In his comer, as the Mexican pushed the rubber mouthpiece between his lips, Tommy stood like a lump; sweat pouring out all over him. The Mexican said, “This fellow is strong like a bull, but I tell you to go out and rush him. If he is the same boy I think, he's got....”
The bell for the first round sounded—a sharp and dreary call to Judgment Day. Licking the mouthpiece firmly in his mouth with his tongue, from force of habit, Tommy danced out of his comer.
Jabbing Jake twice and weaving away from a vicious left hook, Tommy wondered what he was going to do. It was a very fast and brief thought because he was too busy watching Jake's gloves and feet to do much thinking.
He blocked a right, picking the punch off in mid-air, then snapped Jake's head back with a left hook on the temple. He missed another left, ducked under Jake's right, and grabbed Jake as he came up, pulling him into a clinch. Tommy stared into Jake's set face, the hard eyes—still hoping, somehow, to see something which would prove his suspicions were all wrong—but Jake's eyes were like looking into the business ends of twin guns.
Tommy didn't try any infighting, merely held Jake's arms. As Jake twisted and wrestled, using his greater strength, Tommy stared into Jake's set face, the hard eyes—still Hail Mary, Sweet Virgin... If I'd only listened to Walt and May. How could I ever have imagined Arno would really be interested in an old washed-up pug like me? I must have been crazy....
Muttering, “Cork, you're holding,” the referee parted them. Tommy's left jab darted out, keeping Jake from getting set. Tommy bounced a hard left off Jake's iron stomach, missed a right to the chin. Tommy felt as sick as if he'd stopped a gut punch. His hook to the stomach had absolutely no effect on Jake. Jake started circling to Tommy's left, feinted with his right, then his left, and sent a looping overhand right over. Tommy blocked this with his left forearm and sudden fire and pain raced up the arm and into his heart, nearly driving him crazy as he realized the punch had broken his left arm.
He danced away, back-pedaled across the ring. Jake came after him, the killing right cocked. Tommy knew he was finished, he surely had no chance against Jake with only one hand. Perhaps he also knew he could drop to the canvas and be counted out; he could duck through the ring ropes; he could scream at the referee to stop it—tell him his arm was broken; he could even yell at the ringside cop that he was being murdered. Yet he really couldn't do any of these because he was a stupid-proud pug named “Irish” Tommy Cork.
Tommy started moving toward Jake's left, to get out of range of lethal right, but with cat speed, Jake also shifted. Tommy tried to hold up his left but the pain made him tear and he let the hand dangle helplessly at his side as he stepped back. He felt the ropes against both shoulders and knew he was trapped in a comer, left hand down—chin open for Jake's right, almost the way they had planned the “dive.”
As Jake came in Tommy tried to mumble a prayer, call May's name. He saw Jake's right glove come rifling at him. In reflex action, Tommy let his own right go.
Tommy only had a fair wallop in his right; his left hook had accounted for most of the kayos in his record. This right wasn't much of a punch but it was a short, straight blow while Jake's right, all his body behind it, was making a slight arc through the air. Tommy's punch landed first, smack on the side of Jake's heavy jaw. Jake's right hand seemed to falter in mid-air, his eyes turned so bright and glassy they looked as if they'd crack, became like two marbles. His hands went up in the air and from force of habit as Tommy absent-mindedly whipped over another right to the body, Jake crumpled to the canvas—out cold!
Tommy stared down at him, refusing to believe his eyes. Then, through his bulging mouthpiece-stuffed lips, over the roar of the crowd, Tommy tried to laugh. He knew now why Jake was such a big secret, had never fought much. Jake had everything, including a glass chin! There was plenty of china in that “strong” jaw, the odd bone formation some fighters are cursed with which causes the lightest of blows on the chin to be transmitted directly to their brain, making them black out.
The referee was waving Tommy toward a neutral comer as the timekeeper was banging out the count on the ring apron. Except for a twitch in his heavy leg muscles, Jake was a study in still life. As the ref reached ten, Tommy glanced down at Arno—the neutral comer seemed to be directly above Arno. Brewer was standing, hand deep in his pocket and it seemed to Tommy the fat face was a concrete mask of hate. He could almost picture the knife coming out of the deep pocket.
Tommy ran across the ring to the opposite corner, shoving the astonished referee aside, eyes only on Arno. The ref tried to raise Tommy's hand, but Cork pushed him away— moved out of the comer. Arno was coming toward him, around the ringside. Tommy wanted to scream but merely chewed on his mouthpiece.
Suddenly he saw three large men racing down the aisle. They all grabbed Arno, who started to sputter explanations. One of the men was Walt Steiner. Tommy slumped against the ropes with relief, leaning on his right shoulder. The ref came over while Tommy was watching Walt and the other two men take Arno away. The referee's face showed puzzled annoyance. He wanted to go home. He grabbed Tommy's broken left arm and raised it high—the winner. Tommy let out a yell of pain that silenced the arena before he fainted.
In the dressing room, as a doctor was setting Tommy's arm, Cork asked Walt, “How did you know I was fighting here?”
“That wasn't so hard, not many clubs operating. Alvin checked on that ring death out in Utah, the Harold Barry thing, and lucked up on a local news photo. Of course it was Jake. Then when I started looking for you, I found there were only three clubs operating in the entire Eastern half of the country. Little more checking and we found Jake had fought here a few weeks ago. Arno had to establish him. I told you to let me know if they left town.”
Tommy shrugged and the doc told him to sit still. “Yeah, I guess I was playing it dumb, but I thought... Tonight I sure thought I was a goner. It was a light right and if Jake didn't have all the crockery in his chin I wouldn't be talking now. But my luck held out. What was Arno trying to pull after the fight, following me around the ring?”
“He was trying to reach you to give you a fast sales talk, the cover-up,” Walt told him. “We would have got here sooner but the plane connections were bad and... Look, this is Detective Chandler of the local force, and this is Frank Flatts, an investigator for the insurance company. Frank, shouldn't...?”
A loud voice was arguing with the cop outside the dressing room door and then the promoter came busting in. “Cork! The second your arm is okay, you got yourself a main go here, and as many as you keep winning! This was the most sensational fight I've ever had and with all the publicity!”
“Take it easy, mister,” Walt said coldly—it had taken him time to be convinced the promoter hadn't been in on the deal. Walt turned to Flatts. “Frank, in view of everything I've told you, shouldn't there be a reward of some kind for Tommy? He saved your company a big bundle, by saving his own life.”
Flatts said, “That isn't up to me to decide. Something probably will be worked out. Mr. Cork, my company is grateful for your courage and...”