“Nothing.” Kells said. “But what’s the use of having an organization if I don’t use it?”
On the way back to his seat, Kells saw Rainey. 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?”
Rainey shrugged. “His mother, I suppose.”
“Is this so-called syndicate building him up?”
“Sure.”
Kells pointed a finger, jabbed it at Rainey’s chest. “And who the hell is the syndicate?”
Rainey said: “Rose, I guess, 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 elaborately 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 — Lon Gilroy... A hundred ninety-six...”
The announcer and seconds scrambled out of the ring. Gilroy and Shane touched gloves, turned towards 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 since Kells had last seen him in action, but it looked hard. His rich chocolatebrown 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.
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 frame 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 selfconsciously. Shane was all right; he shook his head and went after Gilroy, and Gilroy cuffed him on the side of the head, jabbed a short, 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. He shook his head sadly. “The son of a bitch,” he said — “the dirty son of a bitch.”
“There’s something in what you say,” Kells said. He stood up an stretched.
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.”