Bluff City Brawler (Fight Card)

  From where I stood, with the door half open, I could hear the front door of the gym squeaking open and a pair of shoe heels clicking on the lino.

  “Hey,” one of them called. “Where’s the guy called Big Earl?”

  Someone answered, I couldn’t tell who without peeking in the door, which I wasn’t about to do. The shoe heels clicked some more, coming closer, and the voice said, “Big Earl. The guy that runs this joint. Where is he?”

  It sounded like Al, the smaller, older brother. I was about to ease the door closed and get the hell out of there when it occurred to me I was only hearing one pair of heels on the lino.

  The moment that realization came to me, I heard someone clearing his throat at the mouth of the alley.

  And there was Titus, grinning at me, arms folded across his wide chest.

  “Hi, Riley,” he said. “Long time no see.”

  BLUFF CITY BRAWLER

  A FIGHT CARD STORY

  JACK TUNNEY

  FIGHT CARD: BLUFF CITY BRAWLER

  e-Book edition © 2011 Heath Lowrance

  Cover: Keith Birdsong

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part

  by any means without permission.

  ROUND 1

  Detroit, Michigan

  April 1953

  Titus “the Greek” Stavros had that look in his eyes, that nasty-crazy gleam that everyone always talked about. I’d been waiting for it. It meant I was in control of this fight now. I had him where I needed him to be.

  Over in his corner, he glared at me while his manager hissed words in his ear and wiped sweat away from his brow. In my corner, I smiled at him. Hugh tapped me on the jaw and I turned to let him squirt some water down my throat, but I didn’t take my eyes off Titus, didn’t stop smiling at him. I spat in the bucket Hugh held up for me, and the gleam in Titus’ eyes got crazier.

  Man, I had him. He was mad now, and that meant he’d get sloppy.

  I’ll admit it, I was a little intoxicated with sensory overload. The noise of the crowd, the smell of sweat and cigar smoke drifting into the ring from the stands, the haze of faces out there. The crowd had been riled up since halfway through the second round, when I sidestepped one of Titus’ nasty swings and nailed him in the eye with a left. No one saw that coming. And no one expected me—ten pounds lighter than Titus and with less reach—to press my advantage and hammer him into the ropes until the bell rang.

  “Tom,” Hugh was saying. “Tom, damnit, pay attention!”

  I tore my gaze away from Titus, turned the smile on Hugh. “Something?”

  “Yeah, something, smart guy. Don’t get cocky. You’ve had him going in circles for three rounds now and you’ve made him mad. Good for you. But watch out for that right hook a’ his, Tom. Tom!” He slapped me lightly on the forehead to get my wandering attention.

  “Yeah, right hook,” I said.

  “He manages to land one of those on your jaw, it don’t matter how sloppy he is. You go down and this is over. You hear me?”

  I nodded, turned my smile back toward Titus, but my opponent had already focused elsewhere, listening intently to his manager.

  The third round, I’d played him on a string, bouncing around, dodging his punches, getting in some light taps here and there. I kept him moving. The crowd at the Detroit Athletic Club was going nuts over it, and some of them were even laughing at Titus by then.

  Yeah, that made him mad, hence that crazy gleam I’d been waiting for.

  The crowd—yelling, cursing, booing—had more at stake on this fight than I did. Sure, if I won it would be a two hundred dollar purse. But if I lost, I’d still walk away with fifty bucks, and I’m the sort of guy who can make that kind of money last until my next fight. I ain’t ambitious.

  But I wanted to win this one. I wanted to see Titus go down. The two of us had never fought before, but we had a history. There were stories about Titus, stories that he did work on the side for the Jewish mob as an enforcer or strong-arm or something. I didn’t know much about that, but I knew he’d won most of his bouts with the Detroit Amateur Middleweight Club for the better part of a year, was one of those fighters who gloats over every win, bad-mouths, preens around like Gorgeous George. And I hated that stuff.

  The bell rang for the fourth round and even though I was ready for it Titus popped up before I did. We met in the middle of the ring, and he didn’t waste any time. Neither did I.

  To the approving roar of the spectators, Titus came in with his defenses only halfway up, jabbed with his right. I weaved away from it, and he followed with a swinging left that skittered over my ribs before I bounced away. He followed, jabbing again, and I danced around him, looking for an opening, keeping my hands up.

  It was what I’d done in the last round that made him so mad. I figured I’d do it again for a few more seconds, let him think it was going the same way. And then, once he was good and hot, I’d throw a few power punches.

  That was the plan, anyway.

  Just as I was getting ready to go on the offensive, Titus moved in tight and I found myself pushed back against the ropes. He laid on a few punches to my torso, pretty solid ones that knocked some wind out of me. For a split second, I couldn’t think, and then he had me in a clinch, his back to the ref.

  Before the ref could break us up, Titus head-butted me on the bridge of my nose.

  Pain blinded me with a veil of red. Bombs went off in my skull.

  The ref didn’t see it, but the crowd went insane, screaming and taunting and calling Titus every dirty name you could think of. The ref pulled us apart, and Titus took a step back. My ears were ringing and spots played around my vision. Everything had gone blurry at the edges.

  And then he was on me again. All I could see were those crazy, gleaming eyes of his. Before I could move, he laid that right hook on me.

  I happened to be stepping back when he did it, so I was spared the full power of the hook. But it was still enough to make stars twinkle. His glove flirted across my chin, snapping my head to the left. I stumbled toward the ropes and Titus followed with a left jab into my ribs.

  I’ll admit I’m not the smartest guy around, but I had enough brains to realize Hugh was right. I’d gotten over-confident. He’d always said it was my biggest failing as a fighter—I didn’t take it seriously enough, that I maybe thought a little too highly of myself.

  Father Tim used to say the same thing, when I was a kid growing up in St. Vincent’s Asylum for Boys, back in Chi-town. “You could really be something,” he used to say, “if you stop being such a wise-guy.”

  Guilty.

  Titus pushed me back against the ropes again, and I had enough sense to keep my gloves up so his punches to my face didn’t connect. When he couldn’t break through up top, he started pounding my torso, keeping me from breathing. I managed to get one punch in, a weak one to his temple, but he took advantage of me dropping my guard and nailed me solid on the jaw.

  I was reeling. All the confidence I’d felt only seconds earlier was gone now. I could barely think.

  Where’s the bell? Ain’t this round over yet?

  “You could be something…”

  Father Tim was wrong. I’d always be a punk. A palooka.

  Out of sheer desperation, I clinched with Titus, forcing him back, got a couple jabs in against his ribs. The ref pulled us apart and the noise of the crowd was nothing but a dull roar in my ears now, a low hum underneath the hammering of blood in my brain. I tried to bounce to the right, away from the r
opes, away from Titus, but he cut me off, moving fast as a train. The crazy gleam was still there in his eyes, but the smile on his face was anything but out-of-control.

  I shot out a right that nailed him in the mouth, but he hardly seemed to notice it. He moved in again and I was forced back with my gloves up.

  I saw his shoes shift on the canvas, saw his hip twist, and I knew what was coming, had seen him do this combo before. And there wasn’t a thing I could do about it.

  His left darted out, broke right through my gloves, caught me flush in the left eye, and then… that right hook again.

  This time it was spot-on, right against my left temple. The world exploded red and black and I knew I was done. I staggered back, my gloves dropping, and even though he must’ve known he had me, Titus couldn’t resist adding insult to injury—he popped me again in the mouth.

  I went down.

  From the canvas, he was a vast looming shadow over me, lights haloing his head. From underwater, I heard the ref saying, “Six… seven… eight…” and I wondered vaguely what had happened to one through five, how had I missed that?

  Ten count and the bell rang and there was Hugh pulling me up off my back and the crowd going nuts again, but it was all a haze.

  “Come on, Tom,” Hugh said. “Let’s blow.”

  ROUND 2

  In the locker room, Hugh bandaged my nose, muttered something about me being lucky it wasn’t broken. He gave me a powder for the pain and a glass of water, rubbed me down with liniment oil. The whole time his face was tight and drawn and I told myself I was happy he wasn’t talking much but that wasn’t true. His silence was getting to me.

  That long walk back to the locker room, through the taunting crowd, avoiding thrown beer cups and hot dog wrappers, was no picnic. But I consoled myself with the reminder that at least I was walking back under my own power, not being carried off on a gurney. And I didn’t care much what they thought anyway. Hugh, though, was a different story. I didn’t like it when he blew me off. Truth was, Hugh was about my only real friend in the world.

  Maybe it was because I never knew my real pop, but my affection for Hugh was the affection of a son for his father. He was a scruffy little fella, somewhere in his mid-fifties, with wild red hair so crazy you could mistake him for Einstein’s less savvy brother. He’d never been a fighter himself, but knew the sweet science better than anyone walking. He’d been on the periphery of it in Detroit for over thirty years. He knew Joe Louis, claimed he actually helped the Brown Bomber train a few times. That was probably a bull story, but I chose to believe it.

  So Hugh blowing me off bugged me.

  Finally, pulling my tee-shirt over my head, I said, “You gonna give me the cold shoulder the rest of the night, Hugh? I thought you were supposed to be, you know, supportive and all that.”

  He shook his head, sitting down on the bench and sticking a cheap cigar in his mouth. He struck a match, took his time about getting the stogie going, and then looked at me through a thick blue haze of smoke. “I would talk to you, Tom,” he said. “Only you wouldn’t listen. You never listen. That’s your problem.”

  “I listen to everything you say.”

  “Like hell. I told you not to get over-confident out there tonight. If you’d done what I said, you could’a won this one. But no, you had to get—“

  “Okay, okay.” I put on a dress shirt, not looking at him. “I’m already sorry I asked.”

  He sighed, puffed on the nasty cigar a few times. I buttoned the shirt and we shared a long uncomfortable silence. I draped my tie around my neck and glanced at him. He was looking at me with a strange, distant look, and I couldn’t take it anymore.

  “Fine,” I said. “You’re right. I did get cocky out there, but honestly, it wasn’t my fault. He head-butted me. And the ref didn’t see it.”

  “I saw it. But damnit, Tom, you walked right into that clinch. If you hadn’t done that, he never would’a been able to head-butt you.”

  I’d been tying my tie, but my hands were too swollen and I couldn’t get it right. I let them drop to my sides. Hugh was right, as usual. I could stand losing a fight—after all, I’d lost as many as I’d won—but it stung that I’d lost to Titus, and it stung that I’d let Hugh down.

  He stood up, came over to put a hand on my shoulder. “So okay,” he said. “Maybe the lesson’s learned now? Maybe you’ll try to rein in that cockiness a little in the ring? I’m telling you, Tom, you could really be something if you’d only get your head straight.”

  From the open door of the locker room, a smooth voice said, “It’d take one helluva head-shrinker to get that boy’s head straight.”

  Titus Stavros stood there in the doorway, grinning. He was only an inch taller than me at six-one, and well-dressed in a tailored suit and tie. His blond hair was slicked back and you would never guess looking at him that he’d been in the ring only twenty minutes earlier. Yeah, he had the build for it, the muscle and the reach, but he carried himself like one of those business types downtown. He had that classic Greek face, too, thick dark eyebrows and a long thin nose that I had somehow managed to not mar at all earlier.

  “Titus,” I said.

  My voice wasn’t what you’d call friendly, but the Greek didn’t seem to notice or care. He just stood there grinning his irritating grin. He had three of his buddies with him, all hanging back in the hall and all dressed up like they were getting ready for a night on the town. One of them looked an awful lot like Titus—blond hair, thick eyebrows, bronze skin. He was thinner, though, and maybe ten years older.

  Titus said, “Just wanted to stop in and see how you were holding up, Riley. You know, see if that pug Irish nose of yours wasn’t too out of shape.”

  I touched the bandage on my nose, said, “Gee, pal, thanks. It’s fine.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, it sure looks that way.”

  “Well, you know, considering that it had someone’s forehead smash into it when the ref wasn’t looking, it could be worse.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, you gotta watch those foreheads, coming out of nowhere. They can turn a fight right around, can’t they?”

  “What do you want, Stavros?”

  The older, thinner version of Titus said, “He told you, you dim Mick. Titus, he’s an old softie. Wanted to make sure you were okay. Extend the hand of friendship and all that.”

  I narrowed my eyes at the guy, but spoke to Titus. “Who’s your friend with the death wish, Stavros?”

  Titus said, “Excuse me, Riley. I haven’t introduced you to my brother. Alkandros, meet Tom Riley. Riley, this is my brother Alkandros.”

  “My friends call me Al. You can call me Alkandros.”

  I took a step toward him. “I’m gonna call you an ambulance if you don’t shut your slimy mouth.”

  Hugh, who’d been watching this all with a wary eye, stepped in front of me, his hand on my chest. “Calm down, Tom. Ain’t worth it.”

  I said, “I’m gonna knock this guy’s teeth down his throat.”

  The two Stavros boys laughed, and the two behind them joined in. Titus said, “You’d have to go through me first, Riley. You sure you’re up for being made a fool of twice in one night?”

  I started toward him again, but Hugh said, “Tom! No. You get in a fight in the locker room, they’ll revoke your fight privileges. I’m telling you, he ain’t worth it.”

  Titus said, “Listen to the old man, Riley. Be smart for a change.”

  Alkandros said, “I swear, I don’t know why they let micks in the ring, anyway. They should set them up with dog fights instead.”

  Anger burned in my gut, but I clenched my fists and gritted my teeth. I said, “Get out of here,” and my voice was choked and barely in control.

  Titus nodded. “Just leaving, Riley. Heading out for a steak dinner and a couple beers with my brother and my best friends. I’d say I earned it. What are you doing tonight? Going home for a glass of Ovaltine, maybe?”

  Hugh said, “Stavros. Get out of here bef
ore I bring management in.”

  “Will do,” Titus said. “Take care of your boy there, Hugh. One of these days he’s going to get himself hurt playing with his betters.”

  Laughing, the Stavros boys and their friends left.

  I stood there fuming for a while, fists clenched. Hugh gave me a minute to calm down before saying, “Let it roll off you, kid. You’d get yourself in a world of trouble.”

  “I ain’t afraid of Titus.”

  “Of course not. But it ain’t Titus I’d be worried about. You’ve heard who he’s connected with, yeah? The boy does dirty work for Abe Kardinsky.”

  I looked at him. “I’d heard something. Didn’t know if there was any truth to it.”

  “Plenty of truth, sad to say. You ever touch Titus Stavros out of the ring, you’d have bigger problems to deal with. Mob-type problems.”

  I sighed. “Fine.”

  Hugh huffed through his nose, which was what he usually did before showing any signs of softness or sympathy. He clapped a hand on my shoulder, said, “Go on home, Tom. Get some sleep and take a couple days off. I’ll see you at the gym on Wednesday, okay?”

  ROUND 3

  I walked down to Grand Circus and caught the bus up Woodward to my apartment on Alfred Street. A good night’s sleep was what Hugh had said, but I was too wound up. And the bar next to my building was still open. I was never a big drinker, really—too much time devoted to training and self-discipline, and by the time I’d hit legal drinking age I’d pretty much lost my taste for the high life.

  But I had a couple days before I had to get back to the program. Why not have a couple of beers?

  It was a cool, dark joint, only a handful of men and a couple of hard-looking broads lined up at the bar. The raw yeasty smell of old beer hung as thick in the air as the stale cig smoke. A juke in the corner played that song by Jo Stafford, “You Belong to Me”.