Fast One by Paul Cain

Author:Paul Cain [Cain, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

The rounds stood two apiece, three even. Kells watched Shane between the seventh and eighth, decided that whatever the fix had been, he wasn't in on it. He looked worried, but it didn't look like the kind of worry one would feel at being double−crossed. His backers had evidently let him believe that he would win or lose fairly. As a matter of fact it hadn't been bribery or a frameup, strictly speaking—they'd simply scared Gilroy and it had almost worked.

Brand turned around, smiled uncomfortably.

Kells whispered to Beery: “The eighth does it.” He looked at Gilroy. Gilroy was lying back, breathing deeply. He raised his head and stared intently at the faces around the ring. Kells tried to catch his eye but the seconds were crawling out of the ring, the gong sounded.

Shane rushed again and Gilroy stood very still, blocked Shane's haymaker and swung his left in a long loop to Shane's head. Shane fell as if he had been hit with an axe. Gilroy looked down at him wonderingly for a second, shuffled to a neutral corner. Everyone stood up. The referee was counting but he couldn't be heard above the roar; his arm moved up and down and his lips moved.

Shane sat up, got unsteadily to his feet. Gilroy came in and put out his two hands and pushed him. Gilroy was smiling self−consciously. Shane was all right; he shook his head and went after Gilroy, and Gilroy curled him on the side of the head, jabbed straight left to his face. Shane stepped in close and swung his right in a wide up−and−down circle, hit Gilroy a good ten inches below the belt, hard.

Gilroy folded up slowly. He held his hands over the middle of his body and bent his knees slowly. His face was twisted with pain. He stumbled forward and straightened up a little and then fell down on his side and drew his knees up.

Shane was leaning against; the ropes and his breathing was sharply audible in the momentary silence.

Then the ring filled with people; Gilroy was carried to his corner. The announcer was shouting vainly for silence. One of Shane's seconds held the ropes apart for him; he stared dazedly at the crowd, ducked through the ropes, into the tunnel that led to the dressing rooms.

“Gilroy—on a foul.” The announcer made himself faintly heard.

Brand's friend turned around and grinned wryly at Kells, shook his head sadly. “The son of a bitch,” he said—“the dirty son of a bitch.”

* * * * *

AT THE ENTRANCE to Section R, Kells almost ran into the fat man who had stuck him up at Fenner's.

His tie was sticking out of his high stiff collar at the same cocky angle, his small head was covered by a (big, violently plaid cap.

He stared at Kells' shoes, said: “Hanline sent us.” He jerked his head at a fairly tall middle−aged man who looked like a prosperous insurance salesman. “This is Denny Faber.”

Kells laughed.

The fat one grinned good−naturedly. “I sure slipped up the other night,” he said—“the gal cramped my style.

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