Collection 2001 - May There Be A Road (v5.0) Page 10

  Anger welled up in Downey, but he turned his back on them, getting on his shoes. When he straightened up, they were walking out, headed for the local bar. He stared after them, and felt disgust for them and for himself.

  Outside, Aline and Joe were waiting.

  “Oh, Finn!” Aline cried. “It was so wonderful! And everyone was saying you weren’t anywhere good enough for Tony Gilman! That will show them, won’t it?”

  “Yeah, yeah!” He took her arm. “Let’s go eat, honey.”

  As he turned away with them, he came face-to-face with Glen Gurney and two girls.

  Two girls, but Finn Downey could see but one. She was tall, and slender, and beautiful. His eyes held her, clinging.

  Gurney hesitated, then said quietly, “Finn, I’d like you to meet my sister, Pamela. And my fiancée, Mary.”

  Finn acknowledged the introduction, his eyes barely flitting to Mary. He introduced Joe and Aline to them, then the girl was gone, and Aline was laughing at him.

  “Why, Finn! I never saw a girl affect you like that before!”

  “Aw, it wasn’t her!” he blustered. “I just don’t like Gurney. He’s too stuck-up!”

  “I thought he was nice,” Aline protested, “and he’s certainly handsome. The champion of the world…Do you think you’ll be champ someday, Finn?”

  “Sure.” His eyes narrowed. “After I lick him.”

  “He’s a good man, Finn,” Joe said quietly. “He’s the hardest man to hit with a right that I ever saw.”

  The remark irritated Finn, yet he was honest enough to realize he was bothered because of what Glen Gurney had said about his fighting. Yet he could not think of that for long, for he was remembering that tall, willowy girl with the lovely eyes, Pamela Gurney.

  And she had to be the champ’s sister. The man he would have to defeat for the title!

  Moreover, he would probably tell her about tonight, for Finn knew his knockout of Tony Gilman would not fool a fighter of Gurney’s skill. The champion would know only too well just what had happened.

  Somehow even the money failed to assuage his bitterness and discontent. A small voice within told him Gilman and Bernie were right. He was simply not good enough. If Gilman had not taken a dive, he could never have whipped him, and might have been cut to ribbons.

  Then, he remembered that he hadn’t hit Gilman with his right. He had missed, time and again. If he could not hit Gilman, then he could not hit the champ, and the champ was not controlled by Cat Spelvin. Finn had a large picture of himself in the ring with Glen Gurney, and the picture was not flattering.

  Spelvin had told him he would be fighting Webb Carter in two weeks, and Webb was a fairly good boy, though not so good as Gilman. The knockout of Gilman had established Finn Downey as a championship possibility. Now a few more knockouts, and Cat could claim a title bout.

  * * *

  AT DAYBREAK THE next morning, Finn Downey was on the road, taking a two-mile jaunt through the park. He knew what he wanted, and suddenly, as he dogtrotted along, he knew how to get it.

  He wanted to be champion of the world. That, of course. He wanted the fame and money that went with it, but now he knew he wanted something else even more, and it was something that all of Cat Spelvin’s crookedness could not gain for him—he wanted the respect of the men he fought, and of Jimmy Mullaney, who had been his friend.

  He was jogging along, taking it easy, when from up ahead he saw Pamela Gurney. She was riding a tall sorrel horse, and she reined in when she saw him.

  “You’re out early, aren’t you?” she asked.

  He stopped, panting a little from the run.

  “Getting in shape,” he said. “I’ve got another fight comin’ up.”

  “You did well against Tony Gilman,” she said, looking at him thoughtfully.

  He glanced up quickly, trying to see if there had been sarcasm in her voice, but if she knew that had been a fixed fight, she showed no sign of it.

  “My brother says you could be a great fighter,” she added, “if you’d work.”

  Finn flushed, then he grinned. “I guess I never knew how much there was to learn.”

  “You don’t like Glen, do you?” she asked.

  “You don’t understand; I have to fight for what I get. Your brother had it handed to him. How can you know what it’s like for me?”

  Her eyes flashed. “What right have you to say that? My brother earned everything he ever had in this world!”

  Suddenly, all the unhappiness in him welled to the surface. “Don’t hand me that! Both of you have always had things easy. Nice clothes, cars, money, plenty to eat. Gurney is champ, and how he got it, I don’t know, but I’ve got my own ideas.”

  Pamela turned her horse deliberately. “You’re so very sure of yourself, aren’t you?” she said. “So sure you’re right, and that you know it all! Well, Mr. Finn Downey, after your fight with Tony Gilman the other night, you haven’t any room to talk!”

  His face went red. “So? He told you, didn’t he? I might have known he would.”

  “Told me?” Pamela’s voice rose. “What kind of fool do you think I am? I’ve been watching fights since I was able to walk, and you couldn’t hit Tony Gilman with that roundhouse right of yours if he was tied hand and foot!”

  She cantered swiftly away. Suddenly rage shook him. He started away, and abruptly his rage evaporated. Pamela was the girl he wanted, the one girl above all others. Yet what right did she have to talk? Glen Gurney certainly was no angel. But burning within him was a fiery resolution to become so good they could never say again what they were saying now. Pamela, Gilman, Bernie. How cheap they must think him!

  He recalled the helplessness he had felt against Gilman, and knew that no matter what Glen Gurney thought of him, once in the ring he would get no mercy from the champ. He had begun to realize how much there was to learn and knew that he would never learn, at least while he was being handled by Spelvin.

  What he should do was go to see Jimmy Mullaney. But he hated the thought of admitting he was wrong. Besides, Jimmy might not even talk to him, and there was plenty of reason why he should not. Still, if he could learn a little more by the time he fought Carter, he might make a creditable showing.

  He found Mullaney in the cheap hotel where he lived. The little man did not smile—just laid his magazine aside.

  “Jimmy,” Finn said, “I’ve made a fool of myself!”

  Mullaney reached for a cigarette. He looked past the lighted match and said, “That’s right. You have.” Jimmy took a deep drag. “Well, every man has his own problems to settle, Finn. What’s on your mind now?”

  “I want you to teach me all you know.”

  Jimmy stared at him. “Kid, when you were my fighter that was one thing. Now you belong to Cat. You know what he’d do to me? He might even have the boys give me a couple of slugs in the back. He’s got money in you now. You think Gilman did that dive for fun? He got paid plenty, son. Because Cat thought it would be worth it to build you up. Not that he won’t see Gilman work you over when the time is ripe. Spelvin wants you for a quick killing in the bets.”

  “Jimmy,” Finn said, “suppose you train me on the side? Then suppose I really stop those guys? Then when Spelvin’s ready to have me knocked off, suppose I don’t knock off so easy?”

  Mullaney scowled and swore. “It’s risky, kid. He might get wise, then we’d both be in the soup.” He grinned. “I’d like to cross that crook, though.”

  “Jimmy—give it to me straight. Do you think I can be good enough to beat Gurney or Gilman?”

  Mullaney rubbed out the cigarette in a saucer. “With hard work and training, you could beat Gilman, especially with him so sure now. He’ll never figure you’ll improve, because nobody gets better fighting setups. Gurney is a good kid. He’s plenty good! He’s the slickest boxer the middle-weight division has seen since Kid McCoy.”

  Mullaney paced up and down the room, then nodded. “All right, kid. That brother of yours, he’s got a bi
g basement. We’ll work with you there, on the sly.” He flushed. “You’ll have to furnish the dough. I’m broke.”

  “Sure.” Finn pulled out the money from the Gilman fight. “Here’s a C. Buy what we’ll need, eat on it. I’ll cut you in on the next fight.”

  When he left Mullaney, he felt good. He ran down the steps into the street—and came face-to-face with Bernie Ledsham.

  Bernie halted, his eyes narrow with suspicion.

  “What you doin’ down here? Ain’t that where Mullaney lives?”

  “Sure is.” Finn grinned. “I owed the guy dough. I wanted him paid off. No use lettin’ him crab about it.”

  Ledsham shrugged. “If he gives you any trouble, you just tell me or Cat.”

  Downey believed Bernie’s suspicions were lulled, but he didn’t trust the sallow-faced man.

  “Come on,” he said, “I’ll buy a beer!”

  They walked down the street to a bar, and Finn had a Pepsi while Bernie drank two beers and they talked. But there was a sullen air of suspicion about the gangster that Finn Downey didn’t like. When he could, he got away and returned home.…

  * * *

  DOWNEY’S KNOCKOUT OVER Tony Gilman had made him the talk of the town. Yet Finn knew everyone was waiting to see what he would do against Webb Carter.

  Carter had fought Gilman twice, losing both times, and he had lost to Gurney. He had been in the game for ten years and was accepting his orders unhappily, but was needing money.

  * * *

  THE BELL RANG in the crowded arena on the night of the fight. Finn went out fast. Coached by Mullaney, he had worked as never before, shortening his right hand, sharpening his punches, developing a left hook. Yet he showed little of it at first.

  Carter met him with a fast left that Finn managed to slip, and smashed both hands to the rock-ribbed body of the older fighter. Carter stiffened a left hook to Finn’s face, and Finn threw a wicked left uppercut to the wind. Carter backed away cautiously, studying Finn with new respect, but Downey moved on in, weaving and bobbing to make Carter’s left miss. Then Finn feinted and smashed a right to the ribs. In a clinch, he hammered with that right three times, and broke.

  He wasted no time, but walked in close, took a chance, and deliberately missed a couple of punches. Carter was making him miss enough, anyway. More than ever, Downey realized how much he had to learn, yet he felt that even the short period he had trained for this fight had improved him.

  Mullaney had warned him that he must be careful with Carter. The fighter could punch, and while it was in the bag for him to dive, Carter might slip over a couple of hard ones. A cut eye now would do Finn no good.

  The second and third went by swiftly, with Finn working with care. He missed punches, and seemed clumsy, and at times was clumsy, despite his efforts, yet his hard work had done him more good than he had realized.

  In the fourth round he came out fast, and Carter moved around him, then led a left. Downey went under it and smashed that right to the ribs again, then followed it into a clinch behind two triphammer blows to the wind. Carter looked pale, and he glared at Finn.

  “What’s the matter, kid? Ain’t it enough to win?”

  Downey broke before the referee reached them, jabbed a left that caught Carter high on the head, then stepped in, feinting a right to the body and throwing it high and hard. It caught Webb on the cheekbone, and his face went white and his lips looked numb. He went into a clinch.

  “You take it easy, kid,” he growled, “or I’ll lower the boom on you!”

  “Anytime you’re ready!” Finn snapped back.

  Carter jerked free and smashed a right to Downey’s head that made his knees wobble. Then he plunged in throwing them with both hands. Sensing a rally, the crowd came to its feet, and Finn, instead of yielding before the storm of blows, walked right into it, swinging with both hands.

  Webb stabbed a left to Finn’s mouth that made him taste blood, and Finn slid under another left and jammed a right to the heart, then a left to the wind and a right to the ear. He pushed Carter away, took a light punch going in, and smashed both hands to the body, throwing the hooks with his hip behind them.

  The fifth round was a slugfest, with the fans on their chairs screaming themselves hoarse. In the sixth, as Carter came out of his corner, Finn moved in, feinted a left, and smashed a high hard right to the head. This was the round for Carter’s dive, but Finn had no intention of letting him take it, and the right made Carter give ground. Finn pressed him back, weaving in under Carter’s punches and winging them into the other fighter’s body with all the power he had.

  He broke clean and backed away, looking Carter over. There was amazed respect in Webb Carter’s eyes. Finn circled, then feinted, and Carter threw a right. Downey countered with a lifting right to the solar plexus that stood Carter on his tiptoes, and before Webb realized what had happened, a whistling left hook cracked on his chin and he hit the canvas on his face, out cold!

  Finn trotted back to his corner, and Bernie held up his robe, staring at Carter. Finn leaned close.

  “Boy!” he whispered. “He made it look good! Better than Gilman! He stuck his chin into that punch and just let go!”

  “Yeah,” Bernie agreed dolefully. “Yeah, it almost fooled me!”

  * * *

  IT WAS AFTER the end of the fight that Finn Downey saw Pamela Gurney and her brother. They were only a few seats from his corner. Pamela’s face was cold, but there was a hard, curious light in Glen’s eyes.

  Finn didn’t show that he noticed them, but he knew that Gurney wasn’t fooled. The champ knew that knockout was the McCoy. And it would puzzle him.

  Well, let it! The only one Finn was worried about was Cat, but when the gambler came into his dressing room he grinned at Downey.

  “Nice going, kid! That was good!”

  Evidently, Spelvin knew little about fighting. He didn’t know an honest knockout when he saw it.

  In the month that followed, Finn spent at least four days a week in the basement gym with Mullaney. They were not training sessions. Finn just listened to Jimmy and practiced punches on the heavy bag. When he went to the regular gym for his workout, he was the same as ever. In ring sessions he worked carefully, never showing too much, but with occasional flashes of form and boxing skill. His right, always a devastating punch, was traveling less distance now, and he was hitting even harder.

  In that month he had two fights, and both opponents went into the tank, but not until after a brisk, hard workout. In each fight he knew he could have stopped the man had the fight been on the level.

  Now he and Jimmy had a problem, for a return match with Gilman was to be scheduled in a short time.

  “They’ll figure to get me this time,” Finn agreed with Mullaney. “I’ve been scoring knockouts right and left, and Gilman has only fought once, and looked bad. The boys are saying he’s through, so the betting should be at least two to one that I repeat my kayo. Cat will figure to clean up.”

  The writer of a sports column, a man named Van Bergen, offered the judgment of most of the sports-writers:

  Tony Gilman is seeking a return match with young Finn Downey, the hard-socking battler who stopped him two months ago. If Gilman is wise he will hang them up while he has all his buttons. In his last two fights, Tony showed that he was through. Formerly a hard-hitting, tough middleweight, Gilman lacked all of the fire and dash that characterized his earlier fights. He may never be his old self again.

  Downey continues to come along. After his surprise knockout over Gilman, he went on to stop tough Webb Carter, and since has followed with knockout wins over Danny Ebro and Joey Collins.

  If the match is made, Downey should stop Gilman within six rounds.

  Cat Spelvin called Downey in on a Tuesday morning. He was all smiles.

  “Well, kid, one more fight, then I think we can get Gurney for you. The fans still like Gilman, so we’ll feed him to you again. From there on, you walk right into the title.”

  F
inn grinned back at him. “Well, I’ve got you to thank for it, Cat. If you hadn’t helped, I’d probably still be fighting prelims.”

  Cat lit a cigar. “Just take it easy, kid. Gilman will be a setup for you!”

  Bernie and Nick Lessack walked outside with Downey.

  “Let’s go get a beer,” Bernie suggested. “No use killin’ yourself workin’ for fights that are in the bag.”

  “Yeah.” Secretly, Finn ground his teeth. They thought he was so stupid they weren’t even going to try to buy him off.

  * * *

  IN HIS GYM workouts, he fooled along. At times, when he worked hard in the ring, he told Bernie or Nick: “I’ve got to look good here! If the sportswriters thought I was stalling, they might smell something!”

  This was reported to Cat and he chuckled. “The kid’s right!” he said. “We want him to look good in the gym! The higher the odds, the better!”

  In the gym in Joe’s basement, Finn worked harder than ever. Then, three days before the battle, he met Pamela again. She was riding the sorrel and started to ride on by, but when he spoke, she stopped.

  “Hello, Pam,” he said softly.

  She looked down at him, his face flushed from running, his dark hair rumpled. He looked hard and capable, yet somehow very young.

  “I shouldn’t think you’d train so hard,” she said coolly. “Your fights don’t seem to give you much trouble.”

  “Maybe they don’t,” he said, “and maybe they give me more than you think.”

  “You know,” she said, “what you said about Glen’s fights was untrue. Everything Glen won, he fought for.”

  “I know,” he admitted. “I took too much for granted, I guess.” He hesitated. “Don’t you make the same mistake.”

  Their eyes held, and it was suddenly hard for her to believe what her brother had said—that Cat Spelvin was framing Finn Downey’s fights. He looked too honest.