10 Short Novels Magazine — page 131: what you’re looking at

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

_— Pe 7 See ee a >a 4 aon - —a—— <= et ——) — a ~~ 2» ae — a. Mi a teal ond ce — ns ae eee oe eee ee < me x = = = > = = =e Bes ——3 2 és See ee a — == _ sc 4 Serer r = eae a - < : 10SN The Dressing-Room Champ * * * 129 | Skeggs that he’d been swindled, that Mc- Cafferty had pawned the fighter, because Fletch was a cheap bill of goods. But the kid didn’t know how to get it across. Skeggs had stamped him with an expert’s appraisal, and he wouldn’t understand. Even the fighter didn’t understand. Why should a craftsman have fear when he knows he has the skill and the proper tools? Fletch had seen men drop before his dynamiting fists. In the gym he’d out- pointed club stars and title contenders. He didn’t have a glass jaw and his torso was armed with muscle. Fletch could find no answer save the one which all but drove him mad—that he had saffron in his makeup. Promoters would feature an unknown managed by Pop Skeggs just on the old gentleman’s word. The next day the veteran got answers to a dozen wires. He accepted a main event in Binghamton. “Don’t you think we ought to start with a curtain raiser?” the fighter asked. It wasn’t fear this time, but the prompt- ing of a tremendous urge to show his new manager what he could do. Skeggs laughed. “That doesn’t sound like a youngster with your class. Does a man run for mayor when he can be governor?” OR his star bout in Binghamton, Fietch was right. He’d taken inven- tory, and he’d put the slug on those silly notions of cowardice. No blue funk would seep in to sap his strength tonight. He only wished he was getting a bang at the champ, instead of facing a free-style swinger made to order for him. “T’ve got you booked for a month, son,” said Pop Skeggs jubilantly. “We'll barn- storm a while. Then it’s New York and the big time.” “Don’t you want a contract?” asked Fletch. Skeggs smiled. “I’ve sized you up, lad. We'll work on a gentlemen’s agreement. But you mentioned something about a duplicate contract that McCafferty gave you. That ought to be destroyed. There'll be plenty of the boys trying to get their hooks into us when we start scooping up the heavy sugar.” Fletch got the ring call. Eager-eyed and vibrantly alive, he jogged into the arena. The roar of the mob used to chill him. Now he thrilled to that riotous din. He’d show these experts that Pop Skeggs still could pick ’em. Fletch went in with the confidence of a champion. He was keyed up as taut as a guy wire. He was impatient for the bell, as restless as a race horse fretting and quivering at the barrier. The gong sent him out gliding, stalk- ing, eyes glowing. His opponent Kirk charged like a snorting bull. Fletch shift- ed him to low speed with a leaping left. His foe couldn’t get to him. That jolting jab soon pulped Kirk’s face to a raw, swollen blob. Fletch shook his head. It wasn’t a contest. Why prolong the agony? He let go a right. Kirk blocked it neatly—with his chin. His knees sagged and his guard lowered. Fletch measured his groggy foe and rocked him with a slashing hook. Sinking, Kirk’s fighting heart asserted itself. He lashed out. It was a clumsy, slow-freight right, a push-punch delivered off balance and lacking steam. It touched Fletch in the midriff. A frenzied roar burst from the crowd. His face ashen and his eyes wild, Skeggs dug his nails into the edge of the ring. Fletch was on the canvas, floored by a powder-puff punch. That blow wouldn’t have crashed through a paper bag. Yet Fletch lay as stiff as a frozen fish. Kirk beat the count. Out on his feet, he was mumbling to himself and flailing at space. A single blow would have toppled him, but Fletch wasn’t there to check him out. Fletch was still in the resin dust. Pop Skeggs tried to cheer the kid. “Just a fluke, son. Liable to happen to any fighter. He got you while you were taking a breath and your muscles were relaxed. Forget it. Leonard had his Shugrue. Schmeling was dialed out in a round by Joe Louis.” Fletch couldn’t forget it. Skeggs was wrong. Those thick ridges of muscle banding the fighter’s torso had been tensed. The defeat crushed Fletch, gave him the answer he had been dreading. He was in the wrong business. He knew he should quit, but he couldn’t and still keep a remnant of self-respect. Yet the end was near. Skeggs wouldn’t be fooled long. For Pop’s sake, Fletch brooded behind a fixed smile and a mask of enthusiasm. Hither Skeggs was a good actor, or he hadn’t caught the significance of that knockout, for he talked of the title in terms of deferred ownership, In upstate cities Fletch went te the (E) ime S 200 Jy ~ Pn > ee die ini 5 Se ~ s SC — . he — OE Re > ¥ =