Paul Cain - The Paul Cain Omnibus

Beery came up about eight. He sat down, grinned broadly, and ordered a highball. “Everything’s lovely,” he said. “All the evening papers carried the Guardian stuff, and I’m the fair-haired boy at the Chronicle office.” He put down his glass. “You want me to keep the Chronicle job too, don’t you?”

Kells said: “Sure.”

Beery stood up, stooped over the low table and mixed himself another drink. “I’m going to the fights. Swell card.”

“So am I.”

Beery squinted over his shoulder. “You’d better stay in the hay,” he said.

Kells swung up, sat on the edge of the bed. “Got your ducats?”

“Yeah. I was going to take the wife.”

“Sure — we’ll take her. Call up and see if you can get three together, close.” Kells got up and limped into the bathroom, turned on the shower.

Beery sat tinkling ice against the sides of his glass. When Kells turned off the shower Beery yelled: “The old lady don’t want to go anyway.”

Kells stood in the bathroom door, grinning.

Beery looked up at him and then down at his glass. “I guess she don’t like you very well.” He picked up the phone and asked for a Hollywood number.

Kells disappeared into the bathroom again and when he came out Beery smiled happily, said: “Okay. She’d rather go to a picture show.”

The seats were fifth row, ringside — two seats off the aisle. The second preliminary was in its last round when Kells and Beery squeezed past a very fat man in the aisle seat, sat down.

The preliminary ended in a draw and the lights flared on. Kells nodded to several acquaintances, and Beery leaned forward, talked to a friend of his in the row ahead. He introduced the man to Kells: Brand, feature sports writer for an Eastern syndicate.

Kells had been looking at his program. He asked: “What’s the price on Gilroy?”

“The boys were offering three to two before dinner — very little business. I’ll lay two to one on Shane.”

Gilroy was a New York Negro, a heavyweight who had been at the top of his class for a while. Too much living, and racial discrimination — too few fights — had softened him. The dopesters said he’d lost everything he ever had, was on the skids. Shane was a tough kid from Texas. He was reputed to have a right-hand punch that made up for his lack of experience.

Kells remembered Gilroy from Harlem; had known him well, liked him. He said: “I’ll take five hundred of that.”

Brand looked at him very seriously, nodded.

Beery looked disgusted. He leaned toward Kells and said quietly, “For God’s sake, Gerry, they’re grooming Shane for a title shot. Do you think they’re going to let an unpopular boogie like Gilroy get anywhere?”

Kells said: “He used to be very good. He can’t have gone as bad as they say in a year. I’ve only seen Shane once, and I thought he was lousy...”

“He won, didn’t he?”

“Uh-huh.”

Beery was looking at Kells sidewise with wide hard eyes.

The man sitting with Brand turned around and drawled: “You don’t happen to have any more Gilroy money, do you?”

“Sure.”

The man said: “I’ll give you eighteen hundred for a grand.”

Kells nodded.

Beery looked like he was going to fall off his chair. He muttered expletives under his breath.

A man crawled into the ring followed by two Filipinos with their seconds. The house lights dimmed.

“Ladies and gentlemen... Six rounds... In this corner — Johnny Sanga... a hundred an’ thirty-four...”

Kells said: “I’ll be back in a minute.” He got up and squeezed out past the fat man.

At the head of the corridor that led to the dressing rooms a uniformed policeman said: “You can’t go any farther, buddy.”

Kells looked at him coldly. “I’m Mister Olympic,” he said. “I own this place.” He twisted a bill around his finger, stepped close and shoved it into the copper’s hand, went on.

Gilroy was sitting on the edge of a rubbing table while a squat heavily sweatered youth taped his hands. A florid Jew sat in a chair tilted back against the wall, smoking a short green cigar. He stood up when Kells opened the door, said: “You can’t come in here, mister.”

Gilroy looked up and his face split in a huge grin. “Well Ah’ll be switch’ — Mistah Kells!” He got up and came towards Kells, held out his half-taped hand.

Kells smiled, shook hands. “H’are ya, Lonny?”

Gilroy’s grin was enormous. He said: “Sit down — sit down.”

Kells shook his head, leaned against the table. He glanced at the Jew and at the boy who had resumed taping the big Negro’s hand. He looked at Gilroy, said: “You win?”

“Shuah — shuah.” Gilroy’s grin was a shade less easy. “Shuah, Ah win.”

Kells kept looking at, him. Gilroy looked at the Jew, then looked back at Kells. He shook his head slightly. “How long you been out hyah, Mistah Kells?”

Kells didn’t answer. He stared at Gilroy vacantly. The Jew looked at Gilroy and then glanced icily, without expression, at Kells, went out of the room. The squat youth kept on taping Gilroy’s hand mechanically.

Gilroy said: “No. Ah don’t win.” He said it very softly.

“How much are you getting?”

Gilroy’s face had become very serious. “Nothin’,” he said. “Not a nickel.”

Kells rubbed the back of one hand with the palm of the other.

Gilroy went on: “Not a nickel — but Ah get plenty if Ah don’t throw it...”

“What are you talking about?”

The boy finished one hand. Gilroy flexed it, looked at the floor.

“They’ve put the feah of God in me, Mistah Kells. If Ah win, Ah don’t go home tonight — maybe.”

Kells turned to face him squarely. He said: “You mean you’re going to take a dive for nothing ?”

“If that’s the way you want to put it — yes, sah.”

The boy started on the other hand. Gilroy went on: “Ah been gettin’ letters an’ phone calls an’ warnin’s for a week...”

“Who from?”

“Don’t know.” Gilroy shook his head slowly.

Kells glanced at his watch. He said: “Do you figure you owe me anything, Lonny?”

Gilroy looked at him and his eyes were big. “Shuah,” he said — “shuah — Ah remembah.”

“This is my town, now. I want you to go in and win, if you can. I’ll have a load of protection here by the time you get in the ring. You can stick with me afterwards.” Kells looked at him very intently, very seriously. “This is important.”

Gilroy was entirely still for a moment. He stared at his hands. Then he nodded slowly without looking up.

Kells said: “I’ll be back here afterwards.”

He went out of the room, closed the door. He found a telephone, called Fenner. Fenner wasn’t in, he had the call switched to Hanline’s room. When Hanline answered, Kells told him to send the two best muscle men he could locate to the entrance of Section R, Olympic Arena, quickly. Hanline said: “Sure — what’s it all about?”

“Nothing.” Kells said. “But what’s the use of having an organization if I don’t use it?”

On the way back to his seat, Kells saw Rainey. They walked together to an archway through which they could see the ring. The Filipinos were locked in a slow and measured dance; the electric indicator above the ring read ROUND FIVE.

Kells asked: “Who’s interested in Shane?”

Rainey shrugged. “His mother, I suppose.”

“Is this so-called syndicate building him up?”

“Sure.”

Kells pointed a finger, jabbed it at Rainey’s chest. “And who the hell is the syndicate?”

Rainey said: “Rose, I guess, and whoever his backers are.”

Kells looked at the ring. “Your guess is as good as mine. Get down on Gilroy.” He walked away with an elaborately mysterious and meaningful look over his shoulder.