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
24
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 bigger 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
ideas about getting to Miami in a car with money in my pocket this wouldn’t have happened.
Suppose I double-crossed Petelli? What chance had I of avoiding a bullet? Petelli wasn’t
bluffing. He couldn’t afford to let me double-cross him and get away with it. If he did, his
grip on the other fighters would be weakened, and, besides, he wasn’t the type to allow
himself to be gypped out of forty thousand dollars without settling the score.
I was hooked, and I knew it, and I cursed myself. I lay on the bed in the half light and
sweated it out, and the hands of the clock crawled on and on. I couldn’t make up my mind
what I was going to do. I was still at it when Roche put his head around my door.
“Seven-thirty, Johnny; time to be up and doing. Are you okay?”
26
I got off the bed. “I guess so. Will I get a taxi?”
“I’ll drive you there myself. I’m just going to have a wash. I’ll be ready in five minutes.”
“Fine.”
I splashed water on my face, combed my hair and then put on the clothes Brant had
brought. They fitted me all right, but I didn’t get a kick out of them. If my own clothes hadn’t
been so shabby I wouldn’t have worn this outfit. A tap came on the door, and Alice looked in.
“Why, Johnny, how smart you look.”
“I guess that’s right.”
I wondered what she would have said if she knew the price I was paying for this rig-out.
“Tom’s getting the car. Good luck, Johnny.”
“Thanks. I’m glad you won’t be there.”
“Tom wanted me to go, but I don’t like fights. I’ll have my fingers crossed for you.”
“You do that. Well, so long. Thanks for all you’ve done.”
“But you’ll be coming back, won’t you?”
Would I? I wished I knew.
“Why, sure, but thanks all the same.”
“Put this in your pocket. It’s brought me luck, and I want it to bring you luck, too.”
I looked at the sliver medallion she placed in my hand. It showed the head of some saint,
and I looked at her, surprised.
“Thanks, Alice, but maybe I’d better not have it. I might lose it.”
“Put it in your pocket and forget about it. It’ll bring you luck.”
And that’s what I did. I put it in my pocket and forgot about it. As I ran down the steps to
the street, Petelli’s big Cadillac pulled up. Benno was at the wheel, and Brant was sitting at
the back.
“Thought we’d pick you up,” Brant said, leaning out of the window. “Feeling okay?”
27
“Yeah. I’m driving up in Roche’s car.”
“You’re driving up in this one,” Pepi snarled, coming up behind me. “We’re not losing
sight of you until the fight’s over.”
Roche hadn’t appeared. There was no point in making trouble.
“Tell Tom I’ve gone with the boys,” I called to Alice, who was watching from the cafe
door.
I got in beside Brant. We drove rapidly through the deserted streets. Practically the whole
of Pelotta’s population had turned out for the fight. As we neared the blazing lights of the
stadium, Pepi said without looking round, “The third, Farrar, or it’s curtains.”
“Save your breath,” I said. “I heard it the first time.”
We drove up the broad concrete drive-in. It was already packed with cars, but Benno
weaved his way through without reducing speed.
Brant said in an undertone, “As soon as it’s over I’ll have the dough for you in cash. The
car’s parked at the back. It’s full of petrol and rearing to go. Okay?”