John D. MacDonald
Stand Up and Slug!
He hadn’t wanted to fight Benjy Lobra, but Max had insisted that he had to, saying, “Zack, boy, in this division you got to get by Benjy. Old Lobra, the chopping block. Why... trying to get a match with the leading contenders without getting past Benjy would be like trying to get into college without going to high school.”
Zack stood with the towel over his shoulders, still breathing deep and hard from the workout. “But the guy is my friend! Dammit, Max, I wouldn’t even be in this racket if Benjy hadn’t been in my outfit. I know I can lick him. The sportswriters know I can lick him. The wise money knows I can lick him. So why do I have to go out and pound a guy that helped me build nice deep foxholes and split rations with me and saved my neck twice? Already Benjy is a little slow in the head. Maybe I’ll be the guy to really put him over the edge. I can’t go out there and pull punches.”
Max shrugged. “Benjy wants the match. Maybe Benjy’s smart. A boy’s best friend is his bankroll. It’ll draw good. I say you got to do it, or I can’t wangle a match with Steiner or Brock or Joe Canada. Their managers all tell me to get you by Benjy just like they had to do with their boys.”
And because Zack Haines finally realized that it had to be done, he gave Max the go-ahead. And it was booked as the main in the Garden.
Three days before the weigh-in, Zack ran into Benjy Lobra eating alone at a cafeteria where the dills come with just the right amount of garlic.
Zack took his own tray over to the table for two. Benjy Lobra’s big gray face split into a grin. He was a squat man, carrying the middleweight’s hundred and sixty pounds in sloping shoulders, in corded bandy legs, in crowbar wrists. The scar-tissue ridges on his brows, the punch-thickened lips and the spread nose gave him the look of an amiable and over-bright chimpanzee. He was a man of simple tastes, of mounting annuities, and his hobby was making jewelry.
“Hey, Zack boy,” he said. “How’s my favorite middleweight? Next to me, naturally.”
Zack felt the good warm feeling of friendship, of things shared. He forced a grin. “Able to lick a broke-down old horse like you. Who’d you fight last? Harry Greb?”
“Naw. Stan Ketchel. 1909. T.K.O.” Zack put his tray aside and sat down to the meal. He looked down at the food and said, “Benjy, honest, I didn’t want this bout.”
“Scared of me?”
“I don’t want to fight you. I don’t want to have to try to lick you.”
Benjy grinned again. “Everybody gets their chance, kid. I’m the stumbling block on the road to success. I beat on ’em on the way up and then, couple years later, I beat on ’em on the way down. Fighters come and go. Lobra goes on forever.”
“How about the headaches?” Zack asked seriously.
“Better lately, kid. A lot better.”
“Why don’t you quit? You got it stashed away.”
“Quit! When I got about fifteen more good bouts in me! You nuts?”
Zack leaned across the table, his eyes intense. “Benjy, I got it. I know I’ve got it. I don’t need a lot more time before I can take the champ. And, hell, you know the knockouts I’ve been piling up. You read the stories on the West Coast trip. Those weren’t tankers. Those were pretty fair boys. I’m not breaking a wrist, slapping myself on the back, Benjy. I know I can lick you.”
Benjy had a sudden hooded look as the lids came halfway down over his eyes. “You can’t lick me by telling me about it. You got to try, kid.”
They ate in silence for a time. Benjy finished. He stood up and put a heavy hand on Zack Haines’ shoulder.
His grin was wide again. “Come out punching, kid,” he said. Zack turned and watched the bandy-legged walk, the shoulder-sway, as the durable Benjy Lobra left the cafeteria. Zack had a sour taste in his mouth. He pushed away the unfinished meal. The least he could do for Benjy was to make it short. Not the knockout route. No, Benjy had a jaw like a Vermont boulder. Open up those old scars over the eyes. One over each eye. A TKO just as fast as he could manage it.
There was, of course, no problem of style involved. Benjy always bored in, always moved in with that flat-footed shuffle, hands held low, chin on the chest, ready with those booming body punches that sucked the strength out of a man as though they made holes in his middle.
And Zack knew that with his own heads-up style, with the flicking left, the short hard sudden-death right, he was tailored to lick Benjy’s style.
The house lights faded out and the hard hot ring lights beat down on them. The usual crowd. The high-waisted blondes with the intricate hairdos, the chomp of jaws on the damp cigar butts, the hard stare of the TV lenses, the forty-dollar neckties, the cold gray eyes of wise money.
Max was that rare manager, one who liked to work the corner and knew how. Zack went back. The stool was gone. He bit on the mouthpiece, tapped it more firmly in place with the tip of his glove, turned to put the collar of the robe where Doc could reach it and yank it off.
At the bell he met Benjy in the middle of the ring and they touched gloves. Benjy gave him a solemn wink. All of Benjy’s body was the same gray as his face, broken only by the harsh mat of hair, an inverted triangle on his deep chest. Zack was half a head taller, slim in the waist, with high square shoulders, with the ovoid pads of muscle under the shoulderblades that are the mark of the hitter.
He moved well up on his toes as Benjy came in with the old familiar flat-footed shuffle. Zack had no heart for the fight.
Zack stabbed with the left. Benjy ducked into it, taking it high on the head. He stabbed twice more, feinted to the right, moved back and chunked the right hand at Benjy’s eyes. It hit harmlessly on the forehead, but the smack of it brought a low growl from the crowd. Benjy still shuffled in. He hadn’t thrown a punch yet. Too old and too wise to get arm-weary for nothing.
Zack ripped out with the left jab again. Benjy pawed at Zack’s middle, left and right and left. One missed and the other two, though they seemed like slow-motion punches, hit with a deep solid sodden force that sent a stab of pain up into the back of his throat.
Benjy rushed him against the ropes, clinched and freed one hand to chop down twice on the kidneys, hitting with the hard side of his wrist as much as with his glove. Zack gasped with the pain. Okay, an accident. Benjy stepped hard on his instep, rammed a shoulder up against Zack’s jaw, rubbed him up the nose with his laces. The referee broke them and Benjy hit on the break, a punch that landed high on Zack’s cheek.
One little clinch and Zack felt as if somebody had worked him over with a jackhammer.
“What the hell, Benjy,” he muttered.
“You wanna fight or dance?” Benjy growled, his voice distorted by the mouthguard.
Zack moved in more earnestly. He jabbed with the left, feinted with the right, slammed a left hook deep, crossed over with the right. The right bounced off Benjy’s hunched left shoulder. Benjy sent another boomer downstairs and rushed Zack back against the ropes. The bell sounded and Zack gratefully raised both his arms. Benjy belted the wind out of him and turned back toward his own corner, shrugging as the referee warned him.
“That’s a great friend you got,” Max said. His voice was bitter.
“He plays rough,” Zack said softly. He rinsed out his mouth, spat into the bucket.
He went out for the second round. Benjy extended his gloved hands. Zack, taken in by the gesture, reached to touch gloves. The hard right caught him flat-footed. He went down hard, his head thumping the canvas. He shook his head to clear it, got up onto one knee and picked up the count at six. He looked at Benjy standing in the neutral corner. The crowd was booing and hissing. Benjy stared hard at Zack with a sullen expression.