Those were the days of dreams when you were working over the unknowns, hammering out a record. Later came the big boys. You had moving pictures of them; you hired sparring partners who had the same style. And the top boys were rougher, smarter. Maxie, the clown, hit you with one of those wide sweeping rights and knocked you cleanly through the ropes and it took a full twelve count to get untangled from the press boys and climb back in. But the next time you had him laughing out loud, and Maxie always laughed when you hurt him.
You didn’t bounce back so fast. The aches stayed with you for long days and nights after a bout. And your shift was a half-step behind, and the counterpunch a whisker slow, and the dreams had faded and it was brutal work. But there had to be money to settle the debts from the crummy investments, and settle a tax thing, and you knew the peak was well past, and yet you signed for the second Louis go, and that impassive chocolate soldier stalked you and caught and pulverized you.
Thirteen years and now it had been over for five years and all you had left was less than two thousand dollars, and a lot of fine print in the record books, and the thickness of scar-tissue on brow and mouth — and yet, luck had smiled a little and had left you with your brain and your eyes undamaged.
He walked up the stairs into his past and they saw him. The ones with the memories came over first and the others tagged along. Jack Terrance strutted massively and waved his cigar and made-hints, while the others, pumping Lew’s hand, gave him no chance to shut Jack up. He was sorry he had come.
“Lew! Lew!” Jack called. “Here’s the next heavyweight champion. Lew Barry, meet Sammy Hode.”
Hode was in purple tights. His tanned skin glistened with sweat, his dark hair was tousled. His hands were wrapped up but the gloves were off. The bridge of his nose was flattened, but except for that he was unmarked. Lew liked the look of him, as a person, as a man. He had dark direct eyes, a look of intentness, and yet there was a hint of good humor in his level mouth. He was one of those fighters built like a fire hydrant. Beefed from his ears to his ankles, but with a rubbery bouncy look about his muscles and head set tight to the wide shoulders. Hard to hurt, Lew decided, hard to cut or bruise, hard to hit solidly if he knew how to move.
“Jack gave you the big buildup, Sammy,” Lew said, smiling.
“He can be right and he can be wrong, Mr. Barry. I’d just like to get a chance to find out.”
“I want Lew to see you work, Sammy.”
“Sure, Jack. Mastrik is dressing; here he comes now. Al, you want to ref us?”
They climbed into the center ring. Lew and Jack sat ringside. Jack was hunched forward with his cigar clamped tightly in his teeth. One of the hangers-on helped Sammy Hode strap the face-guard on. Mastrik was a big, strong-looking Polish boy, so blond he was almost an albino. They took corners, scuffed around, came out at the next bell. Lew watched closely. For the first thirty seconds the kid was too eager to make a showing. Then he settled down. His style was deceptive. He would do little bounce steps, gloves at his sides, able to flick either hand into jab, hook or punch. Then he would crouch low and do a flat-footed weave. His punches had snap. He was quick and a sharpshooter. Lew saw it coming in the second round. Sammy, moving to his own right, slammed a solid left hook an inch above Mastrik’s belt. The taller man’s arms dropped and, as they did, Sammy shifted, moving fast to his own left, measuring Mastrik with a short left jab; then he unleashed a right that Lew, sitting ringside, could feel all the way down to his heels.
Mastrik went down heavily onto his hands and knees, shaking his head. Sammy helped him up and they walked him back to the corner.
Lew found he was breathing hard. Jack leaned toward him. “Like?”
“How old is he and what does he go?”
“Twenty-two, one ninety-six, and he’s no bum. College graduate.”
“He might make it.”
“Might?”
“He’s almost too clean, Jack. Too good a kid. This isn’t patty cake he’s playing. Can he get sore?”
“I haven’t seen it yet. I don’t know.”
“He’ll have to watch his weight. That build takes on fat easy.”
“He works it off. He’s a worker.”
“Look, I didn’t like you letting those guys think I might fight this kid.”
“What have you got to lose? You scared of him?”
“That doesn’t work, Jack. I’m too old for that and you know it.”
“Okay, okay. Anyway, I lined up a good boy to train him — old Jud Brock.”
“Jud! Is he here?”
“Right over there. Just came up the stairs.”
Lew left Jack and went through the crowd. Jud was low-built and bald; his tired eyes tilted down at the outside corners. He had a W. C. Fields nose, and a deceptive look of low comedy.
“What grease pit did you crawl out of, Lew? Come on in here.” Jud Brock took him into a small office and slammed the door in the face of a man who tried to follow them in.
Jud leaned against a battered oak desk and filled his pipe, while he stared steadily at Lew. “You working up to be a damn’ fool?”
“What makes you think so?”
“Your old pal Terrance — all mouth and no sense.”
“He likes to jump the gun, Jud. What the hell are you doing here?”
“I’m retired. I own this place. The poor-man’s Stillman’s. So I’m training the kid because Morgan gave him some bad habits and he’s the best kid I’ve seen — since a kid named Barry.”
“No kid any more.”
Jud studied him. “But you haven’t gone to slop like most do. You still got a flat belly. But that kid could kill you. I guess you know that.”
“I know it. My eyesight is still fine.”
“I’m sorry to see you here, Lew.”
“Maybe I’m broke, Jud. Ever think of that?”
“Nobody is that broke. Come over here. Take a look.”
Lew went over curiously. He recognized the glossy print on the wall at which Jud pointed: A victory booth at Lindy’s. He had to think for a moment to remember which scrap it was. He was there in the picture, much younger, and with a fine shelf over his left eye. Six were jammed in the booth. They were all grinning at the flash camera. Jack and Ivy and himself on one side. Jud and Fallow, and on the other side a sports reporter whose name he did not remember. Jud snapped the picture with a horny thumbnail. “Remember what happened that, night? Jack had a big deal lined up. I yelled like a banshee, but you turned over half your end of the gate. All he had to do was ask, and you give it to him. His big deal went over like celluloid fire-tongs. It paid off a dime on the dollar two years later.”
Jud sighed; he went back to the desk and perched on it like a disabused gremlin. “Otherwise you’re smart, Lew. But this one guy could re-sell you the Brooklyn Bridge. Why? I could never get it. He’s all mouth; a week ago he tells me you’re going to fight the kid on August 1st at the River Stadium. I told him to go back to smoking pod — this mainlining is bad on the imagination.”
“What else did you tell him?”
“I told him that if you just happened to go crazy and sign up, it would be a good contest, like sending my maiden aunt in against Sugar Ray. She’s only a little bit bedridden.”