May There Be a Road (Ss) (2001) (20 page)

"The judge said that given all that has happened he should appoint a legal guardian for my brother and me until I turn twenty-one. He thought that it should be you."

"Well, one way or another, I guess I already got started a couple of days ago,"

Gunthorp said.

"But Lane and I thought it should be more of a partnership. If you'll help us finish Father's tunnel, we'll split whatever we make on the hay three ways."

"With an offer as good as that there is no chance I could turn it down... I always was a sucker for kids in trouble."

"Kids!" she arched one eyebrow. "I hope you are only talking about Lane." They turned and left the room, but not before she had paused to fluff his pillow and pull up the covers.

"I wonder," Gunthorp mused, "what I've gotten myself into now...."

*

A bell clanged. The narrow-faced man tipped his bar chair away from the gym wall and sat suddenly forward. Had he not known it to be impossible, he would have sworn the husky young heavyweight in the black trunks was none other than "Bat" McGowan, the champion of the world!

Tall, bronzed, lithe as a panther, the fighter glided swiftly across the ring, stabbing a sharp left to his opponent's head; then, slipping over a left hook, he whipped a steaming right to the heart.

"Salty" Burke staggered, and his hands dropped slightly. Quickly Barney Malone jabbed another left at his face, and then a terrific right cross to the jaw. The blow seemed to travel no more than six inches, yet it exploded upon the angle of Burke's chin like a six-inch shell, and the big heavyweight crashed to the canvas, out cold!

Ruby Ryan, trainer of Bat McGowan, turned as "Rack" Hendryx relaxed and leaned back in his seat. His keen blue eyes were bright with excitement.

"See? What did I tell you? The kid's got it. He can box an' he can hit. He's just what you want, Rack!"

"Yeah, that's right. But he can't take it .... was Hendryx mused. "Well, he's a ringer for the champ, that's for sure. Hell, if I didn't know better, I'd swear that was him in there! Why, they could as well be twins!"

"Sure," Ryan nodded wisely. "Stick the kid in an' let him box these exhibitions as the champion, an' nobody the wiser. You've heard of these "ghost writers," haven't you?

Well, Malone can be your 'ghost fighter"! No reason why you should miss collecting just because that big lug wants to booze and raise hell. It's a cinch."

"Yeah," Hendryx agreed. "As long as nobody taps that glass jaw of his... Okay, we'll try it. This kid is good, an' if he's just a gym fighter, so much the better. We don't want him getting' any ideas."

The next night three men loafed in the expensive suite at the Astor where Hendryx maintained an unofficial headquarters. Rack Hendryx did not confine himself merely to managing the heavyweight champion of the world. From behind a score of "fronts" he pulled the wires that directed a huge ring of vice and racketeering. Even Bat McGowan knew little of this, although he surmised a good deal. The three had become widely known figures: Bat McGowan, the champion; Rack Hendryx, his manager; and Tony Mada, Hendryx's quiet, thin-lipped bodyguard.

"Say, when's this punk going to show up?"

McGowan growled irritably. "He hasn't taken a powder on you, has he?"

"Not a chance. Ruby's bringing' him up the back way. We can't have nobody getting' wise to this.

Why, the damned papers would howl bloody murder about the fans payin' to see the champ an' only seem' some punk gym fighter who can't take it on the chin!" Hendryx laughed harshly.

"What about the guys that already seen him?"

McGowan demanded.

"He's from South Africa. An Irishman from Johannesburg. He only fought here once, and that was some little club in the sticks. Ruby Ryan also saw him in the gym."

There was a sharp rap at the door, and when Mada swung it open, Ryan stepped in with Barney Malone at his heels. For a moment, there was silence while Malone and Bat McGowan stared at each other.

"Well, I'll be--" McGowan exclaimed.

"The punk sure does look like me, don't he?"

Then he walked over and looked Barney Malone up and down. "Don't you wish you could fight like me, too?"

"Maybe I can," Malone snapped, his eyes narrowing coldly.

McGowan sneered. "Yeah?" Quick as a flash he snapped a left hook to Malone's head, a punch that caught the newcomer flush on the point of the chin. Without a sound the young fighter crumpled to the floor!

"Are you crazy?" Rack Hendryx grabbed McGowan by the arm and jerked him back, face livid. "What the hell d'you think you're tryin' to do, anyway? Crab the act?"

"Aw, what the hell--the punk was getting" wise with me. I might as well put him in his place now as later."

Helped by Ruby Ryan, Malone was slowly getting to his feet, shaking his head to clear it. The old trainer's Irish face was hard, and the light in his eyes when he looked at McGowan was not good to see.

"Now lay off, you big chump!" Hendryx snapped angrily. "What d'you think this is, an alley?"

Malone looked at McGowan, his eyes strange and bleak. "So you're a champion?" he said coldly. McGowan stepped forward, his fist raised, but Hendryx and Mada intervened.

"You should know, lolly pop Bat turned and picked up his hat, then looked back at Malone and laughed.

"Just another cream puff! Well, you can double for me, but don't get any ideas, see, or I'll beat you to jelly." He turned and walked out.

"Forget that guy, Malone," Hendryx broke in, noticing the gleam in the youngster's eye. "Just let it slide. We got to talk business!"

"Nothing doing." Barney Malone looked at Hendryx and shook his head. "Not for a guy like that!"

"Come on... Bat won't be around much. He'll be busy with the girls. An' where can you lay your mitts on five hundred a week? Forget that guy; this is business."

"All right," Malone said. "But not for five hundred. I want five hundred, and ten percent of the take from all exhibitions I work as champion!"

"Not a chance!" Hendryx snapped angrily.

"What you tryin' to do, pull a Jesse James on me?"

"Then let me out of this joint," Malone said grimly. "I'm through."

For a half hour they argued, and finally Hendryx shrugged his shoulders. "Okay, Malone, you win.

I'll give it to you. But remember--one move that looks like a double cross and I give Tony the nod, see?"

Malone glanced at Tony Mada, and the little torpedo parted his lips in a nasty grin. Whatever else there was about the combination, there wasn't any foolishness about Tony Mada. He was something cold and deadly.

A month and nine exhibitions later, in the dressing room of the Adelphian Athletic Club, Barney Malone sat on the table, taping his hands. The champion's silk robe over his broad shoulders set them off nicely. He looked fit and ready.

"This Porky Dobro is tough, see?" Ryan advised. "He's tougher than we wanted right now, but we couldn't dodge him. He knows McGowan, an' has a grudge against him. You gotta be nasty with this guy, Barney. Get tough, heel your gloves, use your elbows and shoulders, butt him, hold and hit--everything! That's the way the champ works; he was always dirty. This guy will expect it, so give him the works. But, no matter what, don't let him near that jaw of yours.." you can outbox him, so don't try anything else."

"That's right, kid," Hendryx agreed.

"You been doin' fine. But this Dobro isn't like the others, he's bad medicine--an' he ain't going to be scared!"

Hendryx walked out, with Mada at his heels.

Malone watched them go, and then looked back at Ruby Ryan. The old Irishman was tightening a shoelace.

"How'd you happen to get mixed up with an outfit like that, Ruby?"

Ryan shrugged. "Same way you did, kid. A guy's got to five. Rack knew I was a good trainer, an' he hired me. I made McGowan champ. Now they both treat me like the dirt under their feet."

They hurried down the aisle to the ring, where Porky Dobro was already waiting for them. He was a heavy shouldered fighter with a square jaw and heavy brows. A typical slugger, and a tough one.

"All right, champ, box him now!" Ryan murmured as the bell sounded.

Dobro broke from his corner with a rush. He was a huge favorite locally, and it was the real fixing for the hometown fans to see a local heavyweight in a grudge battle with the world's champion.

Dobro rushed to close quarters but was stopped abruptly by a stiff left jab that set him back on his heels. Before he could regain his balance, Malone crossed a solid right to the head, and hooked two lefts to the body in close.

Dobro bored in, taking more blows. Bobbing and weaving, he tried to go under Malone's left, but it followed him, cutting, stabbing, holding him off.

Then Barney's left swung out a little, and Dobro managed to drive in close, where he clinched desperately, cursing. Malone tied him up calmly and pounded his body with a free hand.

Ryan was signaling from his corner and, remembering, Malone jerked his shoulder up hard under Dobro's chin. As the crowd booed, he calmly pushed Dobro away and peeled the hide from a cheekbone with the vicious heel of his glove.

The crowd booed again, and Dobro rushed, but brought up sharply on the end of a left that split his lips and started a stream of blood. Before he could set himself, Malone fired a volley of blows to his body. The bell sounded, and the crowd mingled cheers with the booing.

"Nice goin', kid," Ryan assured him.

"You should be in the movies. You look so much like McGowan, I hate you myself! But keep up the rough stuff, that's what we want."

The clang of the bell had scarcely died when Dobro was across the ring, but again he met that snapping left. He plunged in again, and again the left swung a little wide, letting him in. Then Malone promptly tied him up.

As they broke, Dobro took a terrific swing at Malone's jaw, slipped on some spilled water, and plunged forward, arms flailing.

Stumbling, he tried to regain his balance, then plunged headfirst into a steel corner-post! He slumped, a dead weight, upon the canvas, suddenly still.

Quickly, Malone bent over him, helping him to his feet, face white and worried. The referee and the man's seconds crowded around, working madly over the fighter, who had struck with force enough to kill.

Malone was suddenly conscious of a tugging at his arm, and looked up to find Ruby Ryan motioning him to the corner.

"He's all right, kid," Ryan assured him.

"But if he came to and found you bent over him, worried like that, the shock would probably kill him!

Remember, you're supposed to hate him and everything about him."

Finally, Dobro came around, but insisted on going on with the fight after a brief rest.

When the bell sounded again, Dobro came out fast, seemingly none the worse for his bump, but Malone stepped away, sparring carefully. Dobro plunged in close and slammed a couple of stiff punches to the body, then hooked a hard left to the head without a return. Malone stepped away, boxing carefully. He could still see Dobro's white face and queer eyes as he lay on the canvas, and was afraid that a stiff punch rnightA jolting right suddenly caught him on the ear, knocking him across the ring into the ropes. He caught himself just in time to see Dobro plunging in, his eyes wild with killer's fire. Malone ducked and clinched. As Dobro's ear came close, he whispered:

"Take it easy, you clown, an' I'll let you ride awhile!"

Then the referee broke them, and Malone saw Dobro's brow wrinkle with puzzlement. He realized instantly that he had overplayed his hand.

Hesitant to batter Dobro after his fall, he had acted as Bat McGowan would never have acted.

Dobro bored in, and Malone put a light left to his mouth, but passed up a good shot for his right. Suddenly, in close, his eye caught Dobro's; Dobro went under a left and clinched.

"Say, what is this?" he growled. "You're was Panic-stricken, Malone shoved him off with a left and hooked a terrific right to the chin that slammed Dobro to the canvas. But he was up at nine, boring in, still puzzled, conscious that something was wrong.

Malone put two rapid lefts to the face, and then stepped back, feinting a left and then letting it swing wide again. But this time, as Dobro lunged to get in close, Malone caught him coming in with a short, vicious right cross to the chin that stopped him dead in his tracks. Dobro weaved and started to drop, already out cold, but before he could fall, Malone whipped in a steaming left hook that stretched him on the canvas, dead to the world.

The next morning, Ruby Ryan walked into the room where Barney Malone was playing solitaire and handed him a paper.

"Take a gander at that, son. Looks like they're eating it up; but just the same, I'm worried.

Porky is dumb enough, but even a dumb guy can stumble into a smart play."

On one side of the sport sheet, black headlines broadcast the fight of the previous evening:

McGOWAN STOPS DO BRO IN SECOND

Champ Looks Great in Grudge Battle with Slugging Foe But across the page, and in a column of comment, Malone read further: