The Bruiser (9 page)

When Shane's jaw had healed, Silent Tim Haney said, “Let's go to see Jerry Wayne—you remember him?”

“Yes.”

“We keep him where he is—he's too strong for anywhere else. It takes a whole state to watch him.” Silent Tim's tone was solemn, as he said, “It was a sad day for a gay man. Jerry was the best welterweight in the world—and when the judge sentenced him to the insane asylum, Jerry says to him, I'm still the world's champion—ain't I, Judge?'

“The judge was a puny man. He felt big when he looked at Jerry—like kickin' a lion that's chained.

“He says with a kind of sneer, ‘Yes, my dear boy, you are still the champion'—then he slapped his gavel and said, ‘Take him away.'

“Jerry tried to shadow box with the handcuffs on him. Then something came to him for a second. He got a flash that he was slug-nutty—and he began to cry”— Silent Tim Haney's eyes narrowed— “I'd of rather fought the Dublin Slasher, old as I am, with bare knuckles, than seen him break.

“His wife looked about the court-room like she didn't want to be there. She was a cheap girl he'd married when he was fightin' semi-windups—he left her near a quarter million and goes away to the nut house.”
Silent Tim laughed, “It's a rough world, Shane—as warm as the very devil when the referee's raisin' your hand, and cold as a hangman's heart when he ain't.

“I'll never forget Jerry when he began to come along. He was as nice a-lookin' boy as you'd ever want to see, and of course, like all fighters when he begun to go good, he got himself a diamond and a girl and a tailor-made suit—and a lot of other things that he had no more use for than I have for Joe Slack. But the skirt was something he could of done without—I've never seen a good man yet take one without losin'—and when a fighter takes a broad, it's like takin' the other guy's manager in his corner—the best he can get is chloroform in his lungs—and she'll leave him when he loses. I don't know why it is, but a bad woman hates a fighter—and they're all the poor devils ever get to know. Jerry could of found an excuse for Nero—”

“But they're not all alike, Tim. I know a few that are different,” Shane said.

“Where?”

“A little one in Hollywood—I knew her in Cheyenne—another one in North Dakota.”

“Huh—they're far enough apart—and even if I knew them I'd stay a bachelor.”

Silent Tim rubbed the elk tooth on his watch chain.

“She was all right till Jerry's brains begun to rattle like dry peas in a pod—and then she was no help. She had a little buzzard nose, and bow legs, and she'd talk a lawyer's arm off, with less sense—but poor Jerry—he thought she was the queen of Egypt got lost in the slums.”

He looked at his watch. “I've never had any luck with a fighter that got mixed up with a dame—there was the Dublin Slasher—God rest his wild soul—catch 'em young, treat 'em rough, and tell 'em nothin'—the minute you don't, you lose—”

Soon they were in sight of the insane asylum at the edge of the city.

“He was violent for a few days,” said the guard. “We had to keep him in a straight-jacket. He thought he was fightin' some fellow for the championship, but he's all right today. I give him a little strap with a buckle on it and told him it was the belt he'd won.” The guard smiled. “A fellow has to use his head with these nuts.”

Jerry Wayne was seated on a chair, his right elbow on his knee. His body was bent forward as though he awaited the sound of a gong.

He stared blankly at Silent Tim and Shane— “Clear the ring there—clear the ring—I'll git him in this round—” He jumped from the chair and threw blows in every direction. His body contorted as if in pain. He grunted under the impact of imaginary blows.

Dressed in a soft, gray undershirt that showed his muscular shoulders, he stood for a second, beckoning with his left and shouting, “Come on an' fight!” He then blazed away at the empty air.

“God, what a man!” said Silent Tim— “Without a brain in his head he kin lick the king of England—an' the whole English army, three at a time.”

Shane watched the insane bruiser intently.

“Do ye think you could lick him?” asked Tim.

He did not answer.

Jerry boxed shadows with bewildering speed.

“Do you remember me, Jerry?” asked Silent Tim as the demented fighter sat on his chair for what he thought was the minute's rest between rounds.

“Sure I remember you. I fought you last night in Paris. You thought you was good till you ducked under a left and bumped into a right—didn't you?”

Silent Tim shook his head.

He stared at Shane, then looked at Tim. “An' that big bozo with you—I'll take him on right now—winner take all. Them big yaps are duck soup for me.”

He ran around the room, his elbows at his sides, his fists closed. He stopped suddenly and yelled— “Hey, mister, wait'll my greyhound ketches up—what's all your hurry anyhow?” He walked dejectedly about; then seated himself on a chair, placed his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, and remained motionless.

The guard said, “He'll sit there all afternoon and never make a move—when night comes I ring a gong.”

Shane handed the guard five dollars.

“Thanks—then he comes runnin', an' I say, ‘You won agin, Jerry—you're still the world's greatest'—then I take his clothes off an' lay him out on the bed an' let on like I'm rubbin' him down— Purty soon he's asleep.”

Fighter and manager walked away in silence.

It was long before Shane asked, “How'd he get that way?”

“More ways than one,” replied Tim, “it's not from the beatin's he took—I'd swear to that—it was his damn fool wife. The time I was sick, she was sweet on that
big Archie Silvers. Silvers couldn't fight his way out of a paper bag—and she thought he was better'n Jerry—so much do women know of the men who're fools enough to love them. Well, Silvers got too much strychnine and gingerale mixed when he was Jerry's second, while I was away. It went to his brain. That was the beginning. He was nuts on the wife. She's married to Silvers now, anyhow—and even if he couldn't get out of the preliminaries—he's spendin' the money a great main-eventer went crazy to get.”

“Jerry was nice to me that time in Butte,” said Shane.

“He was nice to everybody,” Silent Tim said crisply. “He was too nice to her and Silvers.”

With a tone of resignation, Silent Tim said, “But let's forget it—the Lord knows his business— He has as much right to turn a brain over as a cook has an egg.”

“I don't think He had anything to do with it.” Shane looked ahead, his eyes narrow. “He can't be worried about a lot of goofy fighters.”

“Well,” Tim demurred, “it wasn't the Lord that slugged him, but He guides us all. If one man goes one way and another a ‘tother, I'm sure I'm not the one to lay awake nights to figure it out—I only manage you, and not the world— We've been together quite a while, and you're goin' a long road, my lad.” Tim's words rolled easily, “The best man on earth—and there's a million of them—and you're on your way to be the best—think of it, Shaney, my boy.”

“Maybe that's what he thought back there.” Shane threw his head backward.

“No—he couldn't of thought that—he was only a welterweight—and no man of a hundred and forty-two can lick a great heavyweight, no matter if he's the best welterweight ever born—and that I think Jerry was.” Silent Tim paused.

“I knew the night his mind begun to slip. I saw a dead look come in his eye when he fought Harry Sully. He gave Sully a lot of pounds. Sully was lighter then, but still a murderous puncher. He zipped Jerry with a right and left hard enough to glue his teeth together. Jerry said to his wife in the taxi later, ‘Hello, Mother, is it rainin' outside?' She didn't have the brains the Lord gives geese, so I said, ‘It's a new way he has of teasin', Marie, dear.' For a minute I was a little sad. Jerry was such a gorgeous boy. Such a fine fighter I never saw except the Dublin Slasher and you. He'd move in the ring like he had wings on his shoulders and ball bearin's in his feet.”

“What'd you do about him then?” asked Shane.

“There was nothin' I could do,” replied Tim, “I couldn't stop him fightin': besides, whatever harm there was, was already done. It was all I could do to keep his body in shape.”

“Maybe if he'd of stopped then he'd be all right now,” said Shane.

“No, he'd of been on his heels just the same—a slap-happy bum with his wife desertin' him for a preliminary palooka—and now he don't know it. The women who marry fighters, God save my ragged soul, are often crueler than the managers—but anyhow—what's the difference—a little crazy, or crazy all the way—
I'd rather be where Jerry is than hangin' around some fight club havin' the same people who used to cheer me pointin' and sayin'—‘There's Jerry Wayne—he used to be a great fighter—you remember. He's cuckoo now.'” Silent Tim was silent a moment. “At least Jerry's not on exhibition,” he continued, “There's only two people in the world who go to see him—Wild Joe Ryan, bless his Hebe heart, and myself.”

Shane's step had slightly less rubber, as Silent Tim pointed a thumb over his shoulder, “But all the other people in there didn't get slug-nutty fightin'.”

“That's right,” agreed Shane.

“At least not'n the ring,” added Silent Tim.

The manager's voice rose, “But let's forget it. I'm sorry now I took you; for you can't be thinkin' of Jerry Wayne when you go agin' Harry Sully. You gotta keep your head a bobbin' so he don't cut your eye open again—he's got a left jab that's wicked and as quick as the dart of a rattler.”

“Don't worry about me,” advised Shane.

“I won't—exactly—except, by beatin' Sully now, you'll be in line for Bangor Lang and the championship in a year or two—and if Sully beats you, he'll be. You've already got a draw with Lang, after he broke your jaw.”

“Sully'll never beat me,” returned Shane, “when Lang couldn't.”

“You're right,” said Tim. “There's but few men livin' can trade wallops with the Bangor even when their jaws are not broke.”

“You've never fought with a broken jaw, have you, Tim?”

“No, my boy—Glory be to the merciful God that's something I missed.”

“You'd better thank God—it's like a sharp razor cutting down your neck to your heart every second-there was many a time I saw five Bangor Langs in front of me—I knew I could only hit one—and I didn't dare keep swingin' at the other four, for the referee'd get next and stop the fight—so I'd wait till Bangor got in close and then let him have it—he'd rough my jaw something awful—like gettin' stung with hot needles— but I fooled him.” Shane said the last words proudly.

“Bangor's a great fighter—he's every inch a champion,” added Silent Tim. “He'll ride for a year or so— and then it'll be you—or Sully.” He stopped a second, “Or maybe Torpedo Jones.”

“If I don't go slug-nutty like Jerry back there.” Shane's head went backward.

“What do you mean—slug-nutty—you're not that kind, Shane, I can tell—you're over the hill now, me boy—no more heart breakin' towns with no money in the house. No more barns to train in, and months without a fight, with no money comin' in. Soon you'll be makin' as much for a week in vaudeville as many a poor slugger gets in a year.” He became more earnest. “It's no time to quit now with the race near won.”

“I know,” Shane agreed.

“You're luckier'n most,” continued Silent Tim, “I've got enough money to hire the best, and I made
a lot of it through two boys who're now no more—Jerry Wayne and the Dublin Slasher—peace to their wild ashes—for Jerry's dead too—but I played fair with both of them—there was no nickel they earned they didn't get. So neither of them can haunt me now.”

“Anyhow,” said Shane, “nothin' more can happen to 'em.”

“Nothin' more—not even High Mass can disturb them ever again—and what a God-awful consolation that is—away from the weepin' and the mock laughter forever and ever. We didn't ask to be born and we don't want to die—the boy back there made a million people forget they were livin' for a minute—and none of them ever see him now.”

“Well, they paid him good money—and they didn't ask him to be a fighter.”

“Why, Shane, you're hardboiled, but you're right—but let's forget the sad things—if we were as sure of going to heaven as we are of makin' a few million, we'd be growin' wings right now.”

“You'd be a funny lookin' angel,” Shane grinned.

“Maybe so, but I'd be interestin',” added Tim.

For several days Shane trained listlessly. Every movement in the gymnasium brought before him the picture of Jerry Wayne.

Silent Tim was unaware that a fighter could be worried about anything except the outcome of a battle, money, or a woman.

“It'll be all right once the gong rings,” he explained. “Sully's a counter-fighter. All you got to do is keep him off balance.”

“Yeap—that's all.” Shane's words were mocking.

He had seen many punch-drunk fighters. Some had been famous. Others had never left the preliminary class.

The fighter of no ability was as confident as the greatest.

When Tim saw a fighter's leg drag, or his foot scrape the floor, he knew that the inevitable punch-drunk condition was setting in—that nature was collecting for the constant jarring of the brain.

He had seen light “punchers” suddenly become deadly hitters. When their nerves became deadened to pain, they could inflict more.

Several lads he had fought had since gone punch-drunk. Once smiling, carefree, a few years had denuded them of everything but a blank expression.
Their heads tilted sideways, a grimace took the place of a smile. Their words were gibberish. The body swayed backward. Deafness came—and often blindness.

They neither blamed nor whimpered. It was “the game.” They could always quit. But they never did. Beyond the lure of money, was the fascination that lured them from the valley of boredom, and made it forever impossible to return to humdrum ways again.

“It's the old fire-horse when it hears the bell,” explained Silent Tim. “Though its bones rattle, it would race to a fire.”

Shane had heard many tales of fighters going “off their nut”—one had charged a street car when the motorman rang the bell—another went crazy in church and jumped up to answer the bell in that awful moment of silence when Christ was supposed to descend upon the altar.

He wondered why Silent Tim had survived, clearheaded, while Jerry Wayne hadn't. He had heard for months about Jerry's fate. It had not impressed him until his visit to the asylum.

Knowing nothing but violence in childhood, he reacted to it with silent but determined belligerency.

A volcano suddenly made quiet, the change bewildered him. Not knowing that in a supreme crisis one is always alone, he wanted desperately to talk to some person.

He had an impulse to explain to Silent Tim, and knew he could not. He remembered what Hot and Cold Daily had said of Harry Sully—“A great fighter
—he's got no imagination.” Daily was more sympathetic than the other newspaper writers. Everything was either black or white with them. “If a guy don't want to fight, so what?”

In this mood, Shane fought Harry Sully the second time, the winner to meet Bangor Lang.

Neither fighter looked at the other when called to the center of the ring. Shane looked downward at his gloves. Sully glanced over Shane's shoulder.

“What's wrong with you—what's wrong?” Silent Tim repeated between rounds.

Shane did not speak.

In the third, a glancing blow put him down. “He slipped,” a ringsider yelled. Shane was up at once.

At the end of the fight Shane did not even turn to see the referee raise Sully's hand.

The victor, in joy, jumped up and down. His seconds led him to Shane's corner.

Shane sat, his eyes on the canvas floor. He did not look up as Sully touched his shoulder in that gesture of consolation to the loser which the victor does not mean.

To hide his keen disappointment, Silent Tim talked steadily, repeating over and over again, “Next time, next time.”

“Sully'll never give him another chance,” Wild Joe Ryan said, after they had taken Shane to his room.

“Indeed he will—we'll make him,” returned Silent Tim.

“Something's happened to him.” Wild Joe Ryan
shook his head. “He fought like a man in a daze.”

“He's been fightin' too often,” said Silent Tim, “I'll give him a rest.”

“He's not burnt out, I hope,” said Wild Joe Ryan.

“Nope, it's not that.”

“Then what is it?” asked Wild Joe Ryan.

“Nothing,” returned Silent Tim, “except Sully's a jinx.”

“Maybe he's just a better man,” responded Wild Joe Ryan.

“I'll never believe that,” snapped Silent Tim, “there's none better alive than Shane Rory.”

They looked at each other with unanswered questions in their eyes.

“Is somethin' worryin' him?” asked Wild Joe Ryan.

“No—I guess not—he's a moody boy—something like the Dublin Slasher.”

“Wilson couldn't of doped him?”

“Nope—I watched his food and drink—it's just a curtain over his mind—I've seen fighters like that.”

Wild Joe Ryan cut in, “He wasn't the lad I saw knock the Nigger out.”

“Maybe not—we're not always the same people all the time. Neither was the Nigger in a class with Sully. The higher a fighter climbs, the more accurate the other man's blow, the more strength and cunning to win from them.” He sighed. “It was just an ‘off night.'”

“He's got to get away from ‘off nights' and leave his moods in the dressin' room.”

“I know, I know.” Silent Tim looked at his comrade
with an expression of despair. “It'll be Bangor Lang and Harry Sully now—and my boy can whip 'em both.”

“Except—he didn't.”

“But he will, you damn fool!” Silent Tim Haney looked scornfully at his friend.

Shane's head rumbled with Sully's punches. He could not sleep.

Thousands of men, riding horses, dashed through the room. All looked like Sully. Pain stabbed above his eyes.

A radio in the next room boomed the result of the fight.

His knees bent. The room circled. The men galloped faster. All now resembled Sully. His sister came quietly toward him, the horses jumping aside as they came near to her.

Sully's eyes were frightful. His hair stood on end, and his face was covered with huge veins of blue and purple.

Shane shook his head fiercely—as though to drive away the effect of a hard blow. His body ached all over. He put his hands to his ears in an effort to relieve the painful throbbing. His eyes became wet.

He threw himself across the bed. Before him waved the wheat fields of North Dakota. He had spent happy months there the year he became a fighter. The priest and the Negro boy and the lad who went away to the penitentiary, and Dilly Dally came before him. That was three or four or five years ago. He tried to think.
He got up, groping. The room whirled around. He fell across the bed.

The back of his head ached from the fury of Sully's “rabbit punches.” A stupor came.

Once again he was in North Dakota. The wheat waved. Birds sang above it. Though he could not put it into words, the months there had been the one oasis in the long drudgery of his life. He liked old Peter Lund—and Lyndal. She was something he had never known before. He had left to get her out of his mind.

One of the harvesters had said, “You got a chance there, Buddy—a cat can look at a king—so why can't a road kid look at a gal like that—”

“Stay where you belong,” something inside of him had always said, “you're a bum.”

He wondered if she were married.

Hand in hand she walked with Dilly Dally. Soon they merged together as one, and kissed his burning lips. Their bodies separated. He could feel their soft hands on his aching forehead. His throat contracted. He tried to encircle both girls. His arms went through them. They were near him again. He could feel the contour of their lovely bodies. The hand of each went through his hair and down his battered face.

Troubled, he dozed.