James Chase - Strictly For Cash

“Keep your mind on this fight,” he said as the bell went.

The Kid came out fast, his chin tucked down into his left shoulder, a cocky grin on his face. He led with a left that was a foot short, weaved away and tossed over a right. That was short too. I moved around him looking for an opening. I wanted to land one hard jolt that would slow him down. I could see he was a lot faster on his feet than I was.

He caught me with a left to the face: not a hard punch. I countered with a left and right to the body. His left jumped into my face again, and he tried a right cross, but I ducked under it and socked him in the body. He got in close and began hammering away at my ribs, but I tied him up, and the referee had to pull us apart. I got in a good left jab to his face as we broke, and he didn’t like it. He moved away fast, snorting, then came in again, throwing rights and lefts. I smothered everything he handed out, stepped in and nailed him with a blockbuster that sent him down on his hands and knees.

The crowd went mad. A knockdown in the first two minutes of the fight was something they hadn’t expected, and they rose to their feet, screaming for me to go in and smash the Kid.

I had gone to a neutral corner while the referee began his count. I was a little worried. I hadn’t meant to hit him that hard. He remained on hands and knees, looking up at the referee’s arm, a glazed stare in his eyes. But he got up at the count of seven and immediately started back-pedalling. I went after him, hitting him with rights and lefts, but pulling my punches, not wanting to get him into more trouble, but putting up a show to please the crowd. They were pleased all right. Every now and then I landed with an open glove, and the slap it made sounded as if I were killing him.

He finally got his head clear and began to fight back. He was snarling and scared. I could tell how scared he was by the way he threw punches that were yards short. All he was thinking about now was to keep clear of my right. He had had one dose of it and he didn’t want another.

The round ended with us leaning on each other and slamming at each other’s ribs. At close quarters he was good, and he got in a couple of digs that hurt.

The bell went and I returned to my corner. While Waller was working over me, I looked in her direction.

She was staring up at me, not smiling, her eyes angry, her mouth set. I knew what was the matter with her. She hadn’t been fooled by those open-glove slaps even if they had fooled the crowd. Waller shoved a sponge of cold water in my face. He was smart enough to see who was distracting my attention, and he moved around so his body blocked her from my sight.

Brant came up as Waller was drying my face.

“What are you playing at?” he demanded in a breathless whisper. His face was white and strained. “Why did you hit him like that?”

“Why not? He’s in here for a fight, isn’t he?”

“Petelli says...”

“Oh, the hell with Petelli!”

The bell went for the second round, and I moved out of my corner. The Kid came out cautiously, an apprehensive expression on his face. He kept pushing his left out, trying to keep me away, but I had the longer reach. I poked one in his face, stepped in and hooked him high up on the head. He fought back, catching me with a right and left that had a lot of steam in them, and for a few seconds we mixed it, socking each other about the body while the crowd roared its approval. The Kid was the first to break off.

I caught him with a hook as he moved away and opened a cut under his right eye. He was swearing at me now, and I went after him, jabbing at his face with lefts and rights. He kept covering up, trying to protect his damaged eye. I got in close and socked him in the body. It must have dawned on him he wasn’t going to get an easy win, and in a frenzy of rage and desperation he suddenly cut loose.

He caught me with a right swing that had all his weight behind it. It was a stunning punch, and it dazed me. As I groped my way into a clinch, trying to get my head clear, he butted me in the face. I reeled back, covering up, and as he rushed, I slammed a left in his face, but he knew he had hurt me, and kept coming, throwing punches from every angle. I rode most of them, smothered the rest. It was a hectic minute, but I kept my head, knowing he was certain to give me an opening, and he did. He slung a wild right that left him as wide open as the ocean, and I stepped in and hung one on his jaw. He went down as if he had been cut off at the knees.

Before the referee could start a count, the bell went. The Kid’s handlers rushed into the ring and dragged him to his corner.

I went slowly back to my stool and sat down. Pepi was waiting for me.

“Next round, you fixer,” he snarled in my ear. “That’s orders.”

“Get away from me!” I said, and greatly daring, Waller shoved him off the apron of the ring and began to sponge my face. Waller was breathing heavily and grinned excitedly at me as he worked over me.

“You’re doing fine,” he said. “Watch his right. He can still punch.”

I looked across the ring. They were working like madmen on the Kid, flapping towels at him, holding smelling salts under his nose and massaging the back of his neck.

“Well, I guess this is it,” I said. “Last round coming up.”

“Yeah,” Waller said. “Anyway, he’s been in a fight. You ain’t cheated anyone.”

I looked over my shoulder at her. She was smiling again, and waved to me.

The bell went, and I moved out. The Kid started to backpedal. He had a gash down the side of his nose, a cut under his right eye, and there were great red patches on his ribs where I had socked him.

I trapped him in a corner and nailed him hang on his damaged nose. Blood spurted from his face as if I’d slammed a rotten tomato against a wall. The crowd screamed itself hoarse as he wilted and fell into a clinch. I had to hold him up or he would have gone down. I wrestled him around, trying to make it look good until he got a grip on himself.

“Okay, playboy,” I said in his ear. “Throw your best punch.” I broke and stepped back. He shoved out a left that wouldn’t have dented a rice pudding. I ducked under it and came in, wide open. Somehow he managed to screw up enough strength to let go with an uppercut. I went down on one knee. I wasn’t hurt, but if I were going to take a dive I had to prepare the way for it.

I bet the yell that went up from the crowd could have been heard as far south as Miami.

The referee stood over me and began his count. I looked over at the Kid. The relief on his face was comic. He leaned against the ropes, blood dripping from his cuts, his knees buckling.

I shook my head as if I were dazed, and at six I got up. The Kid’s face was a study. He had been sure I was going to stay down. Instead of coming in, he began to back away, and that got a jeering laugh from the crowd. His seconds yelled for him to go in and finish me, and with pitiful reluctance he changed direction and came at me. I made out I was wobbly, but I slipped the left he threw at me and landed another jab on his gashed face. At least he was going to earn his victory. Gasping with pain and fury, he lashed out as I dropped my guard. He caught me on the side of the jaw. Down I went.

I had walked right into it, intending to catch it, and I caught it.

For the first three seconds I was out, then I opened my eyes and found myself flat on my face, looking right down at her. She was standing up, her eyes like twin explosions, and as our eyes met, she screamed furiously, “Get up and fight! Get up, you quitter!”

She was so close she could have touched me. Half the ringside customers were on their feet, yelling at me, but I had ears only for her voice.