Роберт Фиш - Rough Diamond

Armando was puzzled. He was also a bit irked by this constant attention to his lower body, which was beginning to hurt. If this kept up, he might not even enjoy his supper! How did the little man move so quickly? He was like a gato , a cat! Still, other than the blows to the stomach, none of the others had bothered him overly, and if that was the hardest the little man could hit, then it was merely a matter of time. The thing to do was to crowd the little man into a corner where he couldn’t escape so quickly from one of his attacks, and then simply end the match with one blow.

Armando brought his gloved fists up into a closer approximation of his opponent’s stance and shuffled forward, bending his elbows as Barney had his bent, to partially protect that huge stomach while his large hands covered his face. So intent was the large Armando on placing his arms and fists in the best position for maximum defense that Barney had ample opportunity to catch him a stiff jab to the kidneys, followed at once by a swift cross to the stomach, before stepping smartly away. Armando could not help but grimace, but he continued to keep pressing forward, his original plan of herding Barney into a corner in no way changed. Over Barney’s shoulder the big Armando could see Dr. Mathews, the whistle in one hand, alternately consulting the action in the ring and the watch in his other hand. Then, completely to Armando’s surprise, he thought he heard the whistle sound, although from experience he felt the round could not be over as yet. Besides, the whistle remained in the doctor’s fingers, far from his lips. An echo inside his head, Armando decided; the little man had hit him harder the last time than he had supposed. He went back to his job and then saw, to his surprise, that the little man had somehow dropped his guard and was actually turning away. A mistake, Armando thought, sorry for his opponent, and his huge fist, automatically taking advantage of the unexpected opening, crashed into the side of Barney’s head. Barney dropped.

Around the ring the spectators were screaming in furious anger. Dr. Mathews was staring at the culprit, his face red with anger. “Mr. Cohen, sir! You are drunk! You blew that whistle! You will hand it over at once, sir, do you hear me?”

Some of the crowd were trying to reach the culprit, eager to avenge the unsportsmanlike conduct they had witnessed; the rest were trying in their drunken stupor to discover what had happened, what the fuss was all about. Lou Cohen, now suddenly sober, had managed to get to the doctor’s side for protection. He turned to the doctor, relieved but furious, the normal reaction of one who has managed to reach safety after a dire threat.

“It was a joke is all, damm it!”

The doctor glared at him. “Louis Cohen, sir, you are unconscionable!” The crowd was getting ugly, having come this far on their one day off work all week, and having done without the other diversions Kimberley was capable of furnishing. And not to see their fight? Dr. Mathews pulled the whistle from Cohen’s hand and dropped it into his pocket. He then blew his own whistle repeatedly until he had attention. “Gentlemen!”

“Bastard ought to be horse-whipped, if you ask me,” someone said in a loud voice into the quieting noise.

“Well, nobody asked you!” Cohen snapped. He was regaining his courage since it was apparent the crowd was too drunk to really get out of hand. “It was a bloody joke, I tell you! I thought both of them would stop fighting and I thought that would be funny!” He looked up at the Nest and the angry faces there. “Look, if you want to call off any bets I made…”

“What!” someone cried. The voice was scandalized. “Did you pull a dirty stunt like that because your fighter was losing?”

“Who was losing! Oh, for God’s sake! No, I didn’t do it because of anything except it was a bloody joke! Anyone I have bets with can call them off or leave them stand, whatever they want! Good God! Nobody has a sense of humor anymore!”

Someone in a slouch hat pulled low over his face and with ill-fitting clothes was trying to fight his way closer to the ring. Harry, his face white with shock, was starting to step through the ropes to help Barney back to his stool, but Rudd shoved him away. There was enough confusion going on at the moment without having people, even seconds, crowding into the ring. Rudd bent over Barney. Barney had come to one knee, dazed, and was shaking his head to clear it. Rudd frowned. “Are you all right, Isaacs?”

Armando was also standing over the shaken Barney, looking both confused and terribly repentant.

“Senhor! Eu sinto muito! Mas eu sabia que no era o silvo, estava olhando o médico!”

The circus owner was leaning over the ropes, translating at the top of his voice to be heard. “He says it was an accident. He knew it wasn’t the whistle because he was watching the doctor!” The owner understood enough of Englishmen to know that in their present mood the blame could just as easily be put upon Armando as upon the bôbo who had blown the whistle, and in that mood the crowd could easily take it into their minds to go back to Kimberley and destroy his circus. Barney waved the translation away as being unimportant. He was sure the big Angolan had not hit him on purpose; had their roles been reversed he might also have automatically struck his opponent if he saw that Mathews was not blowing his whistle. He raised his voice to be heard by the owner.

“Tell him it doesn’t matter. I’m not blaming him.” He shook his aching head and put a hand to it. “Also tell him he’s got a punch like a steamroller.”

The circus owner burst into rapid Portuguese, translating Barney’s message. Armando beamed, proud of the compliment. He would have liked to return it, because the small man deserved it, but he didn’t want to ask his boss to translate. Barney came to his feet, looking at Rudd.

“Let’s get on with it.”

Rudd frowned. “Are you sure you’re able?”

“Never felt better in me life,” Barney said, and walked back to his corner, knowing he was moving more slowly than before. He sat on his stool while the circus owner conferred with his fighter. Armando paused in the discussion every now and then to glance apologetically across the ring at Barney, but in the end he shrugged and nodded to his boss as he sat down on his stool. Barney could almost read the big man’s mind. He doesn’t want to bust me into little pieces, Barney thought, but unfortunately he has to to keep his job and keep on eating. Which merely means I’ll have to make it fast if I hope to make it at all. The blow he had taken had been as powerful a punch as he had ever taken in any fight in his life, and he knew it would take its toll quickly if the fight went on very long.

Harry had heard the discussion in the ring. He looked at Barney as if he were crazy.

“Look, we can call the whole thing off — cancel the bets and be back where we were. Maybe you had a chance before — you were quick — but you’re not steady on your feet! He can kill you! Drop it and cancel the bets! Nobody is going to argue about that!”

“I’ll argue about it.” Barney looked at Harry. “Harry,” he said earnestly, “do you remember what I said a few days ago? I meant it! We leave here with the brass! We walk away rich!”

“If we walk away,” Harry said direly. “Your ears’ll be ringing from that whack you took for the next week.”

“Maybe,” Barney said laconically. “But I’ll have the money!”

Rudd had been conferring with Dr. Mathews at ringside; now Mathews climbed into the ring and blew his whistle with all his strength. This time the crowd quietened quickly, although there were still some loud mutterings and baleful glances in Lou Cohen’s direction.