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  yourself?”

  “The name’s Farrar,” I said curtly, and ducked under the ropes.

  “You look a good boy to me,” Petelli said. “I can give you some fights. Have you signed

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  with Brant?”

  “I haven’t signed with anyone,” I said, “and I’m not signing with anyone. This is strictly

  my one and only appearance.”

  “You’d better come down with Brant, and we’ll talk this over,” Petelli said. “I can give you

  a fight a month.”

  “I’m not interested,” I said, and walked across the gym to the changing booths in a sudden

  silence you could hang your hat on.

  IV

  I got back to Roche’s Cafe in time to see Josh Bates driving his six-wheel truck along the

  waterfront towards the Miami highway. I watched him go with mixed feelings. I had a

  sneaking idea I should have been on that truck.

  Roche was polishing an urn when I walked in.

  “So you changed your mind,” he said. “Josh waited around for you. What happened?”

  “Sorry, Tom. I got hung up.” I told him of Brant’s offer. “With a car and five hundred

  bucks I’ll be set. It means hanging around for four days, but when I go I’ll move on my own

  steam.”

  I went on to tell him about Petelli.

  “You want to keep an eye on that baby,” Roche said. “He’s got a bad reputation.”

  “I can believe it, and I intend to keep out of his way. I’ve got to do a little training. There’s

  not much time, but I figure I can get into some sort of shape before Saturday.”

  “You’ll stay with us, Johnny. Don’t argue. We’ll be glad to have you.”

  I didn’t argue. I was glad to be with them.

  Later, Solly Brant came into the cafe. He slumped down at a corner table as if he had

  completed a ten-mile run.

  I went over and joined him.

  “Well, it’s all fixed,” he said heavily. “It took all my time to convince Petelli this was your

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  last fight. I think you’re making a mistake, Farrar. Petelli could make you a sack of dough.”

  “I’m not interested.”

  “That’s what I told him, and I finally convinced him, but you’ve still time to change your

  mind.”

  “I’m not changing it.”

  Brant shifted uneasily.

  “It’ll make a difference.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, look, if this is going to be your last fight, you can’t expect Petelli to take much

  interest in you, can you?”

  “I don’t want him to. The less I have to do with him the better I’ll like it.”

  “But he’s got his money on the Kid, so the Kid’s got to win.”

  “Well, all right, if the Kid’s all that good, he probably will win.”

  “He’s got to win,” Brant said huskily. “It’s orders.”

  I stared at him.

  “Are you trying to tell me you’ve arranged for me to take a dive?”

  “That’s it. Petelli’s giving you a big build-up. The betting will switch, and he’s spreading

  his dough on the Kid. My instructions are for you to take a dive in the third.”

  “I told you: I’ve never taken a dive, and I don’t intend to take one now.”

  Brant mopped his face with a none-too-clean handkerchief.

  “Look, Farrar, you’re getting five hundred bucks and a car out of this. For the love of Mike

  don’t make it difficult.”

  “If the Kid can’t win by beating me, then it’s his funeral. I’m not taking a dive!”

  “You haven’t any choice,” Brant said, beginning to sweat. “When Petelli says a thing it

  sticks.”

  20

  “Well, let’s take that a step further. Suppose I don’t take orders from him - what then?”

  “You’re up to your neck in trouble. I’m not kidding. Petelli’s poison. There was a boy who

  lost him a lot of money a couple of years back, not doing what he was told. They laid for him

  and smashed his hands so he never fought again. They bashed his knuckles with a steel rod

  until they were pulp, and that’s what’ll happen to you if you don’t do what he tells you.”

  “They’ll have to catch me first.”

  “They’ll catch you. The other boy thought he was smart. He ducked out of town, but they

  caught up with him. It took them six months to find him, but they found him. He was picked

  up with a cracked skull and broken mitts, and he’s never been any good since.”

  “You don’t scare me,” I said, getting angry. “This is going to be a straight fight or I quit!”

  “Use your head, Farrar,” Brant pleaded. “If Petelli says you take a dive, then goddamn it,

  you’ll take a dive. Ask anyone. Ask Roche. You just don’t fool with Petelli. What he says

  goes.”

  “Not with me, it doesn’t.” I stood up. “This is my last fight, and I’m not getting mixed up in

  a dive. Tell Petelli that from me.”

  “You tell him,” Brant said hurriedly. “It’s your baby now.”

  “Oh, no, it isn’t. You fixed this: you unfix it. I’m going over to the gym to loosen up.”

  He must have rushed around to Petelli the moment I had left the cafe, for I was just getting

  warmed up in the gym under Waller’s supervision when Petelli’s two muscle-men came in.

  Later I was to learn their names were Pepi and Benno. Pepi was a slick-looking Wop,

  wearing a pencil-lined moustache like his boss, while Benno was fat and blue-chinned and

  vicious.

  They marched in like they owned the place, and Waller froze at the sight of them. All right,

  I admit it, there was something about those two that made my flesh creep.

  “Come on,” Pepi said, jerking his thumb at me, “get your clothes on. The boss wants you.”

  “I’m busy,” I said. “He’ll find me here if he wants me that badly.”

  I heard Waller catch his breath. He was looking at me as if he thought I was crazy.

  21

  “Don’t give me that stuff,” Pepi snarled, his pinched face vicious. “Get your clothes on and

  come!”

  He was a head shorter than I was, and I didn’t want to hit him, but hit he was going to be if

  he didn’t change his tone.

  “Get out of here!” I said. “Both of you, before I toss you out.”

  “Toss us out,” Benno said, and a blue-nosed automatic jumped into his hand. “You heard

  us the first time. Get your clothes on or you’ll stop a slug with your belly!”

  His still glittering eyes warned me he wasn’t bluffing.

  Without moving his lips, Waller mumbled, “Don’t be a fool, Farrar. Go with them. I know

  these two.”

  Pepi smiled.

  “Wise guy. Sure he knows us. He knows Benno’s been mixed up in three shooting

  accidents already this year. Better not make a fourth.”

  I got dressed while they stood around and watched me, then we went down the alley to

  where a big Cadillac was parked. Benno kept the gun in his hand. There was a cop standing

  on the edge of the kerb right by the car. He looked at Benno, looked at the gun, then hurriedly

  walked away. That told me faster than anything that had yet happened just what kind of a jam

  I was in. I got into the car and sat beside Pepi who drove. Benno sat at the back and breathed

  down my neck. It took less than a minute to reach the Ocean Hotel. We went in by a side

  entrance and rode up in a gilt-painted elevator. Neither Benno nor Pepi said anything, but

  Benno
kept the gun pointing at me. We walked down a long corridor to a polished mahogany

  door marked Private. Pepi tapped, turned the handle and walked in.

  The room was small, oak-panelled, and fitted up like an office.

  A blonde sat pounding a typewriter, and chewing gum. She glanced up, gave me a swift,

  indifferent stare, seemed to think nothing of the gun in Benno’s hand, and jerked her blonde

  head to the door behind her.

  “Go on in,” she said to Pepi. “He’s waiting.”

  Pepi scratched on the door panel with his fingernails, opened the door and glanced in.

  Then he stood aside.

  22

  “In on your own steam,” he said to me, “and behave.”

  I walked past him into one of those vast rooms you rarely see outside a movie set. The

  enormous expanse of bottle-green carpet was thick enough to cut with a lawn-mower. A

  couple of dozen lounging chairs, two big chesterfields, a number of lamp standards and an

  odd table or two scarcely dented the space they were supposed to fill. Around the walls hung

  gilt-framed mirrors that caught my reflection as I moved forward, and reminded me how

  shabby I looked.

  At a desk, big enough to play ping-pong on, sat Petelli. He was smoking a cigar, and the

  white slouch hat he had worn when he had come to the gym still rested at the back of his

  head. He waited, sitting forward, his elbows on the desk, until I was within a yard of him,

  then he stopped me by pointing his cigar at me.

  “I’ll do the talking; you do the listening,” he said, his voice curt and cold. “You’re a good

  fighter, Farrar, and I could have used you, but Brant tells me you want to stay out of the

  game. Right?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “The Kid is a good boy, too, but I don’t think he’s got the punch you carry. Well, if I can’t

  have you, I’ll have to make do with him. This will be his first fight as far north as Pelotta. It

  wouldn’t look good for him to get licked, so he’s got to win. I’ve ten grand spread on the

  fight, and I don’t intend to lose it. I told Brant you’re to take a dive in the third round. Now

  I’m telling you. Brant says you don’t like the idea. Well, that’s your own private grief, not

  mine. You’ve had your chance to come in with me and you’ve passed it up,” He paused to tap

  ash on the carpet. “This happens to be my town. I run it, see? What I say goes. I have an

  organization that takes care of guys who don’t do what I tell them. We’ll take care of you,

  too, if we have to. From now on you’ll be watched. You’re not to leave town. On Saturday

  night you’ll fight the Kid and you’ll put up a convincing show. In the third round the Kid’ll

  catch you, and you’ll go down and stay down. Those are my orders, and you’ll obey them. If

  you don’t you’ll be wiped out. I mean that. I don’t intend to lose ten grand because some bum

  fighter is too proud to take a dive. Double-cross me and it’s the last double-cross you pull.

  And don’t bother about police protection. The police do what I tell them. Now you know the

  set-up, you can please yourself what you do. I’m not arguing about it. I’m telling you. Take a

  dive in the third or a slug in the back. Now get out!”

  He wasn’t bluffing. I knew unless I obeyed orders he’d wipe me out with no more

  hesitation than he would have squashed a fly.

  There wasn’t anything I could think of to say. He had put the cards on the table. It was now

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  up to me. Come to think of it, there wasn’t anything to say. I turned and went out of the room,

  closing the door gently behind me.

  The blonde still pounded the typewriter. Pepi and Benno had gone. Without pausing or

  looking up, she said, “Sweet type, isn’t he? Can you wonder he hasn’t any friends?”

  Even to her I hadn’t anything to say. I went on out, down the long corridor to the elevator.

  When I reached the street I spotted Benno across the way. He strolled after me as I made my

  way back to the gym.

  V

  For the next four days and nights Benno or Pepi followed me wherever I went, not letting

  me out of their sight for a moment. I played with the idea of slipping out of town and making

  my way to Miami as best I could, but I soon discovered there was no safe way of doing it.

  Those two stuck to me like an adhesive bandage.

  I kept the set-up to myself. It was only when Tom Roche told me he was going to bet his

  shin on me that I gave him a hint of what was in the wind.

  “Don’t do it, and don’t ask questions,” I said. “Don’t bet either way.”

  He stared at me, saw I meant it, started to say something, but changed his mind. He was no

  fool, and must have guessed what was brewing, but he didn’t press me.

  I didn’t tell Brant that I had seen Petelli, but he knew all right. He avoided me as much as

  he could, and when we did run into each other he seemed nervous, and didn’t appear to like

  the way I was working to get into some kind of shape.

  Waller didn’t ask questions either, but he did everything he could to get me fit. By the

  evening of the third day I was picking my punches, and my breathing no longer bothered me.

  I could see both Waller and Brant were impressed by my speed and hitting power.

  Petelli certainly made a swell job of the advance publicity. He had the local papers working

  on it, and a string of loud-mouthed guys going around the bars shouting my praise. This

  concentrated drive soon began to influence the betting, and by the morning of the fight I was

  a four to one on favourite. With ten thousand on the Kid, Petelli stood to pick up a bundle of

  money.

  Neither he nor his muscle-men had anything further to say to me. Our little talk in his office

  seemed to them to be enough. Well, it was. I had to dive in the third round or it’d be curtains,

  and I had made up my mind to dive. An outfit like Petelli’s was too big and tough to buck. If

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  I obeyed orders I was set to make a good start in Miami, and that was what I really cared

  about. Anyway, that’s the way I tried to kid myself, but below the surface I was seething with

  rage. I was thinking of the little mugs who were putting their shirts on me. I was thinking that

  after Saturday night I’d be just another crooked fighter, but what really bit deep was taking

  orders from a rat like Petelli.

  On the morning of the fight, Brant and I went down to the gym for the weigh-in. There was

  a big crowd to welcome me, but I didn’t get any kick out of the excited cheers as I pushed my

  way through the double swing-doors. I spotted Tom Roche and Sam Williams, and gave them

  a feeble grin as they waved to me.

  Petelli stood near the scales, smoking a cigar. Pepi stood just behind him. Near by a fat,

  hard-faced man in a fawn suit propped up the wall and grinned at anyone who looked at him.

  He turned out to be the Miami Kid’s manager.

  I ducked the back-slappers and went into one of the changing booths. By the time I had

  stripped off the Kid was on show. I looked curiously at him. He was big and powerful, but I

  was quick to spot he was a little thick around the middle. As I joined him he looked me over

  with a sneering little grin.

  I was four pounds heavier than he, and had the advantage of three inches in reach.

  “So what?” he said in a loud voice to his manager. “The bi
gger they come the harder they

  bounce.”

  The crowd seemed to think that was the most original and witty thing they had ever heard,

  to judge by the laugh it got.

  As I stepped off the scales, the Kid, still with his sneering grin, reached out and grabbed my

  arm.

  “Hey! I thought you said this guy was a puncher,” he cried. “Call these muscles, chummy?”

  “Take your hands off me!” I said, and the look I gave him made him take two big, quick

  steps back. “You’ll know whether I’ve got muscles or not by tonight.”

  There was a sudden silence, then as I walked away, a babble of voices broke out.

  Brant came running after me, and as I went into the changing booth, he said excitedly,

  “Don’t let him rattle you. He’s a great kidder.”

  25

  I didn’t have to be a mind reader to know what he meant. He was scared the Kid had

  opened his mouth too wide and I’d sock him for it when we got into the ring. He wasn’t far

  from the truth, either.

  “Is he?” I said. “Well, so am I.”

  The first instalment of Brant’s pay-off arrived in the afternoon. He brought it himself.

  “Thought you’d better look smart, Farrar,” he said, looking anywhere but at me. He took

  off the lid of a box and showed me a white linen suit, a cream silk shirt, a green and white tie,

  and white buckskin shoes. “You’ll knock them dead in this outfit,” he went on, trying to be at

  ease. “Better see if it fits.”

  “Shove them back in the box and get out,” I said.

  I was lying on the bed in the little room Roche had lent me. The curtains were half drawn,

  and the light was dim. I had seven hours before I entered the ring: seven hours that stretched

  ahead of me like a prison sentence without parole.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Brant demanded, flushing. “Isn’t this what you want?” and

  he shook the suit at me.

  “Get out before I throw you out!”

  When he had gone I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but I kept thinking of Petelli. I

  thought, too, of all the little mugs who were betting on me. I tried to convince myself there

  was nothing I could do about it, but I knew I had walked into this with my eyes open. I had

  kicked around in the fight racket long enough to know just how crooked it was. That was why

  I had quit, and yet the first offer that came along had tempted me back. If I hadn’t had big