1953 - The Sucker Punch Read online

  "Well, okay, Chad, but it isn't usual."

  I dropped the receiver back on its cradle. No one was going to punch me on the nose and not pay for it. Instead of getting thirty-five grand, Miss Shelley would collect only twenty. The other fifteen thousand was going to be salted away in my bank as compensation.

  Now do you see what I mean?

  I was through the door and into a new and wonderful world.

  As I walked out on the terrace, Vestal hurriedly closed her pyjama jacket. Then she did something I would never have expected her to do; something that shocked me, and believe me, I am not easily shocked.

  She gave me a coy little glance and a coy little smile.

  "You shouldn't have sneaked back like that," she said. "I believe you were peeping."

  Peeping! If such a suggestion hadn't been disgusting to me, it would have been gruesomely funny. Did this wizened, flat-chested, ugly little creature really imagine I should want to peep at her? Did she imagine I was that hard up for women? Couldn't she see by just looking at me I had only to snap my fingers and there would be a flock of women rushing at me?

  Somehow I managed to dig up a flashing smile.

  "You're embarrassing me, Miss Shelley. I had something on my mind. I have just made you twenty thousand dollars."

  She immediately forgot to be coy and her eyes popped open.

  "I had a little flutter on your behalf," I went on, sitting down beside her. "This morning I gave my broker instructions to buy a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of Conway Cement. It moved up four points, and he got out with a twenty, thousand dollar profit."

  She stared at me.

  "You—you used a quarter of a million of my money without asking my permission?" she gasped.

  "I didn't use your money," I said impatiently. "I used your name which happens to be worth more than money. In other words I pledged your credit."

  "I've never heard such a thing! Suppose the stock had gone down? You don't imagine I would have accepted responsibility, do you?"

  I grinned at her.

  "The stock couldn't go down. If you put a quarter of a million dollars into a concern, its stock value must go up. Isn't that obvious?"

  "But you didn't consult me." She looked sharply at me. "How much did you say I've made?"

  "Twenty thousand, but if you're doubtful about taking it, just say so. I can use it."

  She gazed at me for a long moment. Into her eyes came a fascinated, admiring look.

  "It seems, Mr. Winters, you really are a very clever young man."

  "In spite of being a cheap crook and a damned racketeer?"

  She laughed.

  "I was angry then."

  "Well, go ahead and apologize," I said, staring straight at her. "Unless, of course, you still think so."

  She made a face at me.

  "I don't think so now. I apologize." She rubbed her shoulders ruefully. "And you had better apologize too. You hurt me."

  "Not likely. It's about time someone manhandled you. You've been having it too much your own way. You should be glad I didn't give you a damned good hiding."

  A little cough sounded behind me and I glanced around. Hargis was standing by my side, holding a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket and two glasses on a tray. He set them down on the table, opened the bottle and poured the wine.

  As he was about to move away, I said, "Wait a moment. Let me taste this wine." I tried it, nodded and looked up at him. "That's a lot better, Hargis. It could have been a little more chilled, but it will do. Okay, run along."

  He went away, rigid and silent.

  Vestal giggled.

  "I can't imagine what he is thinking." She took the glass I handed to her. "You shouldn't have spoken to him like that."

  "It's time someone put him in his place. Let's forget him. He's not important," I said. "Let's talk business, Miss Shelley. What have you arranged with Howe?"

  "I haven't arranged anything. I was so angry I wouldn't listen to what he wanted to say. I told him I would see him later."

  "Okay, then I'll handle him. Howe's a useful man. He can collect your rents without trouble, but he needs me to control him."

  She looked hard at me.

  "You know, Mr. Winters, I am glad you are on my side. You are on my side, aren't you?"

  "I've given you enough proof of that, haven't I? I am on your side all right, and I am on my side too. It just happens your side and my side are on the same side. Now we've cleared the air, I want to talk to you about your investments. The bank hasn't attempted to turn your spare money over for months. I suggest you give me your authority to make changes. I also want your authority to free a quarter of a million in cash so I can gamble with it." As she started to speak, I went on quickly, "It is understood that if I lose more than twenty thousand in any one month, the use of the money is withdrawn. I will submit a fortnightly statement to show you exactly what I am doing with the money, and if I don't make you the minimum of five thousand dollars a month tax free, the money goes back into gilt edge stock again."

  "But I don't want to lose twenty thousand," she said. "I can't agree to that."

  "I have just made you twenty thousand for nothing," I said impatiently.

  "In actual fact I am supplying the margin on which I'll gamble. So what are you worrying about? But if you don't want some tax-free money, say so and I won't bother."

  She hesitated.

  "I want a weekly statement then."

  "All right. I don't care. Have a weekly statement."

  "You really think you can make me five thousand a month tax free?"

  "I'm damned sure I can."

  "Very well, you can have the money." She studied me doubtfully. "I suppose you will be making something out of it yourself?"

  I laughed.

  "Of course I shall. I have an arrangement with my broker. It won't cost you a dime, but it'll cost him plenty." I pushed back my chair and stood up. "Well, I have a lot of things to do, Miss Shelley. I'll run along now."

  She sat looking up at me. The fascinated, admiring expression was still in her eyes.

  "Perhaps you would like to dine with me here tonight?"

  I shook my head.

  "I'm sorry, but I have a date tonight."

  She looked suddenly sulky.

  "Oh. Some woman, of course."

  "I'm going to the fights. No woman tonight."

  "Fights? What fights?"

  "Out at Parkside Stadium."

  "I've always wanted to see a fight. You wouldn't take me with you, would you?"

  I was just about to turn her down, when I suddenly realized that the exclusive, important Miss Shelley, worth seventy million dollars, was actually angling for an invitation.

  I didn't want to take her. I had a nice blonde lined up for tonight, but I saw an important opportunity here; too important to pass up. It would do my credit a power of good and it would make a big impression on the sporting boys to see me with Vestal Shelley hanging on my arm.

  "You really want to come?" I said, as if I didn't care one way or the other.

  "Oh yes, please." She jumped to her feet, her thin, pinched little face suddenly animated and bright. "Will you take me?"

  "Well, all right if you want to come. Suppose I pick you up at seven? We can have dinner at the Stadium."

  "I'll be ready at seven."

  "Fine. Well, so long, Miss Shelley." I moved towards the steps leading to the garden, then paused, "I still have that car of yours. Can I keep it a little longer?"

  "Why, yes." She was looking at me in a way that surprised me. Her eyes were bright, her face flushed and she seemed suddenly as excited as a child going to its first party. "Keep it as long as you like, Mr. Winters."

  "Thanks."

  As I drove slowly down the cliff road, back to Little Eden, I took stock.

  In two days I had cleaned up twenty-four thousand dollars! It seemed unbelievable, but it was a fact. My partnership with Ryan Blakestone would bring me in at least a t
housand a month. What had I to worry about? At last I was getting the breaks. If I handled this setup right, and I intended to handle it right, there was no end to the money I could make.

  I drove over to the Florian restaurant feeling I had a pretty good morning's work behind me.

  chapter five

  The last of the preliminary bouts was on when we left the Stadium restaurant and walked down the dimly lit aisle to our ringside seats.

  I had quickly discovered that taking Vestal Shelley out for the evening was a regal occasion.

  She was wearing a flowing white evening gown with white tulle to hide her skinny shoulders. She was ablaze with diamonds. She had a diamond collar around her throat, diamonds in her hair, diamonds covering the bodice of her dress, and diamonds around her wrists. The effect was pretty overpowering and her every movement sent brilliant flashes to dazzle me.

  We went to the Stadium in a Rolls Royce as big as a battleship. Joe, the chauffeur, was decked out in a cream whipcord uniform, patent leather knee boots, gauntlets and a cream peaked cap with a black cockade in it.

  I felt as if I had been caught up in some Hollywood epic, and when the Stadium manager came down the red carpeted steps to welcome her to her first visit to the Stadium, it was then I thought of the evening as a regal occasion.

  Half way through dinner, the Press arrived, and spent the rest of the meal firing off flashlights at us. It seemed Miss Shelley seldom appeared in public, and her visit to the fights was causing a major sensation.

  We didn't get much chance to talk to each other during dinner, what with Press photographers, columnists and the maître d’hôtel pestering us, and in a way it was a good thing. But I could see she was getting as big a bang out of the outing as I was.

  It's a funny thing, but it didn't occur to me that she was getting her bang out of being in my company. I thought she was getting it, as I was, from the fuss and attention we were receiving. It was only later that I realized it was my company that had made her so animated.

  It was while we were having coffee and brandy that a big, burly, hard-faced guy in a creased grey suit, his black hair close cropped and turning a little grey at the temples, came up to our table.

  He bowed to Vestal, giving her a tight little grin.

  "This must be a record, Miss Shelley. You at the fights!"

  I expected she would give him a cold brush off, but she seemed pretty glad to have him notice her.

  "Mr. Winters persuaded me," she said, looking coyly at me. "After all, we should all try everything once." She touched my sleeve. "This is Lieutenant Sam Leggit of the City police, lieutenant, this is Mr. Winters, the banker."

  That was the first time I had met Leggit and I could see right away he didn't like the look of me anymore than I liked the look of him.

  "Haven't I seen you at the Pacific, Mr. Winters?" he asked, his hard grey eyes probing. Mr. Winters, the banker wasn't cutting any ice with him. He was telling me he knew I was just a clerk who could be kicked by my boss as he could be by his.

  "I wouldn't know," I said indifferently. "We get a lot of traffic through the bank."

  "Yeah, I guess that's right." He looked from me to Vestal and from Vestal back to me. "Glad to know you, Mr. Winters."

  I didn't see why we should both tell a lie so I didn't say anything.

  "I'll have a man watch those diamonds, Miss Shelley," he went on. "This joint's not all it should be. No need for you to worry." He gave her his tight little grin, nodded curtly to me and moved off into the crowd.

  "So you have a cop to look after you," I said lightly.

  "The Lieutenant and I are pretty good friends," she said, like a child who is claiming a general once patted her head. "I used to know him when he was on patrol. He comes to dinner sometimes and tells me about his cases."

  "Must be nice for you," I said sarcastically. "Well, if you want to see the big fight, we'd better get going."

  We got to our seats as the announcer was introducing the main bout of the evening. It was a fifteen round contest between Jack Slade, the middleweight champion and Darky Jones, an almost unknown challenger.

  The two men were in the ring now, and Vestal was feasting her eyes on them.

  I told her Slade was the favourite and asked her if she would like to make a bet.

  "I'll bet on the brown man," she said. "There's something about him that fascinates me. Look at those muscles and those eyes. Of course he's going to win."

  "Not a chance. Slade hasn't been knocked out in twenty fights. He's right on top of his form. Jones has a punch, but he won't get a chance to land it."

  "I'll bet a hundred dollars on the brown man."

  "Okay, but don't say I didn't warn you."

  I pushed past a couple of dozen knees to the aisle and crossed over to where Lefty Johnson was sitting.

  "Evening, Mr. Winters," he said, giving me a leering smile. "I see you're stepping high tonight."

  "A hundred on Jones to win, Lefty. Okay?"

  "Sure. Tired of keeping your dough, Mr. Winters?"

  “Not my bet. I'll have fifty on Slade."

  I just got back to my seat in time for the bell.

  Jones came out of his corner as if he had been fired from a gun. There was a flurry and a brown flash, and he was in Slade's corner before Slade was scarcely off his stool. The whole thing happened so fast, only the ringside customers really saw what happened. The brown man's right fist smashed against Slade's jaw with the impact of a shell. They were right above us, and I saw Slade's eyes go empty and his knees sag.

  Jones brought up a left upper cut. He was a shade too fast, and his fist missed Slade's jaw and smashed against his cheekbone, drawing blood. Slade went down on hands and knees. He stared straight at us, his jaw hanging, his eyes vacant, his senses paralysed.

  I became aware that Vestal was leaning forward, her fingers gripping my wrist, her mouth open. There was so much noise going on I couldn't hear her scream, but I knew she was screaming. Half the crowd were on their feet, yelling their heads off. The Stadium rocked with the sound.

  The referee shoved Jones back, waving him to a neutral corner. But Jones was excited, and the referee had to shout at him to get him to obey his order.

  The delay had given Slade a few valuable seconds. I was watching him. I saw a spark of life come into his eyes. The referee was bending over him, yelling the count at him, his arm rising and falling.

  "A sucker punch!" I shouted in Vestal's ear. "The mug! The goddam mug!"

  I don't think she even knew I had spoken. She was crouched forward, her eyes gleaming, her face a ferocious, hard mask as she watched the seconds tick off.

  Slade was on his feet at the count of nine. As Jones shot across the ring, Slade slid into a clinch, hanging on desperately, smothering the brown arms, while he fought to bring his senses into action again.

  The referee had to tear the two men apart, and in his excitement Jones released a hail of punches instead of stepping back, measuring his man and handing out the one finisher.

  Slade covered up, retreating around the ring, with Jones chasing him.

  The crowd was screaming for the kill, but Jones hadn't the experience to get through with a finisher. The bell went just as Jones had succeeded in manoeuvring his tottering opponent into a corner and was setting himself to let fly another wild barrage of punches.

  "Well, that's that," I said in disgust as the brown man stormed angrily back to his corner. "His jaw's broken. What a mug! To have fallen for a sucker punch with his experience! It'll be over in the next round."

  Vestal was still clutching my wrist.

  "I've never been so excited," she gasped. "This is wonderful! You mean he really has a broken jaw?"

  "Well, look at it. Look at the way it's hanging. Jones has only to hit him there, and it's over."

  Vestal leaned forward, her eyes avid as she stared at Slade who lay back in his corner, his great chest heaving, his jaw hanging loose, his eyes vacant.

  The bell went
and out came Jones, his face a snarling, ferocious mask.

  Slade had both hands up to protect his broken jaw, and as Jones rushed at him, Slade's left stabbed out and caught Jones in the face, sending him reeling back.

  Slade shuffled forward. His right and left moved with piston like precision, driving Jones before him.

  Vestal was yelling again, and she wasn't the only one.

  Jones's seconds were bawling for him to finish it, but he was getting flurried. Every time he set himself to bring over a haymaker, Slade's left stabbed out and threw him off balance. Slade kept that up until the dying seconds of the round, then Jones managed to catch him with a vicious left hook to the side of his face. His expression of agony had Vestal screaming like a mad thing for Jones to go in and finish him.

  Slade went down on one knee. He looked like a wounded and dangerous lion as he snarled up at the brown fighter who stepped away from him.

  Blood ran down his face from a cut eye; blood ran out of his mouth.

  The bell stopped the count, and Slade's seconds poured into the ring to half carry him back to his corner.

  "Oh, this is something!" Vestal said, her chest heaving. "I didn't imagine a fight would be like this! Oh, Chad, I'm so glad I came with you!"

  Oh, Chad!

  It had slipped out, but the spectacle of two thugs bashing each ether's brains out hadn't deadened me enough so I didn't hear what she had said.

  The third round was the last. Jones's seconds had finally got their instructions hammered into the brown man's skull: don't rush, pick your punch and nail him.

  The end came in the second minute of the round: a hard left hook, followed by a right cross. Both punches exploded on Slade's shattered jaw. He gave a blood-chilling little grunt as he went down on hands and knees, his face ghastly with agony.

  He tried to drag himself off the canvas, but the effort proved too much for him. He rolled over on his back, still conscious, but finished.

  Vestal had jumped to her feet. I had to pull her back or she would have got to the apron of the ring.

  "Take it easy," I shouted to her.

  She struggled to get away from me, her face turned to the ring, but I held her. She wasn't the only one who was behaving like a sadistic lunatic. The noise was enough to break your eardrums.