Read Online The Bruiser by Jim Tully - Free Book Online Page B

can’t we make it a nice draw?”
    â€œWe can’t use a draw—it’s got to be a knockout.”
    Shane loosened his shoulder muscles. “Connors has been good to me—I promised him a good fight for this chance—you wouldn’t want me to let him down.”
    â€œWell, it’s too bad—but there’s no way out.”
    â€œWell, I guess you’ve got me—give me five or six rounds.”
    â€œSeven’s the limit.”
    â€œAll right.”
    As Shane entered the ring he glanced through the ropes at the gamblers. Each had his right hand in a coat pocket.
    Neither fighter spoke when receiving instructions. Rory went forward slowly at the gong, moving his gloved left hand up and down a few inches, his eyes narrow, his chin buried. A full minute passed. Each time McCoy led, his opponent stepped aside. Suddenly Rory stepped in. McCoy was between him and the gamblers. Rory’s left shoulder was low. McCoy’s chin might have been fastened on it. Rory’s right moved three times, not over eight inches, trip-hammer fashion.
    McCoy’s jaw went sideways. His eyes turned glass. His mouth flew open. He fell as suddenly as a shot bull.
    Men stood dumfounded about the ring. The count over, Rory went to his dressing-room without looking in the direction of the gamblers.

V
    Shane watched the sea gulls fly on the wharf at San Francisco. Dilly Dally had left for Hollywood with the last hundred dollars. Eight hundred had gone in four weeks.
    It was time to fight again.
    He thought over his life, and wondered about Buck Logan and Spider Smith. His fights with Barney McCoy returned.
    It was sunny weather. The white clouds moved slowly in a blue sky across the bay.
    Jackie Connors was right about Dilly. She had told him everything. “I think we’d better bust up,” she said. “I ain’t worthy of a boy like you—maybe some day I will be.”
    â€œWell-that’s that,” he said. “So long.”
    â€œYou won’t be mad, will you, dear?”
    â€œWho—me—what at? We’ve both got to get by. I’ve got to get me some fights. There’s nothing doin’ here.”
    It had been pleasant, he remembered.
    He did not feel hurt at her confession. People could only misuse him in the ring.
    â€œYou and me’s different—I don’t know why,” she said one day as they wandered through Golden Gate Park. “I’m just made wrong—but I’ll never forget you.”
    Spider Smith had talked about women in Mexico City. “The only way to get one dame outta your head’s to get another one.”
    He did not understand. Girls had never bothered him—except one—a little. And then, he left because he did not want to be in the way.
    Once, in a moment of confidence, he had told Dilly about her.
    â€œSo her pa owns a big farm,” she sighed, her eyes narrow. “It’s a good thing you left before he chased you.”
    She had not been the same since.
    â€œOh, well!”
    Silent Tim Haney was in Portland. It was seven hundred miles away.
    He had fourteen dollars left. He would have to beat his way.
    In three days he was at the gymnasium of the Ideal Athletic Club.
    It was crowded with fighters. Old timers, with broken noses, and ears like hunks of gristle, talked with lads still unmarked by the leather of the ring.
    Silent Tim Haney was the manager of the gymnasium. He was also the matchmaker for the Ideal Athletic Club. He sat on a rickety chair in his green-painted, pine-board office. On the walls were pictures of fighters and women in tights. In the center of one group was a photograph of George Washington; of the other, Abraham Lincoln.
    The manager was in a stormy mood. The directors had held a special meeting. Their object was to determinewhy the Ideal Athletic Club was losing money. “They ain’t no more good fighters left,” the manager wailed. The battered