The Canvas Coffin by William Campbell Gault

Author:William Campbell Gault [Campbell, Gault William]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4405-3911-4
Publisher: Prologue Books
Published: 2011-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter VIII

IN THE DREAM they were sewing this body in canvas. It was the deck of a ship, but you couldn’t see the water. There was a big seam right up the middle of the canvas, and now only the face was still uncovered.

Harry Bevilaqua stood next to me on the deck of the ship. He was telling the men how to sew. Then he turned to me. “You want to get a last look at the face, Champ? We’re about ready to dump him.”

I came closer and bent to see the face in the dim moonlight.

It was my own.

I opened my eyes and saw the shadows in the room. The bed beneath me was damp, and my pajamas were wet. Max snored in a ragged rhythm.

My mind went back over the Giani fights I’d seen, the brawling, bloody, anything-goes battles he’d fought, trying to get to me. A buller and a hitter, a flat-footed slugger, knocking over anything that stood in his way, the shadow of the mob over him like the broad top of a tornado.

Young. And ready. Never out of shape. Carrying a grudge for Luke Pilgrim, a cheese champ in his mind. Cherishing the crown, scorning the man who held it.

Noodles wanted to be ringside when Patsy beat my brains out. Who else would sit with Noodles, waiting for the ax? All the half-wise guys, the gents who got a word here and there and fashioned it into a belief that prevented their full knowing.

But that wouldn’t include Max. And how about the sports writers? In most towns, the sports writers know only a little more than the true fans. In Los Angeles, they knew considerably less. In Los Angeles, the publicity town, even the sports writers believed their own ridiculous publicity. Unless they weren’t leveling in their columns. Which could be.

It’s a name-conscious town, and I was the champion of the world. The fight would get ink; the fight would draw, and pay. Even wrestling was profitable in this sports-hungry town. Even wrestling got ink, though there was a story about that.

So, win or lose, it would be big money. Isn’t that what I wanted?

No, I wanted to see him go down. I wanted to hit him, and see him fold. I wanted to kill him.

Max stopped in mid-snore, gurgled, and turned over.

“The bastards,” Max mumbled. “Dirty bastards.” His breathing was heavy and uneven.

“Hit ‘im again, Max, he’s Irish,” I said.

He started to snore.

I stretched and turned, trying to relax. The memory of the dream came to me, and I forced it from my mind. As a kid, going to church, the thought of death hadn’t brought the shivers. Sally had said only cowards believed in God. Sally said if we hadn’t had a God, we’d have invented one. But Sally said a lot of damn-fool things.

A muscle twitched in my thigh; it felt like something crawling on me, and I jerked. I was wide awake and nervous. My God, I was actually scared.

I went into the main room and turned on a light and picked up the paper Max had evidently bought tonight.

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