Read Online Dead Stay Dumb by James Hadley Chase - Free Book Online
Authors: James Hadley Chase
Ads: Link
jabbed away, landing too high up to do any damage.
Sankey was getting sore as hell. Every time Franks came in he belted Sankey in the ribs. They were landing solid. Sankey just couldn't keep him out. He was taking an awful beating in the body. The round finished with a flurry in the far corner. Sankey managed to uppercut Franks with the heel of his glove, cutting Franks' nose.
Sankey came back to his corner flat-footed. Gurney could see the muscles in his legs fluttering. He flopped on his stool and his handlers went to work on him.
Gurney said, “Keep him off this round. He's goin' to dive in the fifth.”
“I can't stay,” Sankey said; he was almost crying. “The bastard's spillin' my guts.”
Gurney snarled, “You'll stay all right, or you'll run into more grief outside.” He looked across at Franks, who was lying back taking in great lungfuls of air. They weren't even working on him.
The gong went for the fourth.
Sankey went out with a little more spring. He was desperate. He drove a right at Franks, connected, and followed it with a left. Franks went back on his heels, covering up. The crowd rose to their feet, howling.
Gurney shouted, “Get after him... beat the hell out of him!...”
In went Sankey, swinging punches from all angles. Franks rode the dangerous ones and smothered the wild swings. Then he suddenly jabbed a left in Sankey's face, bringing him up short, and crossed with his right. It caught Sankey between the eyes. There was a sharp silence when Sankey went down on his hands and knees, then the crowd screamed with excitement. Franks went to a corner, opposite Gurney. He was breathing slowly, his great chest rising and falling without effort.
Gurney shouted, “Next round, or you get it!”
Franks showed no sign that he heard.
The referee was standing over Sankey, shouting the count in his ear. Sankey's muscles were fluttering as he tried to drag himself off the canvas. They were all shouting at him. The gong stopped the count at eight.
They got Sankey into his corner by dragging him. Hank gave him a shot of rye, tugging his ears and pouring water on his head. Hank was scared stiff. Dillon came up and leant over the ropes.
“Get a grip on yourself, you big slab of ——,” he snarled.
“Y're goin' to win in this round. If you don't go out and tear that bastard to bits I'll give you the heat.”
Sankey fought down the nagging tiredness. “My left's like lead,” he whined.
“Then use your goddam right,” Dillon said. “Remember, hit that guy all over the ring. He'll go down.”
The gong went for the fifth.
The crowd expected Franks to come out and finish it, but he didn't. He seemed to have suddenly lost his steam. Sankey went straight into a clinch. He hung on, leaning his weight on Franks, until the referee had to shout at him. Franks caught him as he went away, but there was no snap to it. Sankey was breathing like an escape of steam. He jabbed Franks as he came in, and Franks hit him in the ribs, three light blows that didn't even make Sankey flinch. He danced away from Franks, coming down on the flat of his feet. Franks shuffled after him, his hands low. Sankey saw his opening. He'd have been blind if he hadn't seen it. In went his left and cross went his right. It was with an open glove, but they both sounded good. The crowd heaved to their feet. Franks went down on his side.
Gurney gave a little hiss of relief. The crowd screamed and rocked, yelling to Franks to get up. The referee, slightly startled, began to tick off the seconds.
Sankey leant against the ropes, his knees buckling and his face smeared with blood. He couldn't even look pleased.
Franks didn't move, he just lay there.
Beth Franks fought her way to the ringside. She beat on the canvas with her hands.
Sankey was getting sore as hell. Every time Franks came in he belted Sankey in the ribs. They were landing solid. Sankey just couldn't keep him out. He was taking an awful beating in the body. The round finished with a flurry in the far corner. Sankey managed to uppercut Franks with the heel of his glove, cutting Franks' nose.
Sankey came back to his corner flat-footed. Gurney could see the muscles in his legs fluttering. He flopped on his stool and his handlers went to work on him.
Gurney said, “Keep him off this round. He's goin' to dive in the fifth.”
“I can't stay,” Sankey said; he was almost crying. “The bastard's spillin' my guts.”
Gurney snarled, “You'll stay all right, or you'll run into more grief outside.” He looked across at Franks, who was lying back taking in great lungfuls of air. They weren't even working on him.
The gong went for the fourth.
Sankey went out with a little more spring. He was desperate. He drove a right at Franks, connected, and followed it with a left. Franks went back on his heels, covering up. The crowd rose to their feet, howling.
Gurney shouted, “Get after him... beat the hell out of him!...”
In went Sankey, swinging punches from all angles. Franks rode the dangerous ones and smothered the wild swings. Then he suddenly jabbed a left in Sankey's face, bringing him up short, and crossed with his right. It caught Sankey between the eyes. There was a sharp silence when Sankey went down on his hands and knees, then the crowd screamed with excitement. Franks went to a corner, opposite Gurney. He was breathing slowly, his great chest rising and falling without effort.
Gurney shouted, “Next round, or you get it!”
Franks showed no sign that he heard.
The referee was standing over Sankey, shouting the count in his ear. Sankey's muscles were fluttering as he tried to drag himself off the canvas. They were all shouting at him. The gong stopped the count at eight.
They got Sankey into his corner by dragging him. Hank gave him a shot of rye, tugging his ears and pouring water on his head. Hank was scared stiff. Dillon came up and leant over the ropes.
“Get a grip on yourself, you big slab of ——,” he snarled.
“Y're goin' to win in this round. If you don't go out and tear that bastard to bits I'll give you the heat.”
Sankey fought down the nagging tiredness. “My left's like lead,” he whined.
“Then use your goddam right,” Dillon said. “Remember, hit that guy all over the ring. He'll go down.”
The gong went for the fifth.
The crowd expected Franks to come out and finish it, but he didn't. He seemed to have suddenly lost his steam. Sankey went straight into a clinch. He hung on, leaning his weight on Franks, until the referee had to shout at him. Franks caught him as he went away, but there was no snap to it. Sankey was breathing like an escape of steam. He jabbed Franks as he came in, and Franks hit him in the ribs, three light blows that didn't even make Sankey flinch. He danced away from Franks, coming down on the flat of his feet. Franks shuffled after him, his hands low. Sankey saw his opening. He'd have been blind if he hadn't seen it. In went his left and cross went his right. It was with an open glove, but they both sounded good. The crowd heaved to their feet. Franks went down on his side.
Gurney gave a little hiss of relief. The crowd screamed and rocked, yelling to Franks to get up. The referee, slightly startled, began to tick off the seconds.
Sankey leant against the ropes, his knees buckling and his face smeared with blood. He couldn't even look pleased.
Franks didn't move, he just lay there.
Beth Franks fought her way to the ringside. She beat on the canvas with her hands.
Similar Books
