10 Short Novels Magazine — page 129: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

You looked tike a champ, fightin’ curtain raisers. I angle you into the semi-windup class, an’ what happens? In your last seven starts, you’ve sniffed resin thirty- one times! That’s a pay-off. The color I mistook for gold must ’a’ been your yel- low streak.” The lightweight burned energy re- viling himself, flaying his soul with self- condemnation. Packy Gahagan, his ring foe, was already working his shoes in the resin when Fletch stumbled through the ropes. A square-cut fighting harp, Packy was built for the rough going. He eyed his pale opponent with sardonic relish. Fletch attempted to dance around, but the steel spring in his legs had turned to cast iron. The gallery boys hooted at him. Fletch’s profile bore too close a resem- blance to a collar ad. The scoff-laws pre- ferred the Gahagan style of beauty, a mushroomed nose and a jaw like the busi- ness end of an anvil. ) After the referee’s instructions, Fletch dragged back to his corner. He smiled -at a pretty, anxious-eyed blonde in a ring- side seat. Panic clawed at him. Trina Forbes had journeyed from New York to watch him fight. She was pale. Her pulse- quickening smile failed to hide the fear and dread in her luminous eyes. For her the bout would be a nerve-racking ordeal. They’d been childhood sweethearts, and the bond still existed. At the outset she had approved of a ring career. But that was before she’d seen him kiss the canvas time after time, battered into a crimsoned pulp by the gloves of third- raters. She’d begged him to quit. And after tonight’s slaughter, there’d be more tears and another heart-rending plea. Fletch’s cold-eyed manager snatched away the robe. Eyes widened. The fighter looked like something. The build was there, the suggestion of speed and power. He had a splendid breadth of shoulders and the legs of a sprinter. But a million dollar body was just an ornament if a man had a vacuum for a heart. “Go out an’ fight that slob off his pins!” rasped Dude McCafferty. “After tonight, it’s either the headlines or the bread- limes !” A product of Broadway and its side streets, Dude McCafferty represented the larceny department of professional sport. He was a chiseler who was never swerved by any emotion higher than the desire to grab off all he could. ne Sin _ >. Soe eg ee od 5 Ss Sgt 2 * -~ a : eh The Dressing-Room Champ * * * 127. “T’ll fight,” muttered Fletch. “I’ll show this fellow so much leather, he'll get groggy every time he sees a glove.” Fletch’s voice sounded hollow, uncon- vincing. He knew he was whipped. That terrible gnawing in his stomach was evi- dence enough. He vilified himself as the lowest of life’s flops, a guy who was licked before he tried. The kid wished that a beam would fall on him. For ten years the ring had been his goal. For ten years he’d trained, practicing rigid denial] and schooling him- ~self in the boxing craft. And here was the finished product, an animated streak of yellow, a _ sacrificial offering for the greedy fists of a gritty little assassin. He was the worm of Fistiana, a canvas kisser. Bong! Life fled from Fletch’s legs. Woodenly he moved out. He knew he should be dancing lightly, edging in to saddle his foe with flashy footwork, feint- ing and bulling him into a corner where he could uncork the ether. But he stood like a fear-frozen amateur. McCafferty cursed. The crowd roared. And Packy Gahagan hitched up his aged, ring-worn black trunks, and stalked in for the massacre. He clubbed in a left to the ear that teetered Fletch. Again he shot for the head. Fletch’s guard went up, and Gahagan plopped a hook wrist- deep into the kid’s midriff. The kid jack- knifed, kissing the canvas. The mob howled for a killing. Trina Forbes closed her eyes. Trembling fingers ripped her handkerchief. Back of Fletch’s corner, Dude McCaffesty took-out a con- tract and started to tear it. Then he paused, eyed the floored fighter specula- tively and restored the document to his pocket. In ring center Fletch was desperately pawing the air for the repes. His torso - was a blaze of pain. Twice he struggled to his knees and sprawled out. But at the nine count he was up, -spraddle-legged and paralyzed. Gahagan romped in, sling- ing hot leather. He shook Fletch with staggering one-twos, and the kid hit the deck under a terrific bombardment to the solar plexus region. Again and again Fletch climbed off the floor amid the jeers of the crowd. White- faced and sobbing, the girl fled from the arena. The kid’s mind was blank, saye for one maddening thought that thr d through it to the deadly rhythm of Packy EOLMIG LOOKS CO)