“Uh huh.”
Beery was looking at Kells sideways with wide hard eyes.
The man sitting with Brand turned around and drawled: “You don’t happen to have any more Gilroy money, do you?”
Sure.
The man said: “I’ll give you eighteen hundred for a grand.”
Kells nodded.
Beery looked like he was going to fall off his chair. He muttered expletives under his breath.
A man crawled into the ring, followed by two Filipinos with their seconds. The house lights dimmed.
“Ladies and gentlemen... Six rounds... In this corner — Johnny Sanga... a hundred an’ thirty-four...”
Kells said: “I’ll be back in a minute.” He got up and squeezed out past the fat man.
At the head of the corridor that led to the dressing rooms a uniformed policeman said: “You can’t go any farther, buddy.”
Kells looked at him coldly. “I’m Mister Olympic — I own this place.” He twisted a bill around his finger, stepped close and shoved it into the copper’s hand, went on.
Gilroy was sitting on the edge of a rubbing table while a squat heavily sweatered youth taped his hands. A florid be-jeweled Greek sat in a chair tilted back against the wall, smoking a short green cigar. He stood up when Kells opened the door, said: “You can’t come in here, mister.”
Gilroy looked up and his face split in a huge grin. “Well Ah’ll be switch — Mistah Kells!” He got up and came towards Kells, held out his half-taped hand.
Kells smiled, shook hands. “H’are ya, Lonny?”
Gilroy’s grin was enormous. He said: “Sit down — sit down.”
Kells shook his head, leaned against the table. He glanced at the Greek and at the boy who had resumed taping the big Negro’s hand. He looked at Gilroy, said: “You win?”
“Shuah — shuah.” Gilroy’s grin was a shade less easy. “Shuah, Ah win.”
Kells kept looking at him. Gilroy looked at the Greek, then back at Kells. He shook his head slightly. “How long you been out hyah, Mistah Kells?”
Kells didn’t answer. He stared at Gilroy vacantly. The Greek looked at Gilroy and then glanced icily at Kells, went out of the room. The squat youth kept on taping Gilroy’s hand mechanically.
Gilroy said: “No. Ah don’t win.” He said it very softly.
“How much are you getting?”
Gilroy’s face had become very serious. “Nothin’,” he said. “Not a nickel.”
Kells rubbed the back of one hand with the palm of the other.
Gilroy went on: “Not a nickel — but Ah get plenty if Ah don’t throw it...”
“What are you talking about?”
The boy finished one hand. Gilroy flexed it, looked at the floor.
“They’ve put the feah o’ God in me, Mistah Kells. If Ah win, Ah don’t go home tonight — maybe.”
Kells turned to face him squarely, said: “You mean you’re going to take a dive for nothing.
“If that’s the way you want to put it — yes, sah.”
The boy started on the other hand. Gilroy went on: “Ah been gettin’ letters an’ phone calls an’ warnin’s for a week...”
“Who from?”
“Don’t know.” Gilroy shook his head slowly.
Kells glanced at his watch. He said: “Do you figure you owe me anything, Lonny?”
Gilroy looked at him, and his eyes were big, liquid. “Shuah,” he said — “shuah — Ah remembah.”
“This is my town, now. I want you to go in and win, if you can. I’ll have a load of protection here by the time you get in the ring — you can stick with me afterwards.” Kells looked at him very intently. “This is important.”
Gilroy was entirely still — for a moment. He stared at his hands. Then he nodded slowly without looking up.
Kells said: “I’ll be back here afterwards!”
He went out of the room, closed the door. He found a telephone, called Fenner. Fenner wasn’t in, he had the call switched to Hanline’s room; when Hanline answered, Kells told-him to send the two best muscle men he could locate to the entrance of Section R, Olympic Arena, quickly. Hanline said: “Sure — what’s it all about?” Kells said: “Nothing. What’s the use of having an organization if I don’t use it?”
On the way back to his seat Kells saw Fay. They walked together to an archway through which they could see the ring. The Filipinos were locked in a slow and measured dance; the electric indicator above the ring read: ROUND FIVE.
Kells asked: “Who’s interested in Shane?”
Fay shrugged. “His mother, I suppose...”
“Is this so-called syndicate building him up?”
“Sure.”
Kells pointed a finger, jabbed it at Fay’s chest. “And — who the hell is the syndicate?”
Fay said: “Rose — and whoever his backers are.”
Kells looked at the ring. “Your guess is as good as mine. Get down on Gilroy.” He walked away with an extravagantly mysterious and meaningful look over his shoulder.
Back in his seat Kells tapped Brand’s shoulder. “If you gentlemen would like to get out from under,” he said, “you can copper those bets now.”
Brand turned to Kells’ wide smile. His drawling friend was engrossed in the last waltz of the Filipinos.
“I have information...” Kells widened his smile.
Brand shook his head, matched his smile, said: “No — Shane’s good enough for me.”
“That’s what I thought. That’s the reason I made the offer.”
Beery was yelling at one of the Filipinos. He glanced at Kells without expression, shouted at the ring: “Ask him what he’s doing after the show.”
The last preliminary was declared a draw. The semi-wind-up came up: six rounds — a couple of dark smart flyweights, one on his way to a championship. It was a pretty good fight but it was the favorite’s all the way.
The main event followed almost immediately. The announcer climbed into the ring — the referee, Shane, Gilroy, a knot of seconds. Shane got a big hand. Gilroy got a pretty good reception too — the black belt was well represented and Gilroy was well liked. The disk was tossed for corners, taping was examined and the referee’s instructions passed.
“Ladies and gentlemen... Ten rounds... In this corner — Arthur Shane — the Texas Cyclone... Two hundred an’ eight pounds... In this corner — Lou Gilroy... A hundred ninety-six...”
The announcer and seconds scrambled out of the ring. Gilroy and Shane touched gloves, turned toward their corners. At the gong Shane whirled, almost ran across the ring. Gilroy looked faintly surprised, waited, calmly ducked Shane’s wild right hook. They exchanged short jabs to the body and Shane straightened a long one to Gilroy’s jaw.
Shane’s hair was so blond it was almost white. It stuck straight up in a high pompadour above his-round pink face, flopped back and forth as he moved his head. He was thick, looked more than his two hundred and eight pounds. Gilroy had put on fat in the year since Kells had seen him in action, but it looked hard. His rich chocolate-brown body still sloped to a narrow waist, straight well-muscled legs. He looked pretty good.
Shane came in fast again; Gilroy backed against the ropes, came out and under Shane’s right — they clinched. The referee stepped between them, and Gilroy clipped Shane’s chin as he sidled away. They exchanged short jabs to the head and body, fell into another clinch. Gilroy brought both hands up hard to Shane’s body. Shane danced away, came in fast again and snapped Gilroy’s head back with a long right. They were stalling, waiting for the other to lead at the bell. The round was even.
The second and third rounds were slow — the second Shane’s by a shade, the third even.
Shane came out fast in the fourth, grazed Gilroy’s jaw with the long right, drove his left hard into Gilroy’s stomach. Gilroy straightened up and his mouth was open; Shane stepped a little to one side, took Gilroy’s weak counter on his shoulder and hooked his right to Gilroy’s unprotected jaw. There was a snap and Gilroy sank down on his knees. The crowd roared. Several people stood up.