STEEL
The two men came out of the station rolling a covered object. They rolled it along the platform until they reached the middle of the train, then grunted as they lifted it up the steps, the sweat running down their bodies. One of its wheels fell off and bounced down the metal steps and a man coming up behind them picked it up and handed it to the man who was wearing a rumpled brown suit.
“Thanks,” said the man in the brown suit and he put the wheel in his side coat pocket.
Inside the car, the men pushed the covered object down the aisle. With one of its wheels off, it was lopsided and the man in the brown suit—his name was Kelly—had to keep his shoulder braced against it to keep it from toppling over. He breathed heavily and licked away tiny balls of sweat that kept forming over his upper lip.
When they reached the middle of the car, the man in the wrinkled blue suit pushed forward one of the seat backs so there were four seats, two facing two. Then the two men pushed the covered object between the seats and Kelly reached through a slit in the covering and felt around until he found the right button.
The covered object sat down heavily on a seat by the window.
“Oh, God, listen tom squeak,” said Kelly.
The other man, Pole, shrugged and sat down with a sigh.
“What dya expect?” he asked.
Kelly was pulling off his suit coat. He dropped it down on the opposite seat and sat down beside the covered object.
“Well, well get im some o that stuff soons were paid off,” he said, worriedly.
“If we can find some,” said Pole who was almost as thin as one. He sat slumped back against the hot seat watching Kelly mop at his sweaty cheeks.
“Why shouldnt we?” asked Kelly, pushing the damp handkerchief down under his shirt collar.
“Because they dont make it no more,” Pole said with the false patience of a man who has had to say the same thing too many times.
“Well, thats crazy,” said Kelly. He pulled off his hat and patted at the bald spot in the center of his rust-colored hair. “Theres still plenty B-twos in the business.”
“Not many,” said Pole, bracing one foot upon the covered object.
“Dont,” said Kelly.
Pole let his foot drop heavily and a curse fell slowly from his lips, Kelly ran the handkerchief around the lining of his hat. He started to put the hat on again, then changed his mind and dropped it on top of his coat.
“Christ, its hot,” he said.
“Itll get hotter,” said Pole.
Across the aisle a man put his suitcase up on the rack, took off his suit coat and sat down, puffing. Kelly looked at him, then turned back.
“Ya think itll be hotter in Maynard, huh?” he asked.
Pole nodded. Kelly swallowed dryly.
“Wish we could have another o them beers,” he said.
Pole stared out the window at the heat waves rising from the concrete platform.
“I had three beers,” said Kelly, “and Im just as thirsty as I was when I started.”
“Yeah,” said Pole.
“Might as wellve not had a beer since Philly,” said Kelly.
Pole said, “Yeah.”
Kelly sat there staring at Pole a moment. Pole had dark hair and white skin and his hands were the hands of a man who should be bigger than Pole was. But the hands were as clever as they were big. Poles one o the best, Kelly thought, one o the best.
“Ya think hell be all right?” he asked.
Pole grunted and smiled for an instant without being amused.
“If he dont get hit,” he said.
“No, no, I mean it,” said Kelly.
Poles dark, lifeless eyes left the station and shifted over to Kelly.
“So do I,” he said.
“Come on,” Kelly said.
“Steel,” said Pole, “ya know just as well as me. Hes shot thell.”
“That aint true,” said Kelly, shifting uncomfortably. “All he needs is a little work. A little overhaul n hell be good as new.”
“Yeah, a little three-four grand overhaul,” Pole said, “with parts they dont make no more.” He looked out the window again.
“Oh … it aint as bad as that,” said Kelly. “Jesus, the way you talk youd think he was ready for scrap.”
“Aint he?” Pole asked.
“No,” said Kelly angrily, “he aint.”
Pole shrugged and his long white fingers rose and fell in his lap.
“Just cause hes a little old,” said Kelly.
“Old.” Pole grunted. “Ancient.”
“Oh…” Kelly took a deep breath of the hot air in the car and blew it out through his broad nose. He looked at the covered object like a father who was angry with his sons faults but angrier with those who mentioned the faults of his son.
“Plenty o fight left in him,” he said.
Pole watched the people walking on the platform. He watched a porter pushing a wagon full of piled suitcases.
“Well … is he okay?” Kelly asked finally as if he hated to ask.
Pole looked over at him.
“I dunno, Steel,” he said. “He needs work. Ya know that. The trigger spring in his left arms been rewired so many damn times its almost shot. Hes got no protection on that side. The left side of his faces all beat in, the eye lens is cracked. The leg cables is worn, theyre pulled slack, the tensions gone to hell. Christ, even his gyros off.”
Pole looked out at the platform again with a disgusted hiss.
“Not to mention the oil paste he aint got in im,” he said.
“Well get im some,” Kelly said.
“Yeah, after the fight, after the fight!” Pole snapped. “What about before the fight? Hell be creakin around that ring like a goddamn—steam shovel. Itll be a miracle if he goes two rounds. Theyll probly ride us outta town on a rail.”
Kelly swallowed. “I dont think its that bad,” he said.
“The hell it aint, said Pole. “Its worse. Waitll that crowd gets a load of ‘Battling Maxo from Philadelphia. Oh—Christ, theyll blow a nut. Well be lucky if we get our five hundred bucks.”
“Well, the contracts signed,” said Kelly firmly. “They cant back out now. I got a copy right in the old pocket.” He leaned over and patted at his coat.
“That contracts for Battling Maxo,” said Pole. “Not for this—steam shovel here.”
“Maxos gonna do all right,” said Kelly as if he was trying hard to believe it. “Hes not as bad off as you say.”
“Against a B-seven?” Pole asked.
“Its just a starter B-seven,” said Kelly. “It aint got the kinks out yet.”
Pole turned away.
“Battling Maxo,” he said. “One-round Maxo. The battling steam shovel.”
“Aw, shut the hell up!” Kelly snapped suddenly, getting redder. “Youre always knockin im down. Well, hes been doin okay for twelve years now and hell keep on doin okay. So he needs some oil paste. And he needs a little work. So what? With five hundred bucks we can get him all the paste he needs. And a new trigger spring for his arm and—and new leg cables! And everything. Chris-sake.”
He fell back against the seat, chest shuddering with breath and rubbed at his cheeks with his wet handkerchief. He looked aside at Maxo. Abruptly, he reached over a hand and patted Maxos covered knee clumsily and the steel clanked hollowly under his touch.
“Youre doin all right,” said Kelly to his fighter.
* * *
The train was moving across a sun-baked prairie. All the windows were open but the wind that blew in was like blasts from an oven.
Kelly sat reading his paper, his shirt sticking wetly to his broad chest. Pole had taken his coat off too and was staring morosely out the window at the grass-tufted prairie that went as far as he could see. Maxo sat under his covering, his heavy steel frame rocking a little with the motion of the train.
Kelly put down his paper.
“Not even a word,” he said.
“What dya expect?” Pole asked. “They dont cover Maynard.”
“Maxo aint just some clunk from Maynard,” said Kelly. “He was big time. Yad think theyd”—he shrugged—“remember him.”
“Why? For a coupla prelims in the Garden three years ago?” Pole asked.
“It wasnt no three years, buddy,” said Kelly.
“It was in 1994,” said Pole, “and now its 1997. Thats three years where I come from.”
“It was late 94,” said Kelly. “Right before Christmas. Dont ya remember? Just before—Marge and me…”
Kelly didnt finish. He stared down at the paper as if Marges picture were on it—the way she looked the day she left him.
“Whats the difference?” Pole asked. “They dont remember them for Chrissake. With a coupla thousand o the damn things floatin around? How could they remember em? About the only ones who get space are the champeens and the new models.”
Pole looked at Maxo. “I hear Mawlings puttin out a B-nine this year,” he said.
Kelly refocused his eyes. “Yeah?” he said uninterestedly.
“Hyper-triggers in both arms—and legs. All steeled aluminum. Triple gyro. Triple-twisted wiring. God, theyll be beautiful.”
Kelly put down the paper.
“Think theyd remember him,” he muttered. “It wasnt so long ago.”
His face relaxed in a smile of recollection.
“Boy, will I ever forget that night?” he said. “No one gives us a tumble. It was all Dimsy the Rock, Dimsy the Rock. Three tone for Dimsy the Rock. Dimsy the Rock—fourth rankin light heavy. On his way tthe top.”
He chuckled deep in his chest. “And did we ever put him away,” he said. “Oooh.” He grunted with savage pleasure. “I can see that left cross now. Bang! Right in the chops. And old Dimsy the Rock hittin the canvas like a—like a rock, yeah, just like a rock!”
He laughed happily. “Boy, what a night, what a night,” he said. “Will I ever forget that night?”
Pole looked at Kelly with a somber face. Then he turned away and stared at the dusty sun-baked plain again.
“I wonder,” he muttered.
Kelly saw the man across the aisle looking again at the covered Maxo. He caught the mans eye and smiled, then gestured with his head toward Maxo.
“Thats my fighter,” he said, loudly.
The man smiled politely, cupping a hand behind one ear.
“My fighter,” said Kelly. “Battling Maxo. Ever hear of im?”
The man stared at Kelly a moment before shaking his head.
Kelly smiled. “Yeah, he was almost light heavyweight champ once,” he told the man. The man nodded politely.
On an impulse, Kelly got up and stepped across the aisle. He reversed the seatback in front of the man and sat down facing him.
“Pretty damn hot,” he said.
The man smiled. “Yes. Yes it is,” he said.
“No new trains out here yet, huh?”
“No,” said the man. “Not yet.”
“Got all the new ones back in Philly,” said Kelly. “Thats where”—he gestured with his head—“my friend n I come from. And Maxo.”
Kelly stuck out his hand.
“The names Kelly,” he said. “Tim Kelly.”
The man looked surprised. His grip was loose.
“Maxwell,” he said.
When he drew back his hand he rubbed it unobtrusively on his pants leg.
“I used tbe called ‘Steel Kelly,” said Kelly. “Used tbe in the business mself. Before the war o course. I was a light heavy.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Thats right. Called me ‘Steel cause I never got knocked down once. Not once. I was even number nine in the ranks once. Yeah.”
“I see.” The man waited patiently.
“My fighter,” said Kelly, gesturing toward Maxo with his head again. “Hes a light heavy too. Were fightin in Maynard tnight. You goin that far?”
“Uh—no,” said the man. “No, Im—getting off at Hayes.”
“Oh.” Kelly nodded. “Too bad. Gonna be a good scrap.” He let out a heavy breath. “Yeah, he was—fourth in the ranks once. Hell be back too. He—uh—knocked down Dimsy the Rock in late 94. Maybe ya read about that.”
“I dont believe…”
“Oh. Uh-huh.” Kelly nodded. “Well … it was in all the East Coast papers. You know. New York, Boston, Philly. Yeah it—got a hell of a spread. Biggest upset o the year.”
He scratched at his bald spot.
“Hes a B-two yknow but—that means hes the second model Mawling put out,” he explained, seeing the look on the mans face. “That was back in—lets see—90, I think it was. Yeah, 90.”
He made a smacking sound with his lips. “Yeah, that was a good model,” he said. “The best. Maxos still goin strong.” He shrugged depreciatingly. “I dont go for these new ones,” he said. “You know. The ones made o steeled aluminum with all the doo-dads.”
The man stared at Kelly blankly.
“Too— … flashy—flimsy. Nothin…” Kelly bunched his big fist in front of his chest and made a face. “Nothin solid,” he said. “No. Mawling dont make em like Maxo no more.”
“I see,” said the man.
Kelly smiled.
“Yeah,” he said. “Used tbe in the game mself. When there was enough men, o course. Before the bans.” He shook his head, then smiled quickly. “Well,” he said, “well take this B-seven. Dont even know what his name is,” he said, laughing.
His face sobered for an instant and he swallowed.
“Well take im,” he said.
Later on, when the man had gotten off the train, Kelly went back to his seat. He put his feet up on the opposite seat and, laying back his head, he covered his face with the newspaper.
“Get a little shut-eye,” he said.
Pole grunted.
Kelly sat slouched back, staring at the newspaper next to his eyes. He felt Maxo bumping against his side a little. He listened to the squeaking of Maxos joints. “Be all right,” he muttered to himself.
“What?” Pole asked.
Kelly swallowed. “I didnt say anything,” he said.
* * *
When they got off the train at six oclock that evening they pushed Maxo around the station and onto the sidewalk. Across the street from them a man sitting in his taxi called them.
“We got no taxi money,” said Pole.
“We cant just push im through the streets,” Kelly said. “Besides, we dont even know where Kruger Stadium is.”
“What are we supposed to eat with then?”
“Well be loaded after the fight,” said Kelly. “Ill buy you a steak three inches thick.”
Sighing, Pole helped Kelly push the heavy Maxo across the street that was still so hot they could feel it through their shoes. Kelly started sweating right away and licking at his upper lip.
“God, how dthey live out here?” he asked.
When they were putting Maxo inside the cab the base wheel came out again and Pole, with a snarl, kicked it away.
“Whatre ya doin?” Kelly asked.
“Oh … sh—” Pole got into the taxi and slumped back against the warm leather of the seat while Kelly hurried over the soft tar pavement and picked up the wheel.
“Chris-sake,” Kelly muttered as he got in the cab. “Whats the—?”
“Where to, chief?” the driver asked.
“Kruger Stadium,” Kelly said.
“Youre there.” The cab driver pushed in the rotor button and the car glided away from the curb.
“What the hells wrong with you?” Kelly asked Pole in a low voice. “We wait moren half a damn year tget us a bout and you been nothin but bellyaches from the start.”
“Some bout,” said Pole. “Maynard, Kansas—the prizefightin center o the nation.”
“Its a start, aint it?” Kelly said. “Itll keep us in coffee n cakes a while, wont it? Itll put Maxo back in shape. And if we take it, it could lead to—”
Pole glanced over disgustedly.
“I dont get you,” Kelly said quietly. “Hes our fighter. Whatre ya writin im off for? Dont ya want im twin?”
“Im a class-A mechanic, Steel,” Pole said in his falsely patient voice. “Im not a day-dreamin kid. We got a piece o dead iron here, not a B-seven. Its simple mechanics, Steel, thats all. Maxoll be lucky if he comes out o that ring with his head still on.”
Kelly turned away angrily.
“Its a starter B-seven,” he muttered. “Full o kinks. Full of em.”
“Sure, sure,” said Pole.
They sat silently a while looking out the window, Maxo between them, the broad steel shoulders bumping against theirs. Kelly stared at the building, his hands clenching and unclenching in his lap as if he was getting ready to go fifteen rounds.
“That a B-fighter ya got there?” the driver asked over his shoulder.
Kelly started and looked forward. He managed a smile.
“Thats right,” he said.
“Fightin tnight?”
“Yeah. Battling Maxo. Maybe ya heard of im.”
“Nope.”
“He was almost light heavyweight champ once,” said Kelly.
“That right?”
“Yes, sir. Ya heard o Dimsy the Rock, aint ya?”
“Dont think so.”
“Well, Dimsy the—”
Kelly stopped and glanced over at Pole who was shifting irritably on the seat.
“Dimsy the Rock was number three in the light heavy ranks. Right on his way tthe top they all said. Well, my boy put im away in the fourth round. Left-crossed im—bang! Almost put Dimsy through the ropes. It was beautiful.”
“That right?” asked the driver.
“Yes sir. You get a chance, stop by tnight at the stadium. Youll see a good fight.”
“Have you seen this Maynard Flash?” Pole asked the driver suddenly.
“The Flash? You bet. Man, theres a fighter on his way. Won seven straight. Hell be up there soon, ya can bet ya life. Matter o fact hes fightin tnight too. With some B-two heap from back East I hear.”
The driver snickered. “Flashll slaughter im,” he said.
Kelly stared at the back of the drivers head, the skin tight across his cheek bones.
“Yeah?” he said, flatly.
“Man, hell—”
The driver broke off suddenly and looked back. “Hey, you aint—” he started, then turned front again. “Hey, I didnt know, mister,” he said. “I was only ribbin.”
“Skip it,” Pole said. “Youre right.”
Kellys head snapped around and he glared at the sallow-face Pole.
“Shut up,” he said in a low voice.
He fell back against the seat and stared out the window, his face hard.
“Im gonna get im some oil paste,” he said after theyd ridden a block.
“Swell,” said Pole. “Well eat the tools.”
“Go to hell,” said Kelly.
* * *
The cab pulled up in front of the brick-fronted stadium and they lifted Maxo out onto the sidewalk. While Pole tilted him, Kelly squatted down and slid the base wheel back into its slot. Then Kelly paid the driver the exact fare and they started pushing Maxo toward the alley.
“Look,” said Kelly, nodding toward the poster board in front of the stadium. The third fight listed was
MAYNARD FLASH
(B-7, L.H.)
VS.
BATTLING MAXO
(B-2, L.H.)
“Big deal,” said Pole.
Kellys smile disappeared. He started to say something, then pressed his lips together. He shook his head irritably and big drops of his sweat fell to the sidewalk.
Maxo creaked as they pushed him down the alley and carried him up the steps to the door. The base wheel fell out again and bounced down the cement steps. Neither one of them said anything.
It was hotter inside. The air didnt move.
“Refreshing like a closet,” Pole said.
“Get the wheel,” Kelly said and started down the narrow hallway leaving Pole with Maxo. Pole leaned Maxo against the wall and turned for the door.
Kelly came to a half-glassed office door and knocked.
“Yeah,” said a voice inside. Kelly went in, taking off his hat.
The fat bald man looked up from his desk. His skull glistened with sweat.
“Im Battling Maxos owner,” said Kelly, smiling. He extended his big hand but the man ignored it.
“Was wonderin if youd make it,” said the man whose name was Mr. Waddow. “Your fighter in decent shape?”
“The best,” said Kelly cheerfully. “The best. My mechanic—hes class-A—just took im apart and put im together again before we left Philly.”
The man looked unconvinced.
“Hes in good shape,” said Kelly.
“Youre lucky tget a bout with a B-two,” said Mr. Waddow. “We aint used nothin less than B-fours for more than two years now. The fighter we was after got stuck in a car wreck though and got ruined.”
Kelly nodded. “Well, ya got nothin tworry about,” he said. “My fighters in top shape. Hes the one knocked down Dimsy the Rock in Madison Square year or so ago.”
“I want a good fight,” said the fat man.
“Youll get a good fight,” Kelly said, feeling a tight pain in his stomach muscles. “Maxos in good shape. Youll see. Hes in top shape.”
“I just want a good fight.”
Kelly stared at the fat man a moment. Then he said, “You got a ready room we can use? The mechanic n med like tget something teat.”
“Third door down the hall on the right side,” said Mr. Waddow. “Your bouts at eight thirty.”
Kelly nodded. “Okay.”
“Be there,” said Mr. Waddow turning back to his work.
“Uh … what about—?” Kelly started.
“You get ya money after ya deliver a fight,” Mr. Waddow cut him off.
Kellys smile faltered.
“Okay,” he said. “See ya then.”
When Mr. Waddow didnt answer, he turned for the door.
“Dont slam the door,” Mr. Waddow said. Kelly didnt.
“Come on,” he said to Pole when he was in the hall again. They pushed Maxo down to the ready room and put him inside it.
“What about checkin im over?” Kelly said.
“What about my gut?” snapped Pole. “I aint eaten in six hours.”
Kelly blew out a heavy breath. “All right, lets go then,” he said.
They put Maxo in a corner of the room.
“We should be able tlock him in,” Kelly said.
“Why? Ya think somebodys gonna steal im?”
“Hes valuable,” said Kelly.
“Sure, hes a priceless antique,” said Pole.
Kelly closed the door three times before the latch caught. He turned away from it, shaking his head worriedly. As they started down the hall he looked at his wrist and saw for the fiftieth time the white band where his pawned watch had been.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“Six twenty-five,” said Pole.
“Well have tmake it fast,” Kelly said. “I want ya tcheck im over good before the fight.”
“What for?” asked Pole.
“Did ya hear me?” Kelly said angrily.
“Sure, sure,” Pole said.
“Hes gonna take that son-of-a-bitch B-seven,” Kelly said, barely opening his lips.
“Sure he is,” said Pole. “With his teeth.”
“Hurry up,” Kelly said, ignoring him. “We aint got all night. Did ya get the wheel?”
Pole handed it to him.
* * *
“Some town,” Kelly said disgustedly as they came back in the side door of the stadium.
“I told ya they wouldnt have any oil paste here,” Pole said. “Why should they? B-twos are dead. Maxos probably the only one in a thousand miles.”
Kelly walked quickly down the hall, opened the door of the ready room and went in. He crossed over to Maxo and pulled off the covering.
“Get to it,” he said. “There aint much time.”
Blowing out a slow, tired breath, Pole took off his wrinkled blue coat and tossed it over the bench standing against the wall. He dragged a small table over to where Maxo was, then rolled up his sleeves. Kelly took off his hat and coat and watched while Pole worked loose the nut that held the tool cavity door shut. He stood with his big hands on his hips while Pole drew out the tools one by one and laid them down on the table.
“Rust,” Pole muttered. He rubbed a finger around the inside of the cavity and held it up, copper colored rust flaking off the tip.
“Come on,” Kelly said, irritably. He sat down on the bench and watched as Pole pried off the sectional plates on Maxos chest. His eyes ran up over Maxos leonine head. If I didnt see them coils, he thought once more, Id swear he was real. Only the mechanics in a B-fight could tell it wasnt real men in there. Sometimes people were actually fooled and sent in letters complaining that real men were being used. Even from ringside the flesh tones looked human. Mawling had a special patent on that.
Kellys face relaxed as he smiled fondly at Maxo.
“Good boy,” he murmured. Pole didnt hear. Kelly watched the sure-handed mechanic probe with his electric pick, examining connections and potency centers.
“Is he all right?” he asked, without thinking.
“Sure, hes great,” Pole said. He plucked out a tiny steel-caged tube. “If this doesnt blow out,” he said.
“Why should it?”
“Its sub-par,” Pole said jadedly. “I told ya that after the last fight eight months ago.”
Kelly swallowed. “Well get im a new one after this bout,” he said.
“Seventy-five bucks,” muttered Pole as if he were watching the money fly away on green wings.
“Itll hold,” Kelly said, more to himself than to Pole.
Pole shrugged. He put back the tube and pressed in the row of buttons on the main autonomic board. Maxo stirred.
“Take it easy on the left arm,” said Kelly. “Save it.”
“If it dont work here, it wont work out there,” said Pole.
He jabbed at a button and Maxos left arm began moving with little, circling motions. Pole pushed over the safety-block switch that would keep Maxo from counterpunching and stepped back. He threw a right at Maxos chin and the robots arm jumped up with a hitching motion to cover his face. Maxos left eye flickered like a ruby catching the sun.
“If that eye cell goes…” Pole said.
“It wont,” said Kelly tensely. He watched Pole throw another punch at the left side of Maxos head. He saw the tiny ripple of the flexo-covered cheek, then the arm jerked up again. It squeaked.
“Thats enough,” he said. “It works. Try the rest of im.”
“Hes gonna get more than two punches throwed at his head,” Pole said.
“His arms all right,” Kelly said. “Try something else I said.”
Pole reached inside Maxo and activated the leg cable centers. Maxo began shifting around. He lifted his left leg and shook off the base wheel automatically. Then he was standing lightly on his black-shoed feet, feeling at the floor like a cured cripple testing for stance.
Pole reached forward and jabbed in the FULL button, then jumped back as Maxos eye beams centered on him and the robot moved forward, broad shoulders rocking slowly, arms up defensively.
“Christ,” Pole muttered, “theyll hear im squeakin in the back row.”
Kelly grimaced, teeth set. He watched Pole throw another right and Maxos arm lurch raggedly. His throat moved with a convulsive swallow and he seemed to have trouble breathing the close air in the little room.
Pole shifted around the floor quickly, side to side. Maxo followed lumberingly, changing direction with visibly jerking motions.
“Oh, hes beautiful,” Pole said, stopping. “Just beautiful.” Maxo came up, arms still raised, and Pole jabbed in under them, pushing the OFF button. Maxo stopped.
“Look, well have tput im on defense, Steel,” Pole said. “Thats all there is to it. Hell get chopped tpieces if we have im movin in.”
Kelly cleared his throat. “No,” he said.
“Oh for—will ya use ya head?” snapped Pole. “Hes a B-two fChrissake. Hes gonna get slaughtered anyway. Lets save the pieces.”
“They want im on the offense,” said Kelly. “Its in the contract.”
Pole turned away with a hiss.
“Whats the use?” he muttered.
“Test im some more.”
“What for? Hes as good as hell ever be.”
“Will ya do what I say!” Kelly shouted, all the tension exploding out of him.
Pole turned back and jabbed in a button. Maxos left arm shot out. There was a snapping noise inside it and it fell against Maxos side with a dead clank.
Kelly started up, his face stricken. “Jesus, what did ya do!” he cried. He ran over to where Pole was pushing the button again. Maxos arm didnt move.
“I told ya not tfool with that arm!” Kelly yelled. “What the hells the matter with ya!” His voice cracked in the middle of the sentence.
Pole didnt answer. He picked up his pry and began working off the left shoulder plate.
“So help me God, if you broke that arm…” Kelly warned in a low, shaking voice.
“If I broke it!” Pole snapped. “Listen, you dumb mick! This heap has been runnin on borrowed time for three years now! Dont talk tme about breakages!”
Kelly clenched his teeth, his eyes small and deadly.
“Open it up,” he said.
“Son-of-a—” Pole muttered as he got the plate off. “You find another goddamn mechanic that coulda kep this steam shovel together any better these last years. You just find one.”
Kelly didnt answer. He stood rigidly, watching while Pole put down the curved plate and looked inside.
When Pole touched it, the trigger spring broke in half and part of it jumped across the room.
Kelly stared at the shoulder pit with horrified eyes.
“Oh, Christ,” he said in a shaking voice. “Oh, Christ.”
Pole started to say something, then stopped. He looked at the ashen-faced Kelly without moving.
Kellys eyes moved to Pole.
“Fix it,” he said, hoarsely.
Pole swallowed. “Steel, I—”
“Fix it!”
“I cant! That springs been fixin tbreak for—”
“You broke it! Now fix it!” Kelly clamped rigid fingers on Poles arm. Pole jerked back.
“Let go of me!” he said.
“Whats the matter with you!” Kelly cried. “Are you crazy? Hes got tbe fixed. Hes got tbe!”
“Steel, he needs a new spring.”
“Well, get it!”
“They dont have em here, Steel,” Pole said. “I told ya. And if they did have em, we aint got the sixteen-fifty tget one.”
“Oh—Oh, Jesus,” said Kelly. His hand fell away and he stumbled to the other side of the room. He sank down on the bench and stared without blinking at the tall motionless Maxo.
He sat there a long time, just staring, while Pole stood watching him, the pry still in his hand. He saw Kellys broad chest rise and fall with spasmodic movements. Kellys face was a blank.
“If he dont watch em,” muttered Kelly, finally.
“What?”
Kelly looked up, his mouth set in a straight, hard line. “If he dont watch, itll work,” he said.
“Whatre ya talkin about?”
Kelly stood up and started unbuttoning his shirt.
“Whatre ya—”
Pole stopped dead, his mouth falling open. “Are you crazy?” he asked.
Kelly kept unbuttoning his shirt. He pulled it off and tossed it on the bench.
“Steel, youre out o your mind!” Pole said. “You cant do that!”
Kelly didnt say anything.
“But youll—Steel, youre crazy!”
“We deliver a fight or we dont get paid,” Kelly said.
“But—Jesus, youll get killed!”
Kelly pulled off his undershirt. His chest was beefy, there was red hair swirled around it. “Have to shave this off,” he said.
“Steel, come on,” Pole said. “You—”
His eyes widened as Kelly sat down on the bench and started unlacing his shoes.
“Theyll never let ya,” Pole said. “You cant make em think youre a—” He stopped and took a jerky step forward. “Steel, fuh Chrissake!”
Kelly looked up at Pole with dead eyes.
“Youll help me,” he said.
“But they—”
“Nobody knows what Maxo looks like,” Kelly said. “And only Waddow saw me. If he dont watch the bouts well be all right.”
“But—”
“They wont know,” Kelly said. “The Bs bleed and bruise too.”
“Steel, come on,” Pole said shakily. He took a deep breath and calmed himself. He sat down hurriedly beside the broad-shouldered Irishman.
“Look,” he said. “I got a sister back East—in Maryland. If I wire er, shell send us the dough tget back.”
Kelly got up and unbuckled his belt.
“Steel, I know a guy in Philly with a B-five, wants tsell cheap,” Pole said desperately. “We could scurry up the cash and—Steel, fuh Chrissake, youll get killed! Its a B-seven! Dont ya understand? A B-seven! Youll be mangled!”
Kelly was working the dark trunks over Maxos hips.
“I wont let ya do it, Steel,” Pole said. “Ill go to—”
He broke off with a sucked-in gasp as Kelly whirled and moved over quickly to haul him to his feet. Kellys grip was like the jaws of a trap and there was nothing left of him in his eyes.
“Youll help me,” Kelly said in a low, trembling voice. “Youll help me or Ill beat ya brains out on the wall.”
“Youll get killed,” Pole murmured.
“Then I will,” said Kelly.
* * *
Mr. Waddow came out of his office as Pole was walking the covered Kelly toward the ring.
“Come on, come on,” Mr. Waddow said. “Theyre waitin on ya.”
Pole nodded jerkily and guided Kelly down the hall.
“Wheres the owner?” Mr. Waddow called after them.
Pole swallowed quickly. “In the audience,” he said.
Mr. Waddow grunted and, as they walked on, Pole heard the door to the office close. Breath emptied from him.
“I shouldve told im,” he muttered.
“Id o killed ya,” Kelly said, his voice muffled under the covering.
Crowd sounds leaked back into the hall now as they turned a corner. Under the canvas covering, Kelly felt a drop of sweat trickle down his temple.
“Listen,” he said, “youll have ttowel me off between rounds.”
“Between what rounds?” Pole asked tensely. “You wont even last one.”
“Shut up.”
“You think youre just up against some tough fighter?” Pole asked. “Youre up against a machine! Dont ya—”
“I said shut up.”
“Oh … you dumb—” Pole swallowed. “If I towel ya off, theyll know,” he said.
“They aint seen a B-two in years,” Kelly broke in. “If anyone asks, tell em its an oil leak.”
“Sure,” said Pole disgustedly. He bit his lips. “Steel, yall never get away with it.”
The last part of his sentence was drowned out as, suddenly, they were among the crowd, walking down the sloping aisle toward the ring. Kelly held his knees locked and walked a little stiffly. He drew in a long, deep breath and let it out slowly. Hed have to breathe in small gasps and exhalations through his nose while he was in the ring. The people couldnt see his chest moving or theyd know.
The heat burdened in around him like a hanging weight. It was like walking along the sloping floor of an ocean of heat and sound. He heard voices drifting past him as he moved.
“Yall take im home in a box!”
“Well, if it aint Rattlin Maxo!”
And the inevitable, “Scrap iron!”
Kelly swallowed dryly, feeling a tight drawing sensation in his loins. Thirsty, he thought. The momentary vision of the bar across from the Kansas City train station crossed his mind. The dim-lit booth, the cool fan breeze on the back of his neck, the icy, sweat-beaded bottle chilling his palm. He swallowed again. He hadnt allowed himself one drink in the last hour. The less he drank the less hed sweat, he knew.
“Watch it.”
He felt Poles hand slide in through the opening in the back of the covering, felt the mechanics hand grab his arm and check him.
“Ring steps,” Pole said out of a corner of his mouth.
Kelly edged his right foot forward until the shoe tip touched the riser of the bottom step. Then he lifted his foot to the step and started up.
At the top, Poles fingers tightened around his arm again.
“Ropes,” Pole said, guardedly.
It was hard getting through the ropes with the covering on. Kelly almost fell and hoots and catcalls came at him like spears out of the din. Kelly felt the canvas give slightly under his feet and then Pole pushed the stool against the back of his legs and he sat down a little too jerkily.
“Hey, get that derrick out o here!” shouted a man in the second row. Laughter and hoots. “Scrap iron!” yelled some people.
Then Pole drew off the covering and put it down on the ring apron.
Kelly sat there staring at the Maynard Flash.
The B-seven was motionless, its gloved hands hanging across its legs. There was imitation blond hair, crew cut, growing out of its skull pores. Its face was that of an impassive Adonis. The simulation of muscle curve on its body and limbs was almost perfect. For a moment Kelly almost thought that years had been peeled away and he was in the business again, facing a young contender. He swallowed carefully. Pole crouched beside him, pretending to fiddle with an arm plate.
“Steel, dont,” he muttered again.
Kelly didnt answer. He felt a desperate desire to suck in a lungful of air and bellow his chest. He drew in small patches of air through his nose and let them trickle out. He kept staring at the Maynard Flash, thinking of the array of instant-reaction centers inside that smooth arch of chest. The drawing sensation reached his stomach. It was like a cold hand pulling in at strands of muscle and ligament.
A red-faced man in a white suit climbed into the ring and reached up for the microphone which was swinging down to him.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “the opening bout of the evening. A ten-round light heavyweight bout. From Philadelphia, the B-two, Battling Maxo.”
The crowd booed and hissed. They threw up paper airplanes and shouted “Scrap iron!”
“His opponent, our own B-seven, the Maynard Flash!”
Cheers and wild clapping. The Flashs mechanic touched a button under the left armpit and the B-seven jumped up and held his arms over his head in the victory gesture. The crowd laughed happily.
“Jesus,” Pole muttered, “I never saw that. Must be a new gimmick.”
Kelly blinked to relieve his eyes.
“Three more bouts to follow,” said the red-faced man and then the microphone drew up and he left the ring. There was no referee. B-fighters never clinched—their machinery rejected it—and there was no knock-down count. A felled B-fighter stayed down. The new B-nine, it was claimed by the Mawling publicity staff, would be able to get up, which would make for livelier and longer bouts.
Pole pretended to check over Kelly.
“Steel, its your last chance,” he begged.
“Get out,” said Kelly without moving his lips.
Pole looked at Kellys immobile eyes a moment, then sucked in a ragged breath and straightened up.
“Stay away from him,” he warned as he started through the ropes.
Across the ring, the Flash was standing in its corner, hitting its gloves together as if it were a real young fighter anxious to get the fight started. Kelly stood up and Pole drew the stool away. Kelly stood watching the B-seven, seeing how its eye centers were zeroing in on him. There was a cold sinking in his stomach.
The bell rang.
The B-seven moved out smoothly from its corner with a mechanical glide, its arms raised in the traditional way, gloved hands wavering in tiny circles in front of it. It moved quickly toward Kelly who edged out of his corner automatically, his mind feeling, abruptly, frozen. He felt his own hands rise as if someone else had lifted them and his legs were like dead wood under him. He kept his gaze on the bright unmoving eyes of the Maynard Flash.
They came together. The B-sevens left flicked out and Kelly blocked it, feeling the rock-hard fist of the Flash even through his glove. The fist moved out again. Kelly drew back his head and felt a warm breeze across his mouth. His own left shot out and banged against the Flashs nose. It was like hitting a door knob. Pain flared in Kellys arm and his jaw muscles went hard as he struggled to keep his face blank.
The B-seven feinted with a left and Kelly knocked it aside. He couldnt stop the right that blurred in after it and grazed his left temple. He jerked his head away and the B-seven threw a left that hit him over the ear. Kelly lurched back, throwing out a left that the B-seven brushed aside. Kelly caught his footing and hit the Flashs jaw solidly with a right uppercut. He felt a jolt of pain run up his arm. The Flashs head didnt budge. He shot out a left that hit Kelly on the right shoulder.
Kelly back-pedaled instinctively. Then he heard someone yell, “Get im a bicycle!” and he remembered what Mr. Waddow had said. He moved in again, his lips aching they were pressed together so tightly.
A left caught him under the heart and he felt the impact shudder through his frame. Pain stabbed at his heart. He threw a spasmodic left which banged against the B-sevens nose again. There was only pain. Kelly stepped back and staggered as a hard right caught him high on the chest. He started to move back. The B-seven hit him on the chest again. Kelly lost his balance and stepped back quickly to catch equilibrium. The crowd booed. The B-seven moved in without making a single mechanical sound.
Kelly regained his balance and stopped. He threw a hard right that missed. The momentum of his blow threw him off center and the Flashs left drove hard against his upper right arm. The arm went numb. Even as Kelly was sucking in a teeth-clenched gasp the B-seven shot in a hard right under his guard that slammed into Kellys spongy stomach. Kelly felt the breath go out of him. His right slapped ineffectively across the Flashs right cheek. The Flashs eyes glinted.
As the B-seven moved in again, Kelly side-stepped and, for a moment, the radial eye centers lost him. Kelly moved out of range dizzily, pulling air in through his nostrils.
“Get that heap out o there!” some man screamed.
“Scrap iron, scrap iron!”
Breath shook in Kellys throat. He swallowed quickly and started forward just as the Flash picked him up again. Taking a chance, he sucked in breath through his mouth hoping that his movements would keep the people from seeing. Then he was up to the B-seven. He stepped in close, hoping to out-time electrical impulse, and threw a hard right at the Flashs body.
The B-sevens left shot up and Kellys blow was deflected by the iron wrist. Kellys left was thrown off too and then the Flashs left shot in and drove the breath out of Kelly again. Kellys left barely hit the Flashs rock-hard chest. He staggered back, the B-seven following. He kept jabbing but the B-seven kept deflecting the blows and counterjabbing with almost the same piston-like motion. Kellys head kept snapping back. He fell back more and saw the right coming straight at him. He couldnt stop it.
The blow drove in like a steel battering-ram. Spears of pain shot behind Kellys eyes and through his head. A black cloud seemed to flood across the ring. His muffled cry was drowned out by the screaming crowd as he toppled back, his nose and mouth trickling bright blood that looked as good as the dye they used in the B-fighters.
The rope checked his fall, pressing in rough and hard against his back. He swayed there, right arm hanging limp, left arm raised defensively. He blinked his eyes instinctively, trying to focus them. Im a robot, he thought, a robot.
The Flash stepped in and drove a violent right into Kellys chest, a left to his stomach. Kelly doubled over, gagging. A right slammed off his skull like a hammer blow, driving him back against the ropes again. The crowd screamed.
Kelly saw the blurred outline of the Maynard Flash. He felt another blow smash into his chest like a club. With a sob he threw a wild left that the B-seven brushed off. Another sharp blow landed on Kellys shoulder. He lifted his right and managed to deflect the worst of a left thrown at his jaw. Another right concaved his stomach. He doubled over. A hammering right drove him back on the ropes. He felt hot salty blood in his mouth and the roar of the crowd seemed to swallow him. Stay up!—he screamed at himself. Stay up goddamn you! The ring wavered before him like dark water.
With a desperate surge of energy, he threw a right as hard as he could at the tall beautiful figure in front of him. Something cracked in his wrist and hand and a wave of searing pain shot up his arm. His throat-locked cry went unheard. His arm fell, his left went down and the crowd shrieked and howled for the Flash to finish it.
There was only inches between them now. The B-seven rained in blows that didnt miss. Kelly lurched and staggered under the impact of them. His head snapped from side to side. Blood ran across his face in scarlet ribbons His arm hung like a dead branch at his side. He kept getting slammed back against the ropes, bouncing forward and getting slammed back again. He couldnt see any more. He could only hear the screaming of the crowd and the endless swishing and thudding of the B-sevens gloves. Stay up, he thought. I have to stay up. He drew in his head and hunched his shoulders to protect himself.
He was like that seven seconds before the bell when a clubbing right on the side of his head sent him crashing to the canvas.
He lay there gasping for breath. Suddenly, he started to get up, then, equally as suddenly, realized that he couldnt. He fell forward again and lay on his stomach on the warm canvas, his head throbbing with pain. He could hear the booing and hissing of the dissatisfied crowd.
When Pole finally managed to get him up and slip the cover over his head the crowd was jeering so loudly that Kelly couldnt hear Poles voice. He felt the mechanics big hand inside the covering, guiding him, but he fell down climbing through the ropes and almost fell again on the steps. His legs were like rubber tubes. Stay up. His brain still murmured the words.
In the ready room he collapsed. Pole tried to get him up on the bench but he couldnt. Finally, he bunched up his blue coat under Kellys head and, kneeling, he started patting with his handkerchief at the trickles of blood.
“You dumb bastard,” he kept muttering in a thin, shaking voice. “You dumb bastard.”
Kelly lifted his hand and brushed away Poles hand.
“Go—get the—money,” he gasped hoarsely.
“What?”
“The money!” gasped Kelly through his teeth.
“But—”
“Now!” Kellys voice was barely intelligible.
Pole straightened up and stood looking down at Kelly a moment. Then he turned and went out.
Kelly lay there drawing in breath and exhaling it with wheezing sounds. He couldnt move his right hand and he knew it was broken. He felt the blood trickling from his nose and mouth. His body throbbed with pain.
After a few moments he struggled up on his left elbow and turned his head, pain crackling along his neck muscles. When he saw that Maxo was all right he put his head down again. A smile twisted up one corner of his lips.
When Pole came back, Kelly lifted his head painfully. Pole came over and knelt down. He started patting at the blood again.
“Ya get it?” Kelly asked in a crusty whisper.
Pole blew out a slow breath.
“Well?”
Pole swallowed. “Half of it,” he said.
Kelly stared up at him blankly, his mouth fallen open. His eyes didnt believe it.
“He said he wouldnt pay five Cs for a one rounder.”
“What dya mean?” Kellys voice cracked. He tried to get up and put down his right hand. With a strangled cry he fell back, his face white. His head thrashed on the coat pillow, his eyes shut tightly.
“No,” he moaned. “No. No. No. No. No.”
Pole was looking at his hand and wrist. “Jesus God,” he whispered.
Kellys eyes opened and he stared up dizzily at the mechanic.
“He cant—he cant do that,” he gasped.
Pole licked his dry lips.
“Steel, there—aint a thing we can do. Hes got a bunch o toughs in the office with im. I cant…” He lowered his head. “And if—you was tgo there hed know what ya done. And—he might even take back the two and a half.”
Kelly lay on his back, staring up at the naked bulb without blinking. His chest labored and shuddered with breath.
“No,” he murmured. “No.”
He lay there for a long time without talking. Pole got some water and cleaned off his face and gave him a drink. He opened up his small suitcase and patched up Kellys face. He put Kellys right arm in a sling.
Fifteen minutes later Kelly spoke.
“Well go back by bus,” he said.
“What?” Pole asked.
“Well go by bus,” Kelly said slowly. “Thatll only cost, oh, fifty-sixty bucks.” He swallowed and shifted on his back. “Thatll leave almost two Cs. We can get im a—a new trigger spring and a—eye lens and—” He blinked his eyes and held them shut a moment as the room started fading again.
“And oil paste,” he said then. “Loads of it. Hell be—good as new again.”
Kelly looked up at Pole. “Then well be all set up,” he said. “Maxoll be in good shape again. And we can get us some decent bouts.” He swallowed and breathed laboriously. “Thats all he needs is a little work. New spring, a new eye lens. Thatll shape im up. Well show those bastards what a B-two can do. Old Maxoll show em. Right?”
Pole looked down at the big Irishman and sighed.
“Right, Steel,” he said.
Copyright © 2011 by Richard Matheson, Inc.