1953 - The Sucker Punch (7 page)

"Must be nice for you," I said sarcastically. "Well, if you want to see the big fight, we'd better get going."

We got to our seats as the announcer was introducing the main bout of the evening. It was a fifteen round contest between Jack Slade, the middleweight champion and Darky Jones, an almost unknown challenger.

The two men were in the ring now, and Vestal was feasting her eyes on them.

I told her Slade was the favourite and asked her if she would like to make a bet.

"I'll bet on the brown man," she said. "There's something about him that fascinates me. Look at those muscles and those eyes. Of course he's going to win."

"Not a chance. Slade hasn't been knocked out in twenty fights. He's right on top of his form. Jones has a punch, but he won't get a chance to land it."

"I'll bet a hundred dollars on the brown man."

"Okay, but don't say I didn't warn you."

I pushed past a couple of dozen knees to the aisle and crossed over to where Lefty Johnson was sitting.

"Evening, Mr. Winters," he said, giving me a leering smile. "I see you're stepping high tonight."

"A hundred on Jones to win, Lefty. Okay?"

"Sure. Tired of keeping your dough, Mr. Winters?"

“Not my bet. I'll have fifty on Slade."

I just got back to my seat in time for the bell.

Jones came out of his corner as if he had been fired from a gun. There was a flurry and a brown flash, and he was in Slade's corner before Slade was scarcely off his stool. The whole thing happened so fast, only the ringside customers really saw what happened. The brown man's right fist smashed against Slade's jaw with the impact of a shell. They were right above us, and I saw Slade's eyes go empty and his knees sag.

Jones brought up a left upper cut. He was a shade too fast, and his fist missed Slade's jaw and smashed against his cheekbone, drawing blood. Slade went down on hands and knees. He stared straight at us, his jaw hanging, his eyes vacant, his senses paralysed.

I became aware that Vestal was leaning forward, her fingers gripping my wrist, her mouth open. There was so much noise going on I couldn't hear her scream, but I knew she was screaming. Half the crowd were on their feet, yelling their heads off. The Stadium rocked with the sound.

The referee shoved Jones back, waving him to a neutral corner. But Jones was excited, and the referee had to shout at him to get him to obey his order.

The delay had given Slade a few valuable seconds. I was watching him. I saw a spark of life come into his eyes. The referee was bending over him, yelling the count at him, his arm rising and falling.

"A sucker punch!" I shouted in Vestal's ear. "The mug! The goddam mug!"

I don't think she even knew I had spoken. She was crouched forward, her eyes gleaming, her face a ferocious, hard mask as she watched the seconds tick off.

Slade was on his feet at the count of nine. As Jones shot across the ring, Slade slid into a clinch, hanging on desperately, smothering the brown arms, while he fought to bring his senses into action again.

The referee had to tear the two men apart, and in his excitement Jones released a hail of punches instead of stepping back, measuring his man and handing out the one finisher.

Slade covered up, retreating around the ring, with Jones chasing him.

The crowd was screaming for the kill, but Jones hadn't the experience to get through with a finisher. The bell went just as Jones had succeeded in manoeuvring his tottering opponent into a corner and was setting himself to let fly another wild barrage of punches.

"Well, that's that," I said in disgust as the brown man stormed angrily back to his corner. "His jaw's broken. What a mug! To have fallen for a sucker punch with his experience! It'll be over in the next round."

Vestal was still clutching my wrist.

"I've never been so excited," she gasped. "This is wonderful! You mean he really has a broken jaw?"

"Well, look at it. Look at the way it's hanging. Jones has only to hit him there, and it's over."

Vestal leaned forward, her eyes avid as she stared at Slade who lay back in his corner, his great chest heaving, his jaw hanging loose, his eyes vacant.

The bell went and out came Jones, his face a snarling, ferocious mask.

Slade had both hands up to protect his broken jaw, and as Jones rushed at him, Slade's left stabbed out and caught Jones in the face, sending him reeling back.

Slade shuffled forward. His right and left moved with piston like precision, driving Jones before him.

Vestal was yelling again, and she wasn't the only one.

Jones's seconds were bawling for him to finish it, but he was getting flurried. Every time he set himself to bring over a haymaker, Slade's left stabbed out and threw him off balance. Slade kept that up until the dying seconds of the round, then Jones managed to catch him with a vicious left hook to the side of his face. His expression of agony had Vestal screaming like a mad thing for Jones to go in and finish him.

Slade went down on one knee. He looked like a wounded and dangerous lion as he snarled up at the brown fighter who stepped away from him.

Blood ran down his face from a cut eye; blood ran out of his mouth.

The bell stopped the count, and Slade's seconds poured into the ring to half carry him back to his corner.

"Oh, this is something!" Vestal said, her chest heaving. "I didn't imagine a fight would be like this! Oh, Chad, I'm so glad I came with you!"

Oh, Chad!

It had slipped out, but the spectacle of two thugs bashing each ether's brains out hadn't deadened me enough so I didn't hear what she had said.

The third round was the last. Jones's seconds had finally got their instructions hammered into the brown man's skull: don't rush, pick your punch and nail him.

The end came in the second minute of the round: a hard left hook, followed by a right cross. Both punches exploded on Slade's shattered jaw. He gave a blood-chilling little grunt as he went down on hands and knees, his face ghastly with agony.

He tried to drag himself off the canvas, but the effort proved too much for him. He rolled over on his back, still conscious, but finished.

Vestal had jumped to her feet. I had to pull her back or she would have got to the apron of the ring.

"Take it easy," I shouted to her.

She struggled to get away from me, her face turned to the ring, but I held her. She wasn't the only one who was behaving like a sadistic lunatic. The noise was enough to break your eardrums.

And when the count was over and they had dragged Slade to his corner, Vestal collapsed against me. I had to hold on to her or she would have dropped to the floor.

"Get me out of here, Chad," she gasped. "I feel I'm going to faint."

Through the press around the ring, Leggit suddenly appeared.

"Do you want any help, Mr. Winters?" he said.

"I want to get her out of here fast."

"Follow me."

He went ahead, forcing his way as only a cop can force his way. I half-carried, half-walked Vestal along behind him.

He took us to the staff quarters and dressing rooms, away from the mass of people now surging to the exits.

"You wait here," he said. "I'll get your car."

I stood in the dimly lit passage, feeling the hot, stifling air from the arena on my face as I held on to Vestal.

"How are you feeling?" I asked.

"I'm all right. It was the heat and excitement. I've never been so excited. I've never felt that way before."

She raised her face and stared up at me. There was a look in her eyes that jolted me right back on my heels.

I've been around long enough with women to know what that look meant. Right at that moment she wanted me as violently and as badly as any woman has ever wanted any man.

It was there in her eyes, and in the way her face had softened, and in the way the blood hammered in her throat. I could have taken her the way I could have taken any street corner pushover right there in that dimly lit passage if I had wanted to, but believe me that was the last thing on earth I wanted to do.

But the sight of that naked desire shocked me. She was such a wizened, ugly little thing that I hadn't ever thought of her in that way. I couldn't believe she could possibly have those kind of feelings; not her, not this skinny, brittle, bundle of bones. Not only did it seem impossible, it didn't even seem decent.

"Your cop pal has gone for the car," I said, stepping away from her; still holding her arm, but getting distance between us. I looked over my shoulder down the passage as if I were looking for Leggit. I didn't want her to see the disgust on my face.

She pulled away from me.

"I'm all right now." Her voice was hoarse and unsteady. "The heat's awful here."

"Let's go and find him then."

I made a move to take her arm, but she avoided me.

"You have forgotten my winnings. Aren't you going to get them for me?"

"Lefty won't run away. I'll put you in the car first."

"Please get them now!"

There was a strident note in her voice. I looked sharply at her. She turned her head quickly, but not quickly enough. I don't think I have ever seen anyone look so unhappy. Her face was gaunt with despair and misery.

"Oh, please go!" she cried, and her voice sounded as if she were about to burst into tears.

I left her, wondering what the hell it was all about.

It wasn't until I was returning back up the aisle after collecting her winnings that a possible explanation of her misery suddenly struck me.

It struck me so violently, it brought me to a dead stop.

Had she expected me to make love to her in that sordid passage? Had that look of abject misery meant that she knew how unlovely she was and that she had sensed my disgust?

You're nuts, I told myself. You're crazy to think like that. Just because most women fall for you, that's no reason to think she has fallen for you.

Not her, with her seventy million bucks and her power. She wouldn't be such a mug as to fall in love with a bank clerk—or would she?

I went up the aisle at a run, but when I got to the passage there was no sign of her.

I went down to the exit, pushed open the door and stepped out into the still, hot night.

Leggit was walking towards me. I waited for him.

"Miss Shelley's gone home," he said, staring at me inquisitively from under the brim of his slouch hat. "She seemed upset."

"I guess the excitement and the heat..." I said and let the rest of the sentence trail away.

Could she have fallen in love with me? I was asking myself. Or had it been a sudden animal desire that had taken hold of her; a physical urge raised in her by the sight of two men slugging each other?

"Some fight," Leggit said, standing close to me, still staring.

"Some flop. I wouldn't have believed Slade would have fallen for that sucker punch," I said. "A guy with his experience."

Leggit took out a pack of cigarettes, offered me one and then lit mine and his.

"It's when a guy gets full of confidence he's wide open for a punch like that," he said. "I've seen it happen again and again in my racket. Some guy commits murder. He takes a lot of trouble and thought to cover up; fakes himself an alibi or maybe makes it look like it's been done by someone else. Then he imagines he's safe. But he isn't, Mr. Winters. A guy who thinks he's safe is wide open for a sucker punch. Just when he least expects it—wham! and he's down on his back, only he has something a damn sight worse coming to him than a busted jaw."

"I guess that's right," I said, not paying much attention. "Well, I'll be moving along, Lieutenant. Good night."

It wasn't until this morning that I remembered that conversation.

I realize now that Leggit had been talking sense.

A killer who thinks he is safe is wide open for a sucker punch. I should know. Just when I thought I had this whole thing neatly packaged with no loose ends—wham! Just the way he said it would happen.

When I got back to my apartment after the fight I found Glorie (never mind her other name), my blonde date who I had stood up and forgotten about when Vestal had invited herself to the fights, waiting for me.

She sat in an armchair, in scarlet underwear pants, a brassiere, and fishnet stockings, held up by frilly sky blue garters.

If you like them stacked like Jane Russell, as I do, then you would like Glorie. Her blonde silky hair was cut in a pageboy bob; her pert little face was no prettier than the average showgirl’s, and equally as vacant and attractive.

"I've been waiting hours, darling," she said plaintively. "I'm afraid I've drunk nearly all your whisky."

"Well, give me what's left," I said, "and get into bed and keep quiet. I have some business to do first."

I went over to the telephone and called Vestal's number.

While I waited for the connection, Glorie strutted over to my wardrobe and selected from the half-a-dozen nylon nightdresses I always kept handy, a red one she had added to the collection herself.

"Not that for Pete's sake," I said. "It makes you look like a fireman."

She looked over her shoulder and leered.

"That's why I'm going to wear it. I'm going to act like a fireman tonight."

A voice came over the wire: "Miss Shelley's residence."

"This is Mr. Winters calling. Put me through to Miss Shelley."

"Hold on a moment, sir."

While I waited I watched Glorie cross the room to the bathroom and shut herself in.

The line crackled and Miss Dolan's voice said, "Yes, Mr. Winters?"

"I wanted Miss Shelley."

"I'm sorry, but Miss Shelley has retired."

"I couldn't talk to her for a moment?"

"I'm afraid not."

"That's a pity. Well, never mind. Would you tell her I called? I wanted to know if she had got over the heat and excitement of the fight."

"I will tell her."

"Thanks," I paused, then went on, "Oh, Miss Dolan, I still haven't thanked you for..."

The line went dead.

That was the second time she had hung up on me. I dropped the receiver back on its cradle, drank a little more whisky, while I frowned at the carpet. Miss Dolan was beginning to interest me.