The Bruiser by Jim Tully Page B

fight Barney McCoy,” he said to Connors.
    The shriveled little promoter looked at Shane. “Just why McCoy?”
    â€œWell, we’d draw some money— I licked him once, and he licked me, and it’s not too far from Omaha.”
    â€œAre them the only reasons?”
    â€œNo—he put the double-o on me.”
    â€œHe’s goin’ like a house afire now, you know,” said the manager shrewdly.
    â€œAll right—all I want’s expenses if I don’t lick him—his manager’ll think I’m a cinch now—and you can slip the word along I’m a set-up— Look here—” Shane handed a package of newspaper clippings to Connors.
    â€œThat’s all right—I know you’re a fighter,” said Connors.
    â€œThanks—you don’t know nothin’ if you ain’t seen me go. I carried that guy like a sap. My second kept sayin’ that he was edgin’ up on me—and I went clear screwy when the referee raises his hand—believe me, from now on I wouldn’t even trust Jesus on a white horse.”
    â€œHow long you been fightin’?” asked Connors.
    â€œOh, I don’t know—three years maybe.”
    â€œI used to battle some myself.”
    â€œI know that—and you were good—you licked Willy Forbes, didn’t you?”
    â€œYeap—got him in four—a good man, Willy.”
    â€œHe musta been—got killed later, didn’t he?”
    â€œYeap—One Round Riley got him—it was bad luck—canvas wasn’t padded where he went down. He died from concussion of the brain.”
    â€œGee,” from Shane.
    â€œThe racket ain’t what it used to be,” the one-time bantamweight commented.
    â€œNo, I guess not,” returned Shane, “But do I get this fight— I’m right here, you know—you don’t have to bring a guy in—you can tell the papers you sent for me from Chicago—you know—smoke it up—a grudge fight—then sneak it over to McCoy’s gang I’m all through—you know how—”
    The wrinkled promoter chuckled.
    â€œYou’re tellin’ me how—why, I was throwin’ leather before you could crawl.”
    â€œI know that, and you were good, I know, but I can fight some. I wanta square things up with Buck Logan.”
    â€œHe’s dead,” said Connors.
    â€œNot for me he ain’t dead—he’s just as alive as I am.” Shane patted his heart. “I can feel his eyes on me—‘You get McCoy’—and Buck Logan’s ghost can strangle me if I don’t win.”
    â€œAll right.” The weazened promoter looked Shane up and down, “I’m goin’ to put you on with McCoy-Pioneer Day’s a month off— I’ll fix you up—leave it to me—you might even get a grand out of it—but you know—McCoy’s better than he was—he beat Slippery Markowitz.”
    â€œSo’d I—”
    â€œAll right, Buddy—I’ll take you over to the Good Luck Restaurant so you kin scoff.”
    â€œThat suits me.”
    Shane kept pace with Connors, who said, “There’s a little dame over there. She’s kinda sweet on me”—he looked at Shane’s physique— “She’s nuts about fighters, and she may go for you—but that’s okey. I play the field—they’re doin’ me a favor when they don’t marry me. I wouldn’t hold her if I was big as John L. Sullivan.”
    â€œWhat’s her name?”
    â€œInterested, huh,” Connors grimaced crookedly. “It’s a funny name—Dilly Dally—last name’s real, so her mother called her Dilly.”
    â€œKind of cute.” Shane stepped faster.
    â€œWait’ll you see her.” Connors kept pace. “Tell her you’ve been in Hollywood. She’ll go for that—she’s crazy to get in the