into a clinch. His weight sagged on me. I tried to shove him off, but I couldn’t do it. He hung on desperately, and didn’t pay any attention to Brant’s yells to break. He was hurt and worried. We wrestled around, and finally I got clear of his hugging arms. I caught him with a right uppercut as we broke. Snarling, he fought back, and for a second or so we slung lefts and rights at each other. He was flustered now. I was timing them better, and they were sinking into him. A left prepared the way. His guard dropped, and I whipped over the right hook. It caught him flush on the jaw and down he went. I moved away, wiping the blood from my nose and breathing heavily. I wasn’t worried. He wasn’t going to get up in a hurry.

Brant climbed into the ring, beaming from ear to ear. Together we dragged Waller to his corner and propped him up on his stool. We were working on him when a voice said, “I like this boy. Where did you find him, Brant?”