Free The Bruiser by Jim Tully

gathering of elemental ruffians nodded their heads in approval.
    A knock came to the door. “Come on in, for God in Heaven’s sake—this ain’t a church.”
    It opened quickly. Shane Rory walked before him.
    He carried a small, cheap, ancient handbag. Hatless, his hair straggled in all directions. He wore a faded blue serge suit, a green flannel shirt, and canvas shoes that had once been white.
    â€œMr. Haney,” the husky young fellow put the bag on the floor in the manner of a bell boy, “My name’s Shane Rory—I’d like to fight for you.”
    The manager and his gathering looked at the lad.
    Shane’s eyes were bloodshot. His chin was square and firm. His shoulders were thrown forward. In spite of many gloves, his nose was one a woman might envy.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with your eyes?” the manager asked.
    â€œNothin’s wrong with my eyes,” replied Shane.
    â€œThey’re all red,” said Silent Tim Haney.
    â€œI got cinders in ’em. Been ridin’ the blind baggage all night.”
    The manager moved his shoulders, “Road kid, huh.”
    â€œYeap—I’ve been tourin’ around—and I’m sick of it. I get a little dough—and I spend it in no time and I’m broke again—up and down all the time like an elevator—but I can fight—don’t get me wrong. I’ve just been a sap. I’m on my way now— See these clippin’s.” He held a handful of newspaper items toward the manager.
    â€œAny good men among ’em?”
    â€œPlenty—see here—I licked Blinky Miller.”
    â€œNot the Blinky Miller—you wouldn’t be on the bum now if you could do that.” Silent Tim Haney’s voice rose.
    â€œMany a good man’s been on the bum—and I’m not a liar—I licked Blinky Miller—it’s all here in English—I broke his heart, Mr. Haney—you could hear it snap when I begun to get the range— If Buck Logan was alive he’d tell you plenty about me—if he’d of lived I’d be champion now. I was Jack Gill’s sparring partner. I cracked Gunner Maley in the semi to him. You don’t hear of him no more. I took Barney McCoy’n a round.”
    The manager became more alert.
    â€œWhat name’d you fight under?” He still ignored the clippings.
    â€œWildcat Rory.”
    â€œClawed ’em to death, huh—you talk like a champeen,” the managed bantered. The gathering laughed aloud, as men will at a benefactor’s humor.
    The lad’s eyes went to the circle of the bruisers, and returned to the manager.
    â€œI told you,” he said, “I wanted to fight for you.”
    â€œAny particular place on the bill? The top spot, I suppose,” said Silent Tim Haney. Guffaws followed the manager’s words.
    When the laughter subsided, the boy answered slowly, “No place in particular, Mr. Haney. Any place’ll do me.” He stopped for a second, “And anybody, any size.” His razor lips cut the last words. “Youremember the night I fought the semi to Jerry Wayne—he says to me—’Boy, I’m glad I’m goin’ and you’re comin’’— I liked Jerry after that—he knew I’da took him in a coupla more years—it took a big guy to admit that.”
    The manager attempted to remember.
    â€œWas that on Old Settlers’ Day?”
    â€œYes, sir—Jerry Wayne won in four rounds—and I won in one.”
    â€œSo you think you’d of took Jerry, huh?”
    â€œWell, we’re sayin’ nothin’ now about them that’s worse than dead, for it can’t be proved ever—but don’t let these palookers around here laugh you outta seein’ me go—all you’ll ever get outta these stumble bums is the holes in the doughnuts.” He shoved his right hand quickly through his tangled hair, and