The Paul Cain Omnibus (53 page)

Gilroy was entirely still for a moment. He stared at his hands. Then he nodded slowly without looking up.

Kells said: “I’ll be back here afterwards.”

He went out of the room, closed the door. He found a telephone, called Fenner. Fenner wasn’t in, he had the call switched to Hanline’s room. When Hanline answered, Kells told him to send the two best muscle men he could locate to the entrance of Section R, Olympic Arena, quickly. Hanline said: “Sure—what’s it all about?”

“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.”

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 Jew 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 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 to Kells.

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 towards 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. Gilroy’s manager, the Jew, 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 corner 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 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.

The room was small. There was a round table with a red-andwhite tablecloth in the middle of the room, and there were six or seven chairs and a couch. Gilroy pressed a button near the door.

Borg and Faber sat down and Kells stretched out on the couch. Beery studied the photographs—mostly clipped from “Art Models” magazines—on the walls.

A waiter came and Gilroy told him to get Sheedy. Sheedy turned out to be a very tall, very yellow skeleton. Dinner clothes hung from his high, pointed shoulders as though the least wind would whip them out like a flat black sail. He nodded to Beery. “I am very happy to meet you, Mister Kells,” he said. His accent was very precise. Kells guessed that if the name meant anything special to him he was a remarkable actor.

Gilroy asked: “Was you at the fight, Vince?”

“Yes…. I lost.” Sheedy smiled easily.

Gilroy giggled. “Hot dawg! It serves you right—nex’ time you know bettah.”

Sheedy raised his brows, nodded sadly.

“Hash us up a load of champagne—” Gilroy made a large gesture. “An’ send some gals back to sing us a song.”

Sheedy said: “Right away, Lonny”—bowed himself out. He was back in about a minute, asked Kells to come into the hallway. “Some fellows just came in”—he inclined his head towards the front of the place—“asked if Lonny was here. I said no.”

“Who are they?”

“Man named Arnie Taylor—a Negro—and three white boys. I don’t know them.”

Kells said: “Who’s Taylor?”

Sheedy shook his head. “I don’t think he’s a particular friend of Lonny’s.”

“Where’s Rose?” Kells spoke very softly, quickly.

Sheedy looked surprised. Then he sniffled slowly. “I’m afraid you’ve got some wrong ideas,” he said.

Kells waited; Sheedy went on: “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

Kells looked at him sleepily, silently.

Sheedy said: “He was here last night—I haven’t seen him since.”

“Thanks.” Kells turned to go back into the room.

Sheedy caught his shoulder. “Rose and I do a little business together,” he said—“that’s all.” He was smiling slightly, looking very straight at Kells.

Kells said: “Liquor business?”

Sheedy shook his head.

“White stuff?”