Ned’s red robe billowed out around him in regal splendor. The roar was deafening as he went down the aisle: the common guy’s choice, the battered club fighter who’d worked his way up through the years with honest bouts against all comers.
He went to the rosin box and scuffed his shoes in it. His bitterness at the fixed fight didn’t show. Wes and Gimpy Ernest were his cornermen. Dunc had the closest seat first row ringside; the seat next to his was for Artis.
A tuxedoed announcer strutted around the ring, his amplified voice boomed out over the public address system.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are very lucky to have with us tonight a legendary figure of the fighting world, former heavyweight champion of the world, Mr.... Jack... DEMPSEY!”
Dempsey bounded up into the ring, pushing sixty and a little paunchier than when he had won the title from Jess Willard in 1919 by KO. He shook Ned’s gloved hand, then Terlazzo’s.
“Ladeez an’ gennelmen... Ladeez an’ gennelmen...”
Artis, looking haggard, slid past Dunc. She patted a purse bulging with betting slips. “Out getting my money down.”
Dunc hadn’t bet. The announcer was introducing the fighters; the din was terrific. Wes pulled the robe off Ned’s shoulders. His skin was sun-baked dark as a red Indian’s, he wore three days’ beard to toughen his face against cuts.
Tony “the Tiger” Terlazzo flicked the robe away with a dramatic gesture, dancing and throwing punches and shadowboxing all over the ring. Ned, solid as a monolith, just stared at him.
Breen gestured both fighters into the center of the ring, instructed them on how he wanted the bout fought, gesturing to show no low blows or rabbit punches. They both nodded, accepting the well-known instructions. The fight was only moments away.
Pepe packed methodically. Carny Largo had been a shitty boss, but that had been a given going m. He’d liked Nicky okay. And Dunc. The kid always asked to hear Pepe’s own stuff, and actually seemed to listen. A good kid. But after tonight, Pepe would be out of Vegas. As usual, he wouldn’t miss it. He went someplace, did his job, moved on. Then the phone rang.
The opening bell. The fighters came out, Terlazzo dancing, Ned shuffling. They touched gloves in the center of the ring over Breen’s outstretched arm, Terlazzo instantly tagged Ned with a strong right hand that reddened his forehead. The crowd gasped. Ned had been slow in covering and had thrown no counter.
“He’ll be okay, he’ll be okay, he’s just feeling his way,” Dunc chanted, his upper body jerking slightly to the action in the ring as if he were throwing and taking the punches himself.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Artis said obscurely.
Dunc didn’t say anything about the seventh round, although she had to know about it. He couldn’t bring himself to speak of it. That’s why Ned was so lackadaisical, wasn’t it?
In his room at the Flamingo Carny Largo relaxed against the leather couch. On the television a cartoon parrot was hawking Gillette Blue Blades between rounds. Gimpy had played Davenport perfectly, after all. The big stupid bastard was going along with the fix-to save Gimpy, well behind on points already.
Terlazzo was trying for a KO. Why not? He didn’t have to wait for a certain round. And if Davenport made it to the fourth, Gimpy would tell him to open up and let himself get hit so it looked like a fight — and the Tiger would pounce.
“Open a bottle of champagne,” he told Raffetto. “We’re both going to score tonight.”
Rafe made even Carny a little queasy. But hell, there were no guarantees in this life. Artis was a hell of a woman, dynamite in bed, but she knew too much. Dangerous. After Rafe had her, shed be harmless. Hell, she’d be wishing she’d become a nun.
Dunc watched the second-round action with stunned eyes. Ned was merely covering up, while the Tiger was coming in with roundhouse lefts and rights now, savaging the big fighter all he could before taking his dive in the seventh. But what if he wasn’t going to dive; the fix was in, but what if there was another fix in? No. Gimpy would have to be in on it...
One of Ned’s instructions to him came back.
If your man loops his punches, go inside.
He realized he was shouting it at the top of his voice.
“Go inside! Ned! Go inside!”
Ned just kept backpedaling, covering up. It was Terlazzo who started to go inside, crowding Ned, pumping blows into the heart and the belly. Not even Ned could stop all of them.
If he’s a body puncher, keep your elbows in and snap jabs at his jaw as fast as you can pump ’em.
“The jaw! Ned! Jab his jaw! Jab—”
The bell.
Back in his corner, Ned sprawled on his stool, eyes shut. Some of the fight fans had started stamping their feet in unison. He should be giving his followers at least the illusion of a fight, but it didn’t matter, except for Dunc seeing it. He had to await Gimp’s instructions in the fourth to be sure.
Wes sponged him down, gave him water to spit into the sand bucket. “What you doin’ out there? He’s whuppin’ yo’ dumb ass.”
Ned asked, “How’m I doin’, Gimp?”
“Don’t listen to him, you’re looking great, kid.”
Crowd noises died during the third except for the stamping of feet and a rising crescendo of boos. Ned kept clinching, what heel told Dunc to never do; each time Breen separated them, Terlazzo got in a solid shot to the kidneys.
Ned slumped on his stool. Wes used the styptic pencil in the open cuts above his eyes, trying to stanch the bleeding. Lucius Breen came over to take a look. Gimpy Ernest hung back.
“Is this fighter okay?” Breen demanded.
Wes didn’t look up from his work. “He’s fine, ref, he’s okay, nothin’ wrong, jes a little ding ’bove de eye.”
“Then what the fuck you doin’, Davenport?”
“Fightin’ my fight, Lucius.”
“You’re fighting somebody’s fight,” said Breen.
Gimpy was beside Ned in an instant. “Even the ref seen it — you been covering up too much. Open up. Fake a few at him, let him tag you a time or two, make it look like a fight...”
The warning buzzer sounded. Artis said suddenly to Dunc, “Terlazzo’s going to KO Ned this round.” Dunc started to his feet, but she said, “I told Ned last night, put all my money on him tonight. But only he and God know what he’s going to do.”
Wes started to put Ned’s mouthpiece in, but Ned stopped him with a gloved hand to say, “Better pray, Gimp.”
The bell sounded for round four.
Chapter Seventeen
Ned seemed to be following Gimpy’s instructions. He not only opened up, he actually had his arms hanging down at his sides. Terlazzo danced in, throwing punches, Ned bobbed, weaved, moved his head fractionally as the blows came at him — as he’d do with Dunc when they were sparring.
“Jesus!” whispered Dunc.
Each time Tiger Terlazzo missed, Ned struck, wham wham WHAM! combinations as fast as a striking snake. Gimpy Ernest was limping up the steps to the ring with a towel in his hand. He would throw it in the ring to stop the fight. But as Gimpy threw, Dunc snatched the towel out of the air.
Nobody even saw it. Tiger Terlazzo and Nitro Ned were toe-to-toe, mid-ring, slugging it out. Blood, snot, sweat flew, both men grunted with the effort of blows thrown, taken. The crowd was on its feet, screaming. Dunc was, too. It was coming, the secret that Ned had never told anybody but Dunc.