Fight Card: Copper Mountain Champ Read online

  FIGHT CARD:

  COPPER MOUNTAIN CHAMP

  ANOTHER TWO-FISTED

  FIGHT CARD STORY

  JACK TUNNEY

  FIGHT CARD: COPPER KID

  e-Book Edition – First Published April 2014

  Copyright © 2014 Brian Drake

  Cover by David Foster

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, corporations, institutions and organizations mentioned in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously without any intent to describe actual conduct.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission from the publisher.

  ROUND ONE

  Butte, Montana. 1951.

  The gloved fist struck flesh with a wet slap.

  The crowd surrounding the square boxing ring cheered as Liam Dillon tipped back, off balance, with Frankie Prescott closing in. Then Dillon got a foot behind him, ducked Frankie’s next swing, and countered with a short jab into the other fighter’s gut. Frankie let out a grunt. The ref watched the move carefully but did not blow his whistle. Frankie leaned forward, Dillon lining up another punch. Frankie ducked and stepped to the right, backed up, and put and created some distance. He caught his breath a moment while Dillon started to circle him.

  In the stands, Pete Kovich turned to Jimmy O’Toole, owner of the gym hosting the fight, and said, “The champ’s doing well.”

  “Frankie’s been having a good season.”

  “How much does the old man have on him?”

  “Quite a pile, I hear. I try not to hear too much. Just makes me mad.”

  “Who did you bet on?”

  “Who do you think? As much as I can’t stand him, Frankie’s the clear choice.”

  Kovich watched the two fighters circle one another, dukes up, each looking for an opening. Every now and then Liam Dillon would toss a few test jabs to see how Frankie reacted, but the champ didn’t fall for the ploy. He kept his gloves up and his eyes on Liam’s.

  Kovich wiped sweat from his forehead. The arena had horrible air circulation. Those not using programs as fans just sat and leaked. Kovich, a former fighter, could never quite take himself out of the ring, especially whenever he saw a fight. He almost tried to telegraph the boxers’ moves. His heart always beat a little faster when there were fighters in the ring.

  Frankie and his opponent continued their circle. Slowing down. Tired. The fifth round would do that to a guy, Kovich thought. If they wanted to run out the clock it wasn’t a bad way to get a break. Nothing he’d have ever done, of course.

  Some in the crowd started getting restless and shouted for the pair to get on with the fight.

  Liam Dillon had come to Butte as the most recent winner of a match-up with heavyweight champ Fulton Monroe, recent fixture of movie newsreels, but now oddly silent since his defeat at the Irishman’s hands. Liam Dillon was now making his way along the national circuit toward a bout in New York, with one of his stops the growing mining town of Butte where the “Friday Night Fights” had become a popular event.

  His opponent, Frankie Prescott, was the current champ of the copper mining town and not easily beaten.

  The bell rang and the fighters retreated to their corners.

  Jimmy said: “What do you think they’ll do next?”

  “If Frankie follows his usual routine, he’ll come out swinging high and hit low.”

  “If Dillon’s watched Frankie’s films he’ll expect that too.”

  “Which is why I think Frankie will do something different.”

  “What about Dillon?”

  “He’ll come out defensively. At this point he’ll want to wait for Frankie to expose himself.”

  Frankie’s coach spoke words into his ear, the champ nodding but obviously tired and dazed with a layer of sweat covering his face and body. He wiped his face with a towel and drank some water.

  Liam Dillon looked much better, breathing hard but focused on his coach’s words. Dillon took some water as well. When the bell rang again, both men hustled into the center of the ring.

  Dillon kept his gloves in front of his face, bent low, his sharp eyes looking for an opening. Frankie held his gloves at chest level, eyes dancing around Dillon’s form, stepping closer. He aimed a low left for the Irishman’s belly, Dillon sidestepping and firing a punch at Frankie’s face. Frankie dodged but took some of the blow on the side of his head. He returned a flurry of punches, all of which Dillon blocked with his forearms, but the blows still registered and Dillon grimaced under the assault. Frankie jumped back, creating distance. Liam Dillon started to close and shuffled back as Frankie fired a left and right hook, neither of which connected. Frankie retreated further, breathing hard, struggling to keep his arms up.

  “I don’t think the champ is going to make it through this one,” Jimmy said. “I’m gonna be out some money.”

  “Just wait,” Kovich said.

  Liam Dillon circled like a shark, confident, moving with easy strides as Frankie kept backpedaling, keeping distance between them.

  The crowd screamed for Frankie to do something, a man on Kovich’s left cupping hands over his mouth to shout, “Fight, you pansy! Come on, Frankie, fight!”

  Liam Dillon charged in, faking left and right jabs, Frankie holding steady. He aimed another low punch, with his right, at Dillon’s gut. As the Irishman dodge, Frankie’s left hook connected with Dillon’s face. Dillon spun, lost his balance and fell. The crowd roared.

  Frankie held his position. Dillon jumped up, his arms loose, pulling back a few steps to draw Frankie closer.

  The champ took the bait and closed in.

  Dillon started swinging, striking Frankie on the arms and stomach, landing a right hook when Frankie doubled over. Frankie hit the mat hard.

  The crowd booed.

  Frankie tried to get up and fell again.

  The referee moved close to Frankie and started counting.

  One.

  Two.

  The crowd clamored for the champ to get up.

  “Maybe you were right, Jimmy.”

  Jimmy grinned. “Everybody has a bad night.”

  “When was the last time Frankie had a bad night?”

  The ref reached nine and Frankie bolted to his feet with renewed vigor. The ref stepped away. Liam Dillon put up his dukes and waited for Frankie to come to him.

  The fighters clashed in a fury of swings, misses, stray hits. Frankie kept moving, forcing Dillon back. When the Irishman hit the ropes, Frankie pounded him, Dillon bending over and landing hard at his feet. Frankie jumped back.

  Dillon rose again.

  “He won’t stay down,” Jimmy said. “That kid must be made of concrete.”

  Frankie shuffled back. Kovich watched him. Frankie’s eyes were wide, as if surprised that the blows hadn’t put his opponent down for the count. Frankie took a deep breath. Liam Dillon closed in, his eyes narrowed, ready for more.

  “Gettin’ our money’s worth tonight,” Kovich said.

  “Frankie won’t last another round at this rate.”

  “He’s hurt but he won’t quit.”

  “Dillon will beat him senseless.”

  “I still say he’s got enough.”

  “Wanna bet?”

  Kovich smiled. “I’m a married man, Jimmy.”

  Jimmy laughed. “What does that mean?”

  “It means I don’t have any money.”

  The Irishman closed the gap and let go some test blows, Frankie keeping his guard up and blocking each one. Dillon swung with
his left, Frankie countering with a solid left-right combination and sent Dillon back. Frankie closed in with a fake right but his left uppercut connected. Liam Dillon’s body snapped up, his head going back, and he fell like a tree, flat on his back, bouncing off the mat before laying still.

  The thundering roar of the crowd shook the gym walls.

  The ref ran to the Irishman and started counting. Frankie retreated to the ropes and waited.

  The crowd continued to shout.

  Liam Dillon rolled over as the ref reached seven and put his knees under him, rose unsteadily, grabbing the ropes for support.

  Frankie put up his gloves.

  “Here we go,” Kovich said.

  Dillon face tightened up as he gained his feet and raised his gloves. He egged Frankie on, get away from the ropes, come and get me. Frankie responded. He shuffled into the center of the ring, Dillon meeting him halfway. Dillon punched him in the face, slammed a blow into his stomach. Frankie dropped back a step but only a step. He charged forward with a counterattack that hit Dillon between his upraised arms. But he was close enough for another body blow and Frankie took it. He slammed one gloved fist into Dillon’s solar plexus. The air rushed out of the Irishman, his eyes shut tight, his mouth open in a silent yell. Frankie pulled his arms closed to his chest and fired them like pistons at Dillon’s exposed face and chest. The double-blows sent the Irishman staggering back. Frankie closed the distance again for another right hook that sent Dillon falling flat again.

  The crowd cheered as Frankie retreated to the other side of the ring. He leaned against the ropes for a moment and then dropped his hands and knees, gasping.

  “If this isn’t the end,” Jimmy said, “I’ll eat my hat.”

  The ref ran to Dillon and started the count.

  Frankie remained on hands and knees. Sweat dripped from his head, spotting the mat.

  Dillon’s coach, outside the ring, shouted for his fighter to get up.

  Kovich watched closely. Dillon’s eyes were shut tight, his body limp, and as the ref reached seven he knew the Irishman’s night was over.

  “Ten!”

  The crowd roared.

  The ref ran over to Frankie and helped him to his feet. Frankie’s eyes were half shut, his head almost limp. The ref raised Frankie’s right arm. To Kovich, Frankie looked half asleep and totally unaware.

  The announcer’s voice boomed over the loud speakers, nearly drowning out the crowd.

  “The winner and still the copper town champ, Frankie Prescott!”

  ***

  Kovich and Jimmy sat in a back booth in the bar across the street from the gym, their beers half finished.

  “If I hadn’t seen it, I wouldn’t believe it,” Jimmy said. “There’s no way Frankie should have won that.”

  “He’s unbeatable.”

  “It would sure be nice to see him fall. His old man needs a licking, bad.”

  “We’ll find somebody.”

  “Ain’t nobody local can take him, no way. How many guys have we worked with, just trying to find somebody strong enough?”

  “I’ve lost count,” Kovich said.

  “There has to be somebody.”

  “We’ll find him eventually.”

  “Won’t be long before Frankie hits the national circuit,” Jimmy said. “Will it matter once that happens?”

  “I wish we could catch him juicing or fixing the matches,” Kovich said. “No proof of that, either.”

  “Which only compounds the problem,” Jimmy said. “We know the old man isn’t fixing the fights. The kid’s in the gym almost every day. He works harder than anybody else in there.”

  “Must be nice not needing a job.”

  Jimmy drank some beer. He let out a quiet burp. “Maybe we’re wasting our time. Some guys just get everything handed to him.”

  “It’s more than that,” Kovich said. “His father has bought, bribed, and murdered his way to the top. The only way to get to him is through the kid.”

  “And, as we’ve said, there ain’t nobody good enough.”

  Kovich turned his glass in a circle. Nobody indeed. It was like they were waiting for God to give send the right man who could balance the scales. It had been a long wait, but now much longer?

  Or maybe there wasn’t anybody, and Old Man Prescott was destined to continue his reign over the city until the day he died.

  ***

  THREE DAYS LATER…

  The only light came from the flashlights atop their hard hats. The beams bounced across dirty faces, the rocks, scattered tools. Thick dust crisscrossed the beams, and the shadows produced by the lights took on a mocking tone as the hours under the earth ticked by.

  The miners stayed close to one another, with a little personal space between, and most didn’t speak. Others muttered fitfully, repeating the nonsense of their nightmares now the cave-in was a reality. Most of them shivered.

  Alex Slayton, twenty-three, had seen worse in the Pacific. If you could survive the Pacific, you could survive anything. At least underground, there wasn’t anybody trying to kill them.

  The young man was a six-foot fire hydrant – trim, but stocky instead of bulging with muscles. Clearly, he had strength on reserve when called for.

  Crawling over to another shivering colleague, Alex put his hand on the man’s arm in a reassuring gesture. “We’re gonna get out of here soon, Mike. You’ll be on the 18th hole before you know it.”

  Mike Hutton met Alex’s eyes, nodded once.

  Alex scooted to the next man who had his head propped against the rock wall of the cavern. He stared at nothing. “Hey, Butterfingers. Don’t go blank on me, Butters. Stay positive.”

  The man called Butterfingers because of his habit of dropping tools only nodded in reply.

  To the next, “You awake, Flash Gordon?”

  Everyone called Gordon Pitt Flash. He wiped the back of his hand against his face and succeeded only in smearing more dirt. “How could anybody sleep down here?”

  “I haven’t heard a peep out of you,” Alex said.

  “You’re wasting air, Alex. Go back to your corner.”

  “I knew guys like you in the army. Always gotta argue. Come on, we need to stick together. The rescue team is on the way.”

  Alex moved on before Flash said more. He went on down the line, checking for injuries, which were few, the one saving grace of their ordeal. Cuts, bruises, battered egos, but no broken bones. It wasn’t the first cave-in. The worst thing they could do was panic, and it didn’t look like anybody was doing that. At least not out loud. The routine up top would be one of extreme hustle and organization as the rescue team worked to open a way out. It might take a long time, but they would get out. The rescue team never failed to breach a cave-in.

  When Alex finally crawled back to his own corner, he switched off his light so nobody could see him deflate. Nobody had asked him to go to each man with a pep talk, but it had worked in the war when spirits needed lifting. The enemy wasn’t battering them with shells or machine gun fire, but being trapped was about as tough as it got otherwise. Somebody had to cheer lead. He always had to cheer lead for himself. Nobody else wanted the job.

  A hand touched his shoulder.

  “Alex?”

  He flicked on his light. His buddy Burt Rooney leaned close. “Holding up?”

  “Fine.”

  “You’re the only one who seems to like it down here.”

  “It has some appeal.”

  Another miner, Mickey Sonnenelli, joined them. He crowded into the corner. “I can’t take it anymore.”

  “Mickey,” Alex said, “relax. We’re gonna be okay.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “What?”

  “I knew this was going to happen.”

  “Mickey, it was an accident. It happens. Part of the job.”

  “No. I knew. They told me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The support frame wasn’t finished. The old man rushed
the crew. They told me. They knew this going to happen but the old man wouldn’t let them do it right. I’m telling you guys...”

  “Mickey, not now. Come on, we don’t need this.”

  “They put us down here with no regard to safety. We’re gonna die down here, Alex. If not this time...”

  Alex Slayton grabbed the other man’s arm, hard, leaned close. “Not now, Mickey.”

  Burt said, “But what if he’s telling the truth, Alex.”

  “Both of you. Go away,” Alex said. “I’m all talked out.”

  Alex switched off his light and stretched out on the ground. Eventually Mickey and Burt moved away. As Alex dozed off, he heard Mickey telling somebody else. Rushed voices filled the cavern as everybody talked about the what ifs...

  ***

  And then there was light.

  The blast woke Alex. The cavern shook. Loose bits of rock fell from the cavern walls. The men started talking at once as another blast shook and then part of the cavern roof opened up, dropping more debris – larger chunks kicking up a cloud of dust and sending bits of shrapnel in all directions. The men rolled over, covered their faces. Some took the assault head-on. But nobody complained.

  Bright light streamed through the hole.

  The men cheered.

  Alex, on his feet, started shouting orders. “Everybody get back from the opening! They’re coming in with the back-hoe next! Get over to the side! To the side! Now! Move!”

  Presently the back-hoe indeed opened the hole, the sharp edges of the big scoop tearing into the rock with the ferocity of a starving lion. More debris fell into the cavern, large chunks in some cases, and the men covered their mouths with the paper masks they all carried. It took over an hour, but soon the rescue team lowered a ladder and the leader of the team, Pete Kovich, decked out in his jump suit and head gear, descended. He didn’t have to say much. The miners rushed over and Pete and Alex directed them up the ladder and out the opening. Alex followed Pete back to the surface. When the cool night air touched his face, Alex collapsed on the ground and breathed deep. Dust flew into his mouth and he rolled over, coughing, retching. Two paramedics rush over and told him to stay flat while they checked him out. He told them he was fine, but they persisted. Eventually they helped him to his feet and he looked around.