James Chase - Strictly For Cash

I was four pounds heavier than he, and had the advantage of three inches in reach.

“So what?” he said in a loud voice to his manager. “The bigger they come the harder they bounce.”

The crowd seemed to think that was the most original and witty thing they had ever heard, to judge by the laugh it got.

As I stepped off the scales, the Kid, still with his sneering grin, reached out and grabbed my arm.

“Hey! I thought you said this guy was a puncher,” he cried. “Call these muscles, chummy?”

“Take your hands off me!” I said, and the look I gave him made him take two big, quick steps back. “You’ll know whether I’ve got muscles or not by tonight.”

There was a sudden silence, then as I walked away, a babble of voices broke out.

Brant came running after me, and as I went into the changing booth, he said excitedly, “Don’t let him rattle you. He’s a great kidder.”

I didn’t have to be a mind reader to know what he meant. He was scared the Kid had opened his mouth too wide and I’d sock him for it when we got into the ring. He wasn’t far from the truth, either.

“Is he?” I said. “Well, so am I.”

The first installment of Brant’s pay-off arrived in the afternoon. He brought it himself.

“Thought you’d better look smart, Farrar,” he said, looking anywhere but at me. He took off the lid of a box and showed me a white linen suit, a cream silk shirt, a green and white tie, and white buckskin shoes. “You’ll knock them dead in this outfit,” he went on, trying to be at ease. “Better see if it fits.”

“Shove them back in the box and get out,” I said.

I was lying on the bed in the little room Roche had lent me. The curtains were half drawn, and the light was dim. I had seven hours before I entered the ring: seven hours that stretched ahead of me like a prison sentence without parole.

“What’s the matter with you?” Brant demanded, flushing. “Isn’t this what you want?” and he shook the suit at me.

“Get out before I throw you out!”

When he had gone I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but I kept thinking of Petelli. I thought, too, of all the little mugs who were betting on me. I tried to convince myself there was nothing I could do about it, but I knew I had walked into this with my eyes open. I had kicked around in the fight racket long enough to know just how crooked it was. That was why I had quit, and yet the first offer that came along had tempted me back. If I hadn’t had big ideas about getting to Miami in a car with money in my pocket this wouldn’t have happened.

Suppose I double-crossed Petelli? What chance had I of avoiding a bullet? Petelli wasn’t bluffing. He couldn’t afford to let me double-cross him and get away with it. If he did, his grip on the other fighters would be weakened, and, besides, he wasn’t the type to allow himself to be gypped out of forty thousand dollars without settling the score.

I was hooked, and I knew it, and I cursed myself. I lay on the bed in the half-light and sweated it out, and the hands of the clock crawled on and on. I couldn’t make up my mind what I was going to do. I was still at it when Roche put his head around my door.

“Seven-thirty, Johnny; time to be up and doing. Are you okay?”

I got off the bed.

“I guess so. Will I get a taxi?”

“I’ll drive you there myself. I’m just going to have a wash. I’ll be ready in five minutes.”

“Fine.”

I splashed water on my face, combed my hair and then put on the clothes Brant had brought. They fitted me all right, but I didn’t get a kick out of them. If my own clothes hadn’t been so shabby I wouldn’t have worn this outfit. A tap came on the door, and Alice looked in. “Why, Johnny, how smart you look.”

“I guess that’s right.”

I wondered what she would have said if she knew the price I was paying for this rig-out. “Tom’s getting the car. Good luck, Johnny.”

“Thanks. I’m glad you won’t be there.”

“Tom wanted me to go, but I don’t like fights. I’ll have my fingers crossed for you.”

“You do that. Well, so long. Thanks for all you’ve done.”

“But you’ll be coming back, won’t you?”

Would I? I wished I knew.

“Why, sure, but thanks all the same.”

“Put this in your pocket. It’s brought me luck, and I want it to bring you luck, too.”

I looked at the silver medallion she placed in my hand. It showed the head of some saint, and I looked at her, surprised.

“Thanks, Alice, but maybe I’d better not have it. I might lose it.”

“Put it in your pocket and forget about it. It’ll bring you luck.”

And that’s what I did. I put it in my pocket and forgot about it. As I ran down the steps to the street, Petelli’s big Cadillac pulled up. Benno was at the wheel, and Brant was sitting at the back.

“Thought we’d pick you up,” Brant said, leaning out of the window. “Feeling okay?”

“Yeah. I’m driving up in Roche’s car.”

“You’re driving up in this one,” Pepi snarled, coming up behind me. “We’re not losing sight of you until the fight’s over.”

Roche hadn’t appeared. There was no point in making trouble.

“Tell Tom I’ve gone with the boys,” I railed to Alice, who was watching from the café door.

I got in beside Brant. We drove rapidly through the deserted streets. Practically the whole of Pelotta’s population had turned out for the fight. As we neared the blazing lights of the stadium, Pepi said without looking round, “The third, Farrar, or it’s curtains.”

“Save your breath,” I said. “I heard it the first time.”

We drove up the broad concrete drive-in. It was already packed with cars, but Benno weaved his way through without reducing speed.

Brant said in an undertone, “As soon as it’s over I’ll have the dough for you in cash. The car’s parked at the back. It’s full of petrol and rearing to go. Okay?”

I grunted.

Benno swung the Cadillac into the vast parking lot, and we all got out. We walked quickly across the tarmac to a side door. As Pepi pushed it open, a blast of hot, sweat-stinking air came out to meet us.

“It’s packed solid in there,” Brant said. “Not a seat to be had.”

We climbed a flight of concrete steps, meeting people as they moved to their seats. Some of the guys recognized me and slapped me on the back, wishing me luck. At a gangway I paused to look into the arena. One of the preliminary fights was on. The ring, under the dazzling white lights, looked a mile away, and the roar of the crowd seemed to shake the whole building.

“Some house,” Brant said. “Better get changed, Farrar.”

There was the usual mob of pressmen and hangers-on waiting outside my dressing room, but Brant wouldn’t let them in. He got the door shut with difficulty, leaving Pepi outside to talk to them.

Waller was waiting to take charge of me.

“Don’t wait,” I said to Brant. “Henry can do it all.”

“Now, look...” Brant began, but I cut him short.

“I don’t want you around, and I don’t want you in my corner. Henry can do all that’s necessary.”

Brant shrugged his fat shoulders. His face turned crimson.

“Well, okay, if that’s the way you feel. But there’s no need to get sore at me. I can’t help it.”

“Maybe you can’t, but you got me into this, and I don’t want you in my corner.”

As he turned to the door, he said, “Don’t pull anything smart, Farrar. You’re in this now up to your ears, and there’s no out for you.”

“Dust!”

When he had gone I began to strip off. Waller stood around, a worried expression on his ebony face.

“You relax, Mr. Farrar,” he said. “This ain’t no way to go into the ring.”