Gilroy took a count of eight, got up grinning broadly. He ducked Shane’s wild uppercut, stepped inside and pounded Shane’s body, but his punches lacked steam. The muscles of his face were taut, his eyes big — he had been hurt. They clinched. The round was Shane’s.
Gilroy held on during the first part of the fifth, but snapped out of it in time to smack Shane around considerably before the bell. Shane was tiring a little. It should have been Gilroy’s round but was declared even.
The sixth and seventh were Gilroy’s by a small margin. He seemed to have recovered all his speed; Shane brought the fight to him, made a good show of rushing but it didn’t mean much. Gilroy took everything Shane had to give — fought deliberately, hard, well.
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.” He glanced at Beery, looked back at Kells’ shoes, went on: “My name is Borg.”
Kells introduced Beery. Then the four of them went through the crowd to the dressing rooms.
There were a dozen or more men — mostly Negroes — in the corridor outside Gilroy’s room. Kells shouldered through, opened the door. The florid Greek was standing just inside, smiling happily. He poked a finger at Kells.
“I told you we would win — I told you,” he said. He turned, frowned at Beery and Borg — Faber had waited outside.
Kells said: “These gentlemen are friends of mine.”
They came in behind him.
Gilroy was lying naked on the rubbing table. His face was covered with little beads of sweat. He turned his head, said: “Hello, Mistah Kells.”
Kells went over to him. “How do you feel?”
“Ah’m all right. The Doc here says it’s jus’ a scratch” — he grinned with all his face — “jus’ a scratch.”
The doctor nodded.
Kells turned to Borg, said: “Get a cab and wait outside the little gate, down at the end...” He gestured with his hand.
“We got a car.” Borg started toward the door.
“That’s fine — we’ll be out in a few minutes.”
Gilroy sat up slowly, picked up a towel and wiped his face. He said:
“How about a showah, Doc?”
The doctor said it would be all right. He was putting on his coat. Kells took a roll of bills out of his pocket, slipped one off and gave it to the doctor.
Beery was standing near the door. He jerked his head and Kells went over to him. Beery asked quietly: “Brand gave you a check?”
Kells nodded.
“The other guy paid off in cash?”
“Yes.”
“Gimme. You run a chance of getting into plenty of excitement tonight. I’m going home — I’d better take care of the bankroll.”
“I’ve got Fenner’s check too and somewhere around ten grand soft.” Kells smiled, shook his head. “Every time I sock something in a bank something happens so I can’t get to it. Something’s liable to happen to you...”
“Or you.”
“Uh huh — so I’ll keep the geetus.” Kells went back and sat down on the table.
The Greek began a long and vivid account of why Gilroy was the “coming champion.”
“I tell you, Mister Kells — your name is Kells, ain’t it? — Lonny is better than Johnson in his flower — in his flower...”
Beery said: “I’ll call you in the morning.” He and the doctor went out together.
Gilroy came out of the shower, dressed. On the way to the car, Kells asked: “Do you know Sheedy?”
“Vince Sheedy? Shuah.” Gilroy stayed close to Kells, watched the people they passed, carefully. “His place is right aroun’ the co’nah from my hotel.”
“Let’s go there and celebrate. I want to meet him.”
Borg and Faber were sitting in a big closed car outside the little gate. Beery was in the tonneau.
Kells said: “I thought you were going home.”
“Oh, what the hell — I’d just as well come along and see the fireworks — if any.” Beery sighed.
Kells and Gilroy got in beside him. Kells leaned forward, spoke to Borg: “Gilroy, here, has had some scare letters. We’re going to take care of him for a few days.”
Borg said: “Sure.”
Gilroy told them how to get to Sheedy’s place. Kells watched through the rear window but couldn’t spot anyone following them. Traffic was heavy. They went down Sixteenth to Central Avenue, turned south.
The rear entrance to Sheedy’s Bronx Club was tricky. They left the car in a parking station, went down a narrow passageway between two-buildings. Gilroy knocked at a door in the side of the passageway; it was opened and they went downstairs, through a large kitchen, into a short hallway.
Gilroy said: “There’s a front way in, but this is the best because we want a private room” — he looked at Kells for confirmation — “don’t we?”
Kells nodded.
Gilroy tried one of the doors in the hallway. It was locked. He tried another, opened it and switched on the light.