The Bruiser (15 page)

When they were alone, Hot and Cold Daily said, “I've never pulled a fast one on you yet, have I, Tim?”

“Well, some that were not so slow.”

“Then we're even—remember the one you pulled after the fight between Blinky Miller and Jerry Wayne?”

“I can't say as I do—mine is a busy life.” Tim's head shook. “It must have been long ago—poor Jerry!”

“Well, you made a prime sucker out of me. I still remember it.”

Silent Tim smiled.

As a young fellow, Daily reported the fight Jerry Wayne had with Blinky Miller.

No decision was given. Thousands of dollars were wagered on the result.

There was a hot dispute as to which had won.

Quietly, Silent Tim approached young Daily. “Who do you think won, me lad?”

“Why, Jerry Wayne by a mile, and I intend to say so out loud in
The Bulletin
tomorrow.”

“You're a young man, but a shrewd judge of fighters,” Tim said.

Pleased, the callow young reporter left.

Tim joined the vociferous gamblers.

“Well, of course,” he drawled some time later, “I
have five thousand on my own man—and Jerry had that much on himself. I want to show my faith in the leading newspaper. I'll pay my money on
The Bulletin's
decision—and so will Jerry—”

“That's a go,” responded several gamblers in unison.

Not till long afterward did Hot and Cold Daily learn how Silent Tim Haney had used him.

“You don't remember, huh?”

“No, indeed not—I made it an early rule at the beginning of a turbulent life never to remember an injury.”

Hot and Cold Daily exploded, “Well, I'll be damned. Anyhow, we'll skip it, Tim. I just want to convince you I'm on the level.”

“What'll it cost?” Tim asked.

“Not a red cent. I just want you to encourage your boy to see all he can of Berniece Burue. It'll do him good.”

“And why, may I ask?”

“Well, you can't keep him caged up forever like a bomb on the way to explode—if you'd had her he wouldn't of run away the other time.”

“He was in the Oregon woods.”

“That's what you say, but I'll never double-cross you, Tim.”

“I'll never believe it till you die without doin' it,” Tim said with warmth.

“Why do you always think the worst of people?”

“I don't,” answered Tim, “they're just what they are. But if you think the worst, you're generally right. I wouldn't be mad at Shane for havin' big muscles, or you a pug nose.”

“We'll let my nose ride—I'm asking you to encourage Shane with this girl. He needs her.”

“Do you remember Jerry Wayne?” came Tim's incisive question. “Well, he married a girl—and may I never rest easy in my grave if I ever forgive her—that awful little pimple on a great man's heart—she was born for the preliminary stumble-bum she finally married—but first she married Jerry, long enough to kill his soul and have a funeral for it every day—so she and her damned sparrow friends could sing like crows over it—I know I shouldn't blame her, but damn her, I do—and I will if I live to be a million—if I ever feel myself gettin' cool about her, I'll jump in the fire of the rotten memory of her and get hot all over again.”

As a newspaperman, Hot and Cold Daily knew that the best stories were those he dared not write.

Silent Tim continued, “You forgive your enemy so he can sharpen his knife, and no quarrel is ever made up; so I'll have no more of her.”

“But don't judge 'em all alike—this gal's different.”

“A different dress, maybe, but still the same—and look what happened to the Dublin Slasher—a big tree cut down because he had a bird in his head—a fine growin' lad who'd of been heavyweight champion.”

“Well, Tim, you won't trust me, eh? I could have crucified your fighter in the paper.”

“I can say nothing to that. If it'll make you sleep well, you can go ahead and print whatever you like-but if you do—the arm of God will never be around you—either here or hereafter— He'd scorn you here, and it'd be too hot for Him there.”

“It's a good story, Tim—and my job's to write.”

“Yes, yes—somebody must clean the streets—and you may as well rake the gutter of your brain as the next man—you don't dare tell the story—your mother's ghost—if you weren't hatched out of a buzzard's egg-would haunt you.”

“But, Tim—don't take it so seriously. It's like you say—all in the game.”

“The heart of a great man like Shane should be in the game—a man who can crack a blow as quick as the flick of a tiger's paw—he should be above your little rapsacality—and you'd tie a skirt to him, like the tail of a kite in a still wind—an eagle with lead wings lookin' dreary at the sky. Shane wants no such woman—what could she bring him—the latest tune from a songwriter's vacant brain. He can make stronger music by the swish of his gloves. Why, you're not married yourself, and all you have to do is wring the diapers of your mind—and you get paid for it—and the boobs read your pother as though you knew what you were writin' about—why, you're nothin' but a lookin' glass—and all that's in you is the thoughts and doin's of bigger and braver men.”

There was a smile in Hot and Cold Daily's eye. “But, Tim, why lambast me?—you'd think I was Joe Slack.”

“My God, you braggart, of course you're not Joe Slack. Why you'd rattle in his skin. Jaysus Christ—if you say so—”

“But now listen, Tim, let the girl be close to him. The white velvet in the night—a rainbow in the morning
—why you can't keep a girl like that away from him.”

“Ho, ho—'white velvet in the night'—you talk like a poet with a floozy in your head. Men never win fights when there's too much white velvet in the night—let them have the dames who have nothin' to do—but a fighter who gallivants with gloves and who crashes a man like Bangor Lang to the floor—tell me, damn your Daily soul—what can he have to say to a butterfly with a skirt?”

“Well, many a good man falls for them—look at Napoleon—” Hot and Cold Daily's eyes were lit with humor.

“You look at him—the puny little runt! Shane Rory could of spanked him before every battle—huh—you think of the half-men—”

“Jim Corbett liked women.”

“A dancer with gloves—jabbin' and runnin' backwards—what could he do with men like Rory and Jones, who punch and go in till they either knock a building down or know what's holdin' it up.” He grunted with disgust— “That ham, Corbett, with his ring-around-the-rosy in the ring—a nance weighin' two hundred.”

“But Corbett always spoke well of you.”

Silent Tim jerked his head in surprise. “Why the hell shouldn't he? I never did a Romeo in the ring—and ‘twas not from my example a lot of sunken-chested fairies begun to flit about with gloves.”

“But Jim was a decent fellow, Tim.”

“I'm not sayin' a word about him as a man—except
that he wasn't much good as a fighter—why his seconds had to carry a big lookin' glass in the ring—he even complained that Kid McCoy hit him too hard.”

“There was a good man—McCoy.”

“Yes—he was the livin' argument against women,” Silent Tim frowned. “And it's my job under Heaven to protect Shane Rory.”

“For fifty percent,” put in Hot and Cold Daily.

“You're lyin' as you sit, Hoten Cold. Sure, I must live, the same as you, unfortunately—but if you can tell me that according to my own lights I ever pointed a finger or deserted a friend, I'll buy the candles for your funeral—gladly.”

“All right—never pointed a finger, huh? How about Barney McCoy?”

“That's different—he did a Benedict Arnold. I'd rather point a gun at him than a finger.”

“I don't suppose you ever crossed anybody up.” Daily's eyes had a touch of mirth.

“Never—when I give my word.”

“The hell of it is, you never give your word, Tim.”

“You're right, a man's word's his lantern in the dark—it should not be lightly given.”

He glanced out of the window.

“Will you let me out at the Royal, I have a late talk on with Daniel Muldowney.”

“Sure thing, give the old rascal my love,” responded Daily.

“And what would he be doin' with your love?” asked Tim.

“You can't tell,” laughed Daily.

“Good night, you scalawag, you woman lover,” Tim said testily.

With slow step and solemn expression, he went into the building.

“Good evening, Daniel.”

“Good evening to you, Tim. What's on your heavy mind this night?”

“The weight of the world, Daniel—I've been carryin' it since mornin'.”

“Put down the load in your old friend's hands, Timothy. It's no time to weight yourself down when you're so near the home stretch—with the greatest man in the world.”

“And the wildest,” cut in Tim.

“Never mind that—if he wasn't that he'd be something else. Gawd, I'd give me soul in hell to punch like him.”

“But I got a sad letter this mornin',” said Tim.

“Oh we're all gettin' sad letters—they make the mail slow.”

“But mine was from some lawyers.”

For a fleeting second a glint of steel came into Daniel Muldowney's eyes.

“Lawyers—trouble?”

“Yes, Dan, four lawyers.”

“And what's it about?”

“The boy.”

“You mean our Shaney?”

“Yes, Daniel.”

“Four lawyers,” Muldowney snapped the words, “Who are they?”

“Goldfinger, Goldfinger, Goldfinger and Riley.”

Muldowney smiled. “That last fellow must be a Jew.”

“You may be right, Daniel—but there's one Irishman there, I know—there's trouble. I know them all—I mean these lawyers.”

“Where are they located?”

“Los Angeles.”

“And what's the trouble?”

“It seems that Shaney deported or imported, or some damn thing, a girl from Cheyenne to Frisco and stayed there with her for no moral purpose—her name is Dilly Dally.”

Again Daniel Muldowney smiled.

“Can you import a gal with a name like that?”

“Yes, I saw the little bitch with him in Hollywood.”

“And was she purty?”

“Yes, damn her soul,” replied Tim. “And what can we do, Daniel?” His eyes narrowed, his jaws clicked, “Nothin' will stop me now.”

As if to soothe a terrible tension, he lapsed into the ancient Irish habit of smoothing it with velvet. Softly he said, “I know this Mr. Riley— Ah, Daniel, he's a snake on a rock and the warm sun shinin', he's quiet as down and glib as a sparrow losin' a worm. There's an eternal justice, Daniel—it's higher than the mountains and lower than the sea—if you do evil, it floats on the wind and strangles you for breath.”

Daniel Muldowney's words broke in with a dolorous croon, “Take it easy, Tim, take it easy—they may stretch the rope but they'll never hang the boy.”

Daniel Muldowney rose, and cracked the next words like a whip, “remember that!”

“I will, Daniel, I will. You see, I've learned to like the boy—I don't want to see him suffer.” His voice rose, “They can put him in the penitentiary for that.”

“He's not there yet, Tim.”

Daniel Muldowney fell into a large leather chair and stared at the millions of lights below. Himself an Australian jailbird at twenty-three, wrestler, bruiser, politician—the ruler of his world—ruthless, relentless and dew-soft, according to the mood or the occasion, he had from his fortieth year not seen the day he could not comand ten million dollars.

When breaking in as a promoter, a rival said, “This'll cost you a million a year.”

“I'll last ten years,” he said.

Tim did not disturb the silence, but gazed over Muldowney's shoulder.

“I was just thinkin', Tim, how long we've known each other.”

“Yes, Dan—nearly thirty-seven years.”

“We've had nothin' and everything, Tim, but the most we've had is we understand each other so's we can talk with our eyes and they don't know what we're sayin'. I remember the first time we met—I didn't have enough money in the house to pay the other fighter—you took one look at me and said, ‘I'll put in the rest
of the purse and fight him for you. I like the cut of your jib'—I'll never forget that, Timothy.”

“And neither will I, Daniel—the fellow nearly knocked me down with a sucker punch—and then we all got pinched.”

The two wealthy hoodlums chuckled.

“But those lawyers, Timothy—what did they say?”

“They'd give Mr. Rory four weeks to answer—they wanted no unpleasantness—the girl had suffered greatly as a result of this journey—but they did not wish to worry Mr. Rory at this critical stage of his career. And then a gentleman called today and said that perhaps the whole matter could be settled for a few hundred thousand dollars.”

“Ho, ho,” chuckled Muldowney. “You can build a pyramid for that.”

“Of course, Daniel—I'd rather pay you than lawyers.”

“I know you would, Tim—it's not money now, it's justice—the boy's done no wrong. A floozy over a State line—and to pay such money or go to jail for that. Why I'd sneak one into heaven—but why did he take her?”

“God knows,” replied Tim. “You can get a club woman for nothin' in most towns.”

“Well, do nothin' Tim—let Blinky watch the boy—if it goes to trial, it'll cost a fortune—and some simple thing like that'll crack the boy's career—we can't have it, Tim.”

“I know, Daniel, if they crack a suit, he'll lose to
Sully—he's that high geared. I saw the Dublin Slasher break.”