The Bruiser by Jim Tully

round, huh—good work—I’ll bet that Gill carried his man—he’s a fox—lot of brains. Well, you oughta stay here a while. I’ll smoke you up for some good matches.”
    â€œAnother fellow wanted me to see you.”
    â€œWho’s that?”
    â€œJoe Mankerlitz—Phoenix.”
    â€œOh yeah—he did write me about you—that’s been some time ago—a good fellow, Joe—shady as a woods—but a honey if he’s on your side.”
    Buck Logan had an immense head, large ears, square teeth, and bulging eyes. His body, once muscular, was now flabby. His delicate hands belied the rest of his body. His short fingers tapered. He wore thick glasses, against which his eyelashes rubbed. A wrinkle of neck fell over his collar.
    Around sixty, his hair was thick gray.
    He peered at Shane.
    â€œWhat do you weigh—about 165—you’ll fill out yet—you’ve got the frame for a heavyweight. Come up and see me any time. Where you staying? Better go to the Avon—nice quiet place—I’ll get you set there-twelve a week. It pays to look flush. If people think you’re in the money they give you more—unless you’re a newspaperman—then all hell won’t give you any money.”
    Through Logan’s influence he was matched with Barney McCoy at a “smoker” given by the Elks Lodge.
    He won the decision. The verdict helped make him a “card” in Omaha.
    A match with Blinky Miller in Council Bluffs followed.
    â€œHe’s supposed to be Eddie Turner from Chicago—but he’s a ringer,” Buck Logan explained. “You can take him. I’ll use it after you lick him—it’s a better story.”
    A “ringer” was a successful pugilist who used an assumed name and wagered money on himself against a less able bruiser.
    After he knocked Miller out, Shane went to his dressing-room.
    â€œYou can hit, my boy,” said Miller, rubbing his jaw, “You surprised me— I’m clean as a whistle—bet my whole end of the purse.”
    â€œHere’s a hundred,” said Shane.
    The defeated fighter took the money. “Thanks, Pal, I’ll remember this—I’m Blinky Miller.”
    â€œSure,” smiled Shane, “I was on from the first.”
    By a quirk of compassion, Buck Logan did not use the story. A rival paper told of Miller’s identity.
    Miller called on Buck.
    â€œThanks, Buck—you’re real people. You can’t blame me for losin’ to that boy. I knew the first round I was up against it. He cracked me on the jaw so hard it was like someone run a sword in my ear. It was lucky I lasted as long as I did. I bet everything I had on myself.”
    â€œThat’s tough,” said Logan, “Can I help?”
    â€œNo—the kid comes to my dressin’ room and kicks in a hundred.”
    â€œWho—Rory?” exclaimed Logan.
    â€œSure—it come near knockin’ me out agin—those things ain’t done this year.”
    Buck wiped his heavy glasses. “Well I’ll be damned.” His eyes roved the clutter of the room. “He’s a dead right kid—got all the right instincts.”
    â€œHe can fight like hell too—” Blinky Miller added.
    â€œYeah—the poor devil—I hope he don’t go the way all you guys go—it’s like Spider Smith used to say—”
    Shane greeted Logan. “Here’s your enemy,” the writer said.
    â€œHello,” he shook Miller’s hand.
    â€œBlinky just told me a nice thing you did.”
    â€œWho—me?” Shane stammered.
    â€œYes, it was a damn nice thing,” said Miller.
    Shane frowned at him for silence.
    Sensing the situation, Logan cut in, “You remember Spider Smith—don’t you, Blinky?”
    â€œSure thing,” answered Miller.
    â€œI wonder whatever became of him?”
    â€œGod