The Prince and The Gladiator

In Hollywood, a town famous for sport shirts and informality of dress, Maurice Perlmutter made a fetish out of his clothes. He had 15 dark blue pin-striped suits in his closet. He had two dozen plain blue silk ties and all his shirts were white broadcloth with detachable stiff collars. He always had a shine on his shoes and he had never been seen in public with his collar unbuttoned, his tie loosened or a hair out of place. If he looked like a bookkeeper at least he looked like a successful one. In his quiet, fatherly way he had kept a great many household names out of the bankruptcy courts and the clutches of the Internal Revenue Department. The combined yearly gross incomes of his clients would have been enough to buy any three large cities in the country but he treated them all as his spoiled, foolish children and had been known to turn at least one of Hollywood's most famous glamor names over his knee and not for the usual Hollywood reason. He considered himself a fair, stern, just and sorely tried man. He hadn't been to a movie since Vilma Banky retired so he was not overly impressed with the importance of his clients.

The legend on the oak door of his office said simply: "M. Perlmutter: Business Advisor."

Most of Maurice Perlmutter's clients never saw the money they earned. Their salary checks were delivered to the agent. He took his 10 percent out and sent the balance on to Perlmutter. Perlmutter paid their household bills, their bar and restaurant bills, their clothing and liquor bills. Before they made a major purchase like a car, or a Moorish stucco castle in Beverly Hills, they consulted with him to find out if they could afford it. Most of them had no idea how much money they had on hand. They just kept spending until they got the ominous call from Perlmutter telling them the hard facts of their financial life. Maurice Perlmutter's main objective in life was to invest his clients' money so that when their beauty, their talent or their vogue disappeared they would have enough left to get through the rest of their lives. He considered his five percent fee a modest one.

When Buddy Tyler was ushered into his office he had already spent 25 minutes going over the file, refreshing himself on Buddy's current financial situation. He was sure that Buddy wanted to buy something. A realistic appraisal of the file convinced him that he must say no if the object in question was any more expensive than a new tie.

"Hello, Mr. Perlmutter," said Buddy.

"Sit down, Bernie," said Maurice. It was a fetish of his to call his clients by their real names.

Buddy sat. Mr. Perlmutter stared at him. Buddy found himself feeling the same way he always felt in Mr. Perlmutter's presence... a little like a boy who had been sent to the Principal's office and was about to confess that he'd been bad.

"Are you working on a picture now, Bernie?"

"I'm about to start a new one. A Civil War picture. It's called Confederate Gray."

"Is it a good part?"

"Yeah. It's all right. What do I know from the Civil War?"

"What did you know from the Crusades? Or King Arthur?"

"Yeah. You're right."

"Well, Bernie, what's on your mind? I assume you didn't ask for this appointment to discuss Mr. Lincoln's Army."

"I want to buy a fighter."

"A plane? A fighter plane?" Mr. Perlmutter was ready to believe anything of a client.

"A prize fighter."

"Oh. A gladiator."

"Yeah. A gladiator. Funny you should use that word. I figured out a gimmick for him. His name's Pancho Lopez. You know how they call me the Crown Prince of the Movies?"

"Yes, Bernie, I know."

"Well, I want to get him one of those fancy silk robes like fighters wear in the ring and have written on the back of it, 'Pancho Lopez, the Prince's Gladiator.' Good gimmick, ain't it?"

"You say you want to buy him?"

"That's right."

"Why?"

"An investment. He's a good prospect."

Maurice Perlmutter stared at his client. There was a moment of silence. Buddy Tyler looked at his cuticle and snipped off a piece of flesh beside the nail with his front teeth.

"All right, so it's a lousy investment. I just want to own him, that's all."

"You want to own him?"

"Sure. Own him. Have him belong to me."

"You're not satisfied with buying cars and motorcycles and houses and planes. Now you want to buy people."

"You don't understand, Mr. Perlmutter. Al Swanson's his manager. He'll sell me 50 percent of him for three grand. It'll cost me about 250 bucks a month to support him."

"So you won't really own him? You'll just own half of him. Which half do you get, the half that eats?"

"Please, Mr. Perlmutter, no jokes. I'm serious. I want to buy him."

"Why?"

"I'm interested in prize fighting. Sinatra has a piece of a fighter. Jolson used to have a couple of them. What's so terrible about my being interested in being part of a sport?"

"Bernie, you don't know a lightweight from a six-day bike rider."

"All right. So I don't know anything about fighting. I just want him, that's all. I'm so goddamned sick of people telling me what I can do and what I can't do. First it was my old lady. 'Bernie, don't do this, Bernie, don't do that.' That's why I took off from the Bronx, me and Pete. You won't believe this but we had a ball when we first got out here and worked at Douglas. There was nobody to push us around and tell us what we couldn't do. Then when that lush turned out to be a director and put me in his lousy picture all of a sudden I inherited a bunch of other bosses. The Old Man at the studio, telling me what kind of parts I had to play, what girls I had to take out dancing so I'd get my name in those lousy columns. Then my agent. Now you. I just want to buy the gladiator, that's all, Mr. Perlmutter."

"Like you wanted to buy the Italian sports car that you wrapped around a lamppost in Coldwater Canyon. Like you wanted to buy the Piper Cub you ploughed into the side of the hill in Chatsworth."

"All right. I did all that. I admit it. This is different."

"Bernie, the answer is no."

"Who says so?"

"I say so. I, Maurice Perlmutter, say so."

"And who the hell are you? My business manager. A five percenter. Big deal. Who gave you the right to tell me what I can or cannot do?"

"You did, Bernie, when you hired me. Let me tell you something, Bernie. Sit down and listen to me. If you want to take your affairs out of my hands, that's your decision to make but first listen to me."

"Sure. Go ahead. I'll listen."

"Just don't take what I'm going to say personally. I'm not talking about you specifically. I'm talking about a couple of thousand yous, a lot of whom are clients of mine. You're all pretty or handsome or talented. Most of you quit school before you finished high school. Most of you came from homes that were lower-middle-class or poor. Most of you, if you weren't pretty or handsome or talented, would wind up working in the local supermarket or beauty parlor or as a file clerk or typist for General Motors. But no, you're a special breed. You're pretty, you're handsome, you're talented. You have a special something that jumps off a movie screen and makes the people who have paid their way in care about the foolish things that are happening to you in a movie. There aren't many of you. You're a gifted few. You're valuable and because you are, a lot of people like me who aren't pretty or handsome or talented make a pretty good living nibbling away at the edges of your income. And what do you get? Adulation. Wealth. By background, training and experience you're not equipped to handle either. It's all first generation wealth to you, you're not accustomed to handling it, appreciating or keeping it. You have no stability. You're the kid in the candy store, you're the miner rushing down from the hills on Saturday night with his pocket loaded with gold nuggets. The world is your oyster, you can have anything you desire. Whatever you want you can have because aren't you one of the rare few? Aren't you handsome, pretty, talented and adored? Sure. But how long? How long before some other freak comes in with his head shaved on one side and takes your public away from you? How long before the hair gets shorter and thinner? How long before you wind up doing bits and walk-ons? That's where people like me come in. You pay us to supply the sense of responsibility you lack. You pay us to supply the maturity you lack, the judgment you'll never have. You pay us to keep you from ruining yourselves."

"Long speech, Mr. Perlmutter."

"Not so long, Bernie."

"And what's this Bernie bit? My name is Buddy. Buddy Tyler."

"Your name is Bernie. Bernie Levine. It has to be, as far as I'm concerned. As far as you're concerned you're Buddy Tyler and you'll go on being Buddy Tyler. I know that sooner or later you'll go back to being Bernie Levine when your popularity has run its course and the teen-age girls start swooning over some other personality."

"Who says that has to happen?"

"History says that has to happen. The concrete footprints at Grauman's Chinese say that has to happen. The famous people you see lining up for an extra call, hoping for a day's pay say so."

"So, I get older. I can go on, doing different parts."

"Can you? You're fooling yourself that you're an actor. You're not. You haven't spent 10 minutes of your life learning to be an actor. You do what your director tells you to do, say what your writer tells you to say. You're an attractive animal. And I can't think

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Prince and Gladiator (continued from page 18)

of anything sadder Bernie than a toothless, aging lion."

"You oughta get yourself a coach, Mr. Perlmutter."

"So you want to own a gladiator? You want to own a prize fighter. You want to sit at ringside and watch him get his brains scrambled and know you own him and know that he's getting his lumps and you're not. Or you want to watch him cut somebody else up and sit and say he's mine. I don't even think that's the act of an attractive animal. Just a plain ordinary animal."

"You're a real headshrinker, aren't you, Mr. Perlmutter?"

"No Bernie. You know what I am. A business manager. A five percenter."

"All right," said Buddy. "OK."

He lit a cigarette and looked at the framed certificate on the wall that announced that Maurice Perlmutter was a Certified Public Accountant.

"I don't have the money to buy the fighter, is that right, Mr. Perlmutter?"

"You don't have the money."

"I could maybe hold up the studio for an extra five grand on the Civil War picture."

"You don't really think so, do you, Bernie?"

"No," said Buddy. "I owe them so many pictures now they could cut me down to cigarette money if they wanted to get nasty."

Buddy reached over to the desk and put out his cigarette in the circular metal ash tray on Perlmutter's desk.

"You really want that fighter, don't you, Bernie?"

"I told you."

"How bad do you want him?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just what it says. How bad do you want him?"

"Real bad."

"All right. Let's see if we can work it out."

Buddy sat forward on his chair. His face wore the expression of a child who has just been told he can stay up a half-hour past his bedtime.

"How many cars have you got, Bernie?"

"Three. No, wait a minute. Four, counting the Porsche."

"I think you could probably get 3500 for the Cadillac convertible. Do you want your fighter that bad?"

"Yeah. We could sell the Cadillac. Let's do that, Mr. Perlmutter. Sell the Cadillac."

"All right, that gives your down payment on the fighter. That takes care of the $3000 Al Swanson wants for half of his contract. Where are we going to find the $250 a month for his bills?"

"Can't we afford the two and a half hundred?"

"Bernie, you make a hundred and ten thousand dollars a year. You know something very amusing? You were better off when you were making 60 bucks a week at Douglas. Let's find out how bad you want this fighter. How much do you pay Pete?"

"Pete?"

"Pete."

"I give him... 50, 60 bucks a week walking around money."

"Let's say 60. That's 260 bucks a month. That would take care of your fighter, wouldn't it?"

"Now wait a minute, Mr. Perlmutter. If you're hinting I should get rid of Pete, forget it. Forget it goddamned quick."

"Why, Bernie? What does he do for you that's worth 260 bucks a month above and beyond his keep?"

"He does lots of things. He takes care of things for me. I don't know what I'd do without Pete."

"He's a stooge, isn't he?"

"Knock it off. Get off my back, Mr. Perlmutter."

"Why do you need him so badly, Bernie?"

"Pete and me grew up together. We took off from the Bronx together. We're buddies. I need him."

"You need him around to tell you how great you are? You need him to boost your ego, to yes you?"

"You don't know Pete. He's always needling me. A yes man? Is that what you think he is? Pete's the biggest no man in town. You don't understand. Mr. Perlmutter. Pete is the only friend I have in the world. If I wake up in the middle of the night and I can't sleep, Pete's around to play gin rummy with. He knows what a mothering crock this whole setup is. I need Pete around me. I'd go crazy without him. I'd be alone."

"Yes, I guess you would, Bernie. I guess Pete earns his two and a half bills, doesn't he?"

"You're damned right he does. He cues me at night, sobers me up when I've had a snootful and sees that I get to the set on time. He keeps me out of trouble. I need him."

"All right, Bernie. Let's find another way to get the money for your fighter, what's his name?"

"Lopez. Pancho Lopez."

"Mexican?"

"Yeah. Mex."

"They make good fighters."

"This kid's won all seven of his starts. Five by KOs. Swanson says he's the best prospect he's ever seen."

"Who's your stand-in at the studio, Bernie?"

"Nobody regular. Usually, the first day of shooting we take a look at the extra cell and if there's some old-timer really on his upper's who's anywhere near my size we use him as the stand-in."

"Is Pancho Lopez anywhere near your size?"

"Yeah. I got it. That's a great idea, Mr. Perlmutter. That way he'd be on the set all the time. We could maybe spar between takes. That way we could both stay in condition."

"And he'd make enough to take care of his expenses without facing up to the necessity of getting rid of Pete."

"There ain't no necessity for getting rid of Pete. Now or any other time."

"Do you think the studio would let you hire Lopez as your stand-in?"

"Sure. They don't care. That's great."

"So you have your fighter, Bernie."

Buddy got up and came over to the desk. He stood beside Maurice Perlmutter.

"Mr. Perlmutter," he said. "You're the greatest."

"The greatest what, Bernie?"

"The greatest certified public accountant."

"Just see that I get a couple of seats ringside when he hits the big time."

"Ringside? Mr. Perlmutter, you can referee."

"And Bernie. Cut down on your liquor bills, will you?"

"Sure. You'll notice the difference right away. Me and Pete have to go into training. You'll see, Mr. Perlmutter, this is gonna turn out to be the best investment I ever made."

• • •

All the rest of that week, Buddy and Pete spent every minute they could steal away from the studio at the gym watching Pancho Lopez work out. Buddy had to drop into the still gallery for a sitting one afternoon and he spent one morning with wardrobe getting fitted for his Confederate uniform. He got to bed every night at 10 o'clock and had Al Swanson give him the diet Pancho was using. He bought a skipping rope and a punching bag and he and Pete worked out in the garage. There was a lot of space now that the Cadillac had gone.

Friday afternoon, Buddy and Pete were at the gym watching Pancho's last workout before the Legion fight.

"Ain't he gorgeous?" asked Buddy. "Tell the goddamned truth, ain't he gorgeous?"

Pete nodded. "He's got class, Bud. He's a little rough around the edges yet maybe, but he's got class. That's a good combination he was working for him and those jabs will keep him out of a lot of trouble."

"But you like him, Pete? You like (continued on page 24)Prince and Gladiator(continued from page 20)

him, don't you?"

"I like him. I like him fine."

In the ring, Pancho finished the workout, walked to the corner, took the headgear off, took a slug of water out of the taped bottle and spat it out in the funnel tied to the ring post. Al Swanson rubbed the vaseline off his face with a towel and massaged his back muscles in an absent-minded way. Buddy and Pete walked over to the corner.

"How's it feel, Gladiator?" asked Buddy.

"Fine, Mr. Tyler."

"Come on, Panch, knock it off. Don't Mr. Tyler me. We're partners, ain't we?"

"Sure, Buddy," said the fighter.

Al Swanson draped the towel around the fighter's shoulders.

"Go on in and get your shower."

Lopez climbed out of the ring and headed for the locker room. Buddy watched him go and was surprised to see the sweat running down the fighter's legs.

"He really got a workout," he said to Swanson.

"He's sharp. He'll kill the Polack tomorrow night."

"How'd you like the robe?"

"Like you say, Buddy, gorgeous."

"Mr. Perlmutter's got great taste. You really think he's gonna win?"

"Going away."

"How much is the purse?"

"Fifty bucks. That'll just about cover gym costs. But that's only the beginning, Buddy. You know the main thing we have to worry about this boy is not to get overconfident and carried away and overmatch him. I figure he'll be fighting semis in about two months. From there on the dough starts rolling in. Just don't get impatient, Buddy. A fighter's like a dame you're trying to make. You move too fast and you wind up shut out."

Buddy, Pete and Swanson toured the gym as they talked. Swanson pointed out other fighters and Buddy felt that none of them had that fine edge, that championship look that Lopez had. Swanson pointed out two boys skipping rope in the corner.

"That's Lindquist and Carroll, two of the fanciest kids in Pancho's division. We're not ready for them yet. Lindquist would jab Panch to death and Carroll can kill you in the belly. They're fighting the semi-windup tomorrow night. But one of these days we'll get both of them. When you see Pancho in the ring with those two you'll know it's because he's ready for them and you'll know that the gravy train is about to pull into the station."

Lopez, his hair still wet from the shower, joined them. Buddy put his arm around his waist and lifted him off the floor.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"Great, Buddy. Great. Hungry as a horse."

"Well, let's take care of that," said Buddy. "I'll tell you what, let's the four of us go up to the Derby and eat.

Swanson begged off.

"That's swell of you, Buddy," said Pancho. "But I couldn't go to the Brown Derby like this."

"Nuts," said Buddy. "They got ties there for guys turn up without them. Besides I got a sports jacket in car you can wear. Come on, how about it? A little pre-victory dinner? OK?

"OK?" he repeated.

"Anna's expecting me home to eat," said Pancho.

"Call her. Tell her to meet us at the Derby."

"She's got supper all cooked. Thanks anyway, Buddy, but some other time. OK?"

"Sure. Some other time," said Buddy.

"I'll go pick up the car and meet you downstairs," said Pete and walked away.

"Listen." said Buddy. "Tomorrow night. Let's have a big victory blowout. Just the four of us. You and Anna, me and Pete. I'll make the reservation. Where would you like to go?"

"Diosa Costello's at the Crescendo. Anna's very fond of her. Could we go there?"

"You bet we could. I'll have Pete make the reservation. Ringside. We'll have a big feed. You're the first four rounder, so you'll go on at 8:30. Figure it takes a minute and a half for the introductions and the instructions. It'll take you probably another minute to knock the Polack out. Figure we get out of the Legion by nine easy. We'll make a reservation for 9:30. OK? Our first victory celebration."

"Suppose I get licked?"

"Come on, Panch. Come off it. You're my gladiator, ain't you? I'm the bravest movies star since Errol Flynn, ain't I? My gladiator always wins. Right?"

Lopez smiled.

"Right," he said.

"Come on," said Buddy. "Let's get out of here. I'll drive you home."

"I can take a bus, Buddy.

"Come off it. Me and Pete have nothing to do anyway. Besides I want to meet this Anna of yours that keeps you away from all the available quail in this town."

"That'd be great, Buddy.

They waved to Swanson who was standing at the snack bar drinking a container of coffee and walked down the concrete stairs to the street. Pete was parked at the curb behind the wheel of the Porsche. They crowded into the Porsche. They crowded into it and Pancho gave Pete directions. Pete revved up the motor and they took off in a cloud of high-test gasoline fumes.

"How'd you like the robe, kid?" asked Buddy.

"Great. Just wonderful."

"Swanson tell you you're going to work as my stand-in on the picture?"

"He told me. I'm scared stiff. What do I know about the movie business?"

"What does he know?" asked Pete.

"This world famous movie star sitting next to you probably knows less about the movie business than anybody his size and weight in the state of California."

"There's nothing to it, Panch," said Buddy. "When the director is setting up the cameras and the lights for the next take you just stand in where I'll be when they start shooting and they can arrange their and... christ, I don't know what they do. Anyway, all you do is stand where the director tells you to stand and do what he tells you do to."

"The secret of Buddy Tyler's success," said Pete.

"Knock it off, Pete. How'd you get into fighting in the first place, Panch?"

"Same way you got into the movies, Bud," said Pete. "He met a fairy lush in a bar who told him he was pretty."

"I told you to knock it off, Pete. One more wisecrack and I'll knock your teeth down your throat."

"You and what stunt man?"

"Me and my gladiator."

"That's different," said Pete.

"I started fighting in the army," said Pancho. "I was 18 and I'd never even had a fist fight in school. But I was stuck in this camp in Texas and there was nothing to do so I started hanging around the gym. The first thing I knew I was in the ring."

"How'd you do?"

"I won the camp championship. Then when I got out and me and Anna got married I went to work in the furniture warehouse. It was tough going for a while and without saying anything to Anna I started hanging around the gym on my day off, sparring, working out. Al saw me and I wound up in the Amateurs. I used to hock the watches I won. Anna didn't know anything about it. She got awful quiet and had that kinda hurt look she gets on her face. I guess she figured all the time I was spending from home I was mixed up with some other dame. Finally I had to tell her. She took it pretty hard."

"Didn't want you getting banged up."

"Something like that. But she admitted we needed the extra dough. Then

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Prince and Gladiator (continued from page 24)

Al Swanson talked me into turning pro. That's it."

"How long you been married, kid?"

"Three years."

"You never stepped off the reservation?"

"Never what?"

"You know...had some other dame."

"No," said Pancho. "Never. Why would I want another woman? I have Anna."

"This one I have to see," said Buddy. "What's Anna like, Panch?"

"Anna? I've known her since we were seven years old. She's... I don't know how to say it. She's Anna."

"You dig her the most."

"Yeah," said Pancho Lopez. "I dig her the most. I couldn't think of being alive without Anna."

Pancho Lopez said this with such quiet dignity and sincerity that neither Buddy nor Pete made any comment. The three of them rode in silence. The neighborhood began to change for the worse. The slums of Los Angeles are, perhaps, no worse than the slums of any other large city. Maybe the climate and the palm trees just make them seem grubbier, meaner and more unpleasant.

The Porsche pulled up in front of a rundown frame building and was immediately surrounded by a group of curious children.

"You better sit in the car and guard the hub caps," said Buddy as he and Pancho got out.

"Please," said Pancho. "Could you and Pete come in and have supper with us? I'm sure Anna could make something for all of us."

"Thanks, kid, but we'd better run along. I'd just like to meet your wife and say hello. After all, we're gonna be close friends from now on, the four of us."

Buddy followed Pancho up the porch steps and through the door into a long, dark hallway. At the end of it they walked into a kitchen. Anna was standing at the stove. She turned when she heard the footsteps. When she saw Pancho her face lit up and she smiled. It was the warmest, most wonderful smile Buddy had ever seen. Her skin was dark, her black hair was long and the smile exposed two rows of white brilliant teeth. The smile lit Anna's whole face and she took a step forward toward Pancho. As she did, she noticed Buddy standing behind him. She paused and the smile disappeared. It was replaced by a nervous, shy grin.

Pancho went to her, put his arm around her and kissed her.

"This is Buddy Tyler, Anna. He wanted to meet you."

"Hello, Anna," said Buddy. He unleashed the smile that had decorated a dozen fan magazine covers. "It's very nice to meet you."

"Anna," said Pancho. "He's heard me talking about you all the way home and he said he had to come in and see such a woman."

"Such a sight, you mean. Look at me," she said, wiping her hands on the dish towel and pushing her hair back from her forehead.

"Why didn't you tell me you were bringing somebody home, Pancho? It isn't fair to walk in like this. . ."

Her voice was low and soft and though the words she was saying were critical words there wasn't the slightest hint of annoyance in them. She smiled again, like a little girl suddenly remembering her company manners. She came forward and extended her hand to Buddy Tyler.

"It's very nice to meet you, Mr. Tyler."

"Buddy."

"We see you very often in the movies, Buddy. My, you're brave."

"I have the bravest writers in town, Anna."

"Would you stay for supper?" asked Anna. "There's more than enough for another one."

"Thank you very much but I have to run along. I just wanted to see this woman Pancho's been bragging about. Pancho, you're a lucky guy."

"I know," said Pancho. He said it with complete certainty.

Anna smiled. There was no coquettishness in it.

"You should hear me talk about him, sometimes," she said.

Pancho and Anna held hands without self-consciousness and stood looking at Buddy.

"Well, I gotta run. Listen, tomorrow night, after the fight we celebrate. Anna, do you go to see Pancho fight?"

"No. I never go."

"You gotta break that rule when he fights for the championship."

"When he fights for the championship," said Anna, "maybe I'll break that rule."

"We'll pick you up here after the fight. Nice to have met you."

"Nice to have met you," she said.

When he got back to the car, Pete had three kids sitting with him.

"The only way I could keep them from walking off with the motor."

Pete pushed the kids out and Buddy climbed in. Pete put the car in gear and drove away and headed for the freeway entrance.

"How was she?" Pete asked.

"Anna? My gladiator is a lucky boy. If I had something like that under contract I'd be home at seven every night."

"For a week."

"But what a week."

"Stacked?" asked Pete.

"Now, how about that? I haven't the faintest idea. When was the last time I didn't notice how a broad was stacked? She has the damnedest face you've ever seen. I never got past her face. Her hair kept falling over her face. . . the blackest, thickest, sexiest goddamned hair you've ever seen. She's something. Well, if old Panch's too pooped to throw a punch tomorrow night I wouldn't blame him a bit. And speaking of cooze, what's on the schedule for tonight?"

"I thought you were in training."

"You mean you didn't set anything up?"

"You said yourself, you gotta get in training for the new movie."

"You didn't set up anything?"

"Relax, stallion. I'll call when we get back to the house. I didn't know whether you'd feel like sports tonight."

"I always feel like sports. Listen, Pete. . . when you call, see if there's anything dark with lots of black hair and big fat white teeth."

"You make it sound interesting. Maybe I'll just order two like that."

"You will like hell. Get yourself a blonde."

"But, Buddy boy, you sold me."

"Cut it out," said Buddy. "I'm serious. I said you get yourself a blonde."

Pete knew he was serious and let the subject drop.

• • •

Saturday night, Buddy and Pete got to the Legion at six o'clock and sat in the dressing room with Pancho, giving him advice, encouragement and instructions.

Pete surprised everybody by presenting Pancho with a pair of white silk trunks to match the robe. Stitched on the side in black thread was the legend, "The Gladiator." Buddy sent a corsage to Anna with a note saying. "In honor of our first victory, with love from the Prince to the Gladiator's wife."

By eight, they had fought the fight 10 times in the dressing room. Al Swanson finally asked Buddy and Pete to leave. "You're making the kid nervous," he said. "It's only a four rounder. You guys act like it's the seventh game of the World Series."

"Don't bring me down," said Buddy to Al.

"I'm not bringing anybody down. My job is taking care of the fighter. I'm telling you you're making him nervous. Besides, I want to talk to you about what you should do in his corner."

Al, Pete and Buddy stood in the corridor outside the dressing room while Pancho stretched out on the rubbing table and snoozed.

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Prince and Gladiator (continued from page 30)

"Listen," said Al. "Don't get any fancy ideas about playing second, Buddy. First of all you don't have no second license. You're just there to pull the stool out at the beginning of the round and put it in the ring at the end. And hands off the kid between rounds. If you don't know what you're doing, you can rub the wrong muscle and tighten him up. And above all, if the kid gets cut don't lay a finger on him."

"What do you mean, cut?" asked Buddy. "Who's gonna cut my gladiator?"

"The Polack's a chopper," said Al. "The kid can get cut up a little in the early rounds. Just relax. Cuts look a lot worse than they really are. By the third round Panch will get the range and start throwing in the bombs."

"OK. I got it."

The Legion attendant came down and told them they were on.

Buddy put on the turtle-neck sweater with "Pancho Lopez" written across the back of it. Pete left to get into his seat at ringside.

Buddy was more excited walking down the aisle toward the ring than he had ever been in his life. The crowd gave a roar when they recognized him. He smiled and clasping his hands over his head gave the traditional fighter salute. Pancho climbed through the ropes and sat quietly on the stool. Al Swanson was massaging his neck muscles through the robe and talking to him quietly. Across the ring, Alex Ozmanski, the opponent, came in and knelt in front of the stool and crossed himself. The referee called them to the center of the ring and gave them their instructions. Buddy didn't hear a word of them. He was looking at the lights overhead and at the smoke-filled interior of the arena. His heart was pounding and his mouth felt dry.

They walked back to their corner. Al and Buddy climbed through the ropes and stood on the apron. Al slid the robe off Pancho's shoulder and patted him on the back. Buddy hit him on the arm. The crowd roared when they recognized it as one of Buddy's mannerisms on the screen.

"Remember," said Buddy. "Remember, you're my gladiator. Kill him for me."

Pancho smiled a grotesque smile through his mouthpiece and pushed his gloves together, poised, waiting for the bell. The bell rang and Buddy and Al dropped to the arena floor and poked their heads through the ropes.

Buddy pulled the stool out of the ring and Pancho bounded to the center to meet his opponent.

"Kill him," said Buddy, to himself. Al Swanson riveted his eyes on the two fighters and watched carefully.

Ozmanski landed the first punch, a light jab to the mouth. Pancho danced around, shuffling his feet. He feinted and moved counter clock wise around Ozmanski. For a minute and a half nothing even remotely resembling a punishing blow was struck and the crowd started to stamp its feet and clap its hands in rhythm. The fighters clinched and Ozmanski wrestled Lopez to the ropes. He landed lefts and rights to the stomach and stepped back and landed a sharp right cross under Pancho's right eye. Blood poured out of the gash. Pancho wiped it away with his glove. The sight of blood stopped the stamping and the clapping. One leather-lunged fan in the balcony got a big laugh.

"Gladiator? He's a Gladys."

The laugh turned into a shout as Pancho feinted Ozmanski off balance and landed a combination high on the head. Ozmanski moved back and Pancho stalked him. A right to the body and a left to the jaw sent Ozmanski back against the ropes. Pancho looked him over coolly and carefully and exploded a combination on the head that started Ozmanski down. As he fell. Pancho stepped back and landed a hard right on the side of the face. Ozmanski fell on his face. It was obvious that no count was necessary. Ozmanski was out cold. Buddy climbed into the ring and lifted Pancho off his feet. Al Swanson wrapped the robe around his shoulder and wrapped a towel over his head. Ozmanski's seconds were lifting him to his feet and carrying him to his corner. He sprawled on the chair, glassy-eyed as the doctor examined him. Lopez got off his stool and walked over, leaned his head in and saw that Ozmanski was starting to come out of it.

"What's your name?" the doctor asked.

"Ozmanski. Alex Ozmanski."

"What day is it?"

"Saturday."

"What round?"

"I don't know."

The ring announcer reached for the mike hanging from the ceiling. "The time: two minutes, 12 seconds of the first round. The winner by a knockout, Pancho Lopez. . ."

The crowd roared its approval. Pancho acknowledged it by holding his right hand aloft. Buddy joined him and held his hand aloft.

In the dressing room afterwards, Al examined the cut under Pancho's eye. It was really only a scratch but the eye was beginning to puff and the first yellow and black streaks of a mouse began appearing. He put a piece of adhesive tape over the cut and sent Pancho into the shower.

"How about that?" asked Buddy. "Tell the truth, Pete, ain't he gorgeous?"

"I tell you the truth," said Pete. "He is gorgeous."

"He is much fighter," said Buddy. "He's the nuts.

"How about it, Al?" he asked. "He was great, wasn't he?"

"I told you," said Al. "The best prospect I ever seen."

"The picture starts shooting Monday. They got a gym out at E-A. We can work out there on the lunch break. He can do his road work on the back lot. How about his next fight? When does he fight again?"

"I'll talk to them about it Monday. We're not going to have any trouble getting him fights," said Al. "Not after tonight. The crowd loved him. You went over big, too."

"Sure," said Pete. "He always goes over big."

"Knock it off," said Buddy. "Come on, Panch. Come on. We gotta go pick up Anna."

Pancho came out of the shower and put on his shorts and sat down to put on his shoes and socks.

"What a party we're gonna have," said Buddy. "What a celebration. Hey, Al, you wanna come along?"

"Thanks," said Al, who'd been mad because he hadn't been invited. "I gotta hit the pad. I'm pooped."

"You're pooped," said Pete. "Who did you lick tonight?"

"You," said Al, "if you don't shut your big mouth."

Pancho finished dressing and ran a comb through his hair.

"Come on," said Buddy. "Let's go pick up Anna."

Al was filling a TWA flight bag with Pancho's mouthpiece, towel and ring shoes. His robe and socks were laid out with his trunks on top of a cardboard suitcase. Pete folded them and put them inside. He took the flight bag from Swanson, picked up the suitcase in the other hand and headed for the door. Buddy and Pancho followed him. They waved to Swanson. "Sure you don't want to tie one on with us?" asked Buddy.

"I think I'll go back up and watch the rest of the card," said Al. "Maybe the kid's next opponent is fighting one of the other fours."

The trip to Pancho's place was loud and hilarious. Pancho took more of a beating from Buddy's affectionate jabs on the arm than he'd taken from his ring opponent. By the time the car pulled up in front of the ramshackle frame house all three of them were laughing over nothing in particular. It was one of those evenings when almost (continued on page 36)

Prince and Gladiator (continued from page 32) anything was guaranteed to be the funniest joke in the world. As Pete slid the car into the curb, Pancho leaped out, without opening the door, reached in the back for his suitcase and flight bag and started running toward the house.

"Hey," yelled Buddy. "Wait a minute. Wait for the prince."

"We'll be right out," yelled Pancho, and disappeared into the house.

"How about that?" asked Buddy. "What's his hurry?"

"Did it ever occur to you," asked Pete, "that he wants to see his wife"

"Sure. Did it ever occur to you I might want to see his wife, too?"

"It occurred to me," said Pete.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Come off it, Buddy."

"Come off nothing. Don't give me a hard time. You got something to say, say it."

"And have you tell me I'm trying to bring you down? Have you tell me it's none of my business? Have you remind me I'm one of the hired help?"

"You haven't seen her."

"All right. I haven't seen her. Forget it."

"What's taking him so goddamned long?"

"He's only been gone a couple of minutes."

"I'm not gonna make a move, Pete. I can look, can't I? Didn't you ever look without touching?"

"Sure. I did. When did you?"

"All right. Forget it."

"She's Pancho's wife. She's crazy about him. You said so yourself."

"Then what are you worrying about?"

"Me? I'm not worrying about a thing. But if I had a yen for the wife of a guy who hits as hard as your gladiator, I'd be worried silly. I'd put a couple of state lines between me and a dame like that."

"Well, you're not me."

"Every night when I say my prayers, that's one of the things I'm grateful for. I'm not you. I'm just Pete the Mooch. Pete the Stooge. I'm the Prince's jester and I haven't even seen the Gladiator's wife."

"You will in a minute. Take a good look and see if you still want to put a couple of state lines between you."

"Why wouldn't you let me bring a couple of dames along tonight? It's crazy, the two of us and the two of them."

"What's crazy about it?"

"Did it ever occur to you they might want to be alone tonight?"

"Did it ever occur to you they may be glad to be out with us, going to a night club, living it up? Did it ever occur to you we got a right to celebrate the fight tonight with them?"

"OK, Bernie."

"I told you before, cut out that Bernie stuff."

"I used to like Bernie a lot. He was a nice guy."

"Come on, Pete. Cut it out. Put the needles away. All of a sudden you make a federal case out of it. So she's a nice kid and I like her. What am I, Jack the Ripper?"

"Yeah. Prince Jack the Ripper, boy movie star."

The door to the house opened and Anna and Pancho came out. Pancho had changed his clothes and was wearing a blue serge suit, a white shirt and a dark tie. Anna was wearing Buddy's corsage on her shoulder. She wore a black dress with a square neckline and a pearl choker. She looked wonderful.

"Like the planes over LaGuardia on a cloudy day," whispered Pete. "Stacked."

"Cut it out," said Buddy and got out and opened the door. He put his hand out and Anna took it.

"Hello, Buddy," she said.

"I brought him back to you in one piece, didn't I? Did you see it on TV?"

"No. My neighbor told me about it. He's good, is'nt he?"

"The greatest," said Buddy. "Hey, you haven't met Pete. Anna, Pete, Pete, Anna."

"Hello," said Pete.

"Hello, Pete," said Anna.

Buddy held the door open and Pancho and Anna got into the back seat of the convertible. Buddy got in the front and they drove off.

The Crescendo was crowded but the four of them were ushered through the ropes at the door, past the crowd waiting for tables and shown to a ringside table. Anna loved the show. She had two Scotches and got a case of the giggles. When the show ended and the dancing started, she and Pancho excused themselves and danced a creditable rhumba. When the got back to the table, Diosa Costello was sitting at the table taking to Pete and Buddy. They were old friends. Diosa looked at Anna, who was staring at her.

"Very nice, Buddy," she said. "You always have good taste."

"She's Pancho's wife," said Buddy introducing them.

Diosa and Anna hit it off immediately. They started speaking Spanish to each other.

After Diosa excused herself to get ready for the next show, Buddy turned to Anna.

"You're quite a rhumba dancer," he said.

"Pretty good," she said and giggled.

She won cups," said Pancho. "Before we were married, she won cups,"

"I believe it," said Pete.

"It's not hard to dance it," said Anna. "You don't rhumba?" she asked Pete.

"I don't even walk to good," he said.

"And you, Buddy? You rhumba, don't you?"

"No," said Buddy. "I've always wanted to learn but nobody would take me on."

"I take you on," said Anna. "Come on. It's easy. I'll show you."

They got up and walked to the dance floor and Buddy took her in his arms.

Pete watched with a cynicism born of the knowledge that for his age and weight, Buddy Tyler was probably the best and most famous rhumba dancer on the Sunset Strip.

After the Crescendo closed, they hit a succession of side street bars on their trip downtown to the Lopez house. Finally, at 4:30 in the morning, Pete slid the convertible into the curb. He was cold sober. He never drank while he was working. He considered the evening work. Anna and Pancho got out of the car and said good night to Pete. Buddy walked to the door with them. As Pancho fumbled in his pocket for the key, Buddy let his arm slide around Anna's waist. She turned; giggled and then bent forward and kissed him on the check.

"Thank you for a wonderful evening," she said.

"Yeah," said Pancho. "Thank you. Buddy."

"Nothing," said Buddy. "See you on the set Monday."

• • •

Right from the start the picture went well. There was a wild display of temper when Marla Van Dyke, his co-star discovered that Buddy preferred working out in the gym with Pancho during the lunch break to a dressing room quickie with her. She even made a mild pass at Pancho with a complete lack of any result.

"Muscle-bound bird-brain," she said and concentrated on her performance.

Buddy was never happier or easier to work with. He did whatever the director told him to do and left the extras completely alone. When the day's shooting was over, he and Pancho did their roadwork on the hills of the back lot. In the evening, he invited Anna and Pancho over to his place or went to theirs. Anna cooked for him and he and spent quiet evenings watching television with them. He saw less of Pete, Pete, somehow, was never around when Pancho and Anna came to the house. He stopped inviting him to go downtown to the Lopez house with him. Buddy discovered that Anna was a Dolores Del Rio fan and had never

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Prince and Gladiator (continued from page 36)

seen Garbo. He set up a projection room and ran all of Dolores Del Rio's pictures for her. He ran three of his old pictures.

Pancho won his second fight by a TKO in the fourth round In his first six rounder he won a unanimous decision from a former contender who was on the skids and slipping back to the four rounders where he'd started. After each of the fights, Pancho, Anna and Buddy celebrated. By the time the picture was ready for the cutter, Buddy was becoming Anna's best rhumba pupil.

By the time Pancho was fighting six rounders, he'd been adopted by the entire studio. They turned out en masse for his fights. The director of Publicity decided that Buddy Tyler's fighter was good publicity and regularly took full-page ads in the trades on the day of Pancho fights boasting about "The Prince's Gladiator." He showed rare restraint by noting in the very smallest type in the very bottom left hand corner that Buddy Tyler was under contract to E-A and could be seen next in that brilliant epic of the Civil War, Confederate Gray. The Olympic and the Legion began attracting a new kind of audience: fans who didn't know a left hook from a right cross but wanted a close-up look at Buddy Tyler. Pancho was a big success and he began to get invitations to all the right parties. At Buddy's suggestion, he turned them all down.

"Who needs them?" asked Buddy. "We got each other, you and me and Anna. The parties would just bore us to tears."

Pete stopped going to the fights and rarely showed up on the set. He was, of course, still living at Buddy's but weeks went by without he and Buddy seeing each other. He had very few duties. He regularly had the oil changed in the cars and spent two days supervising the installation of a new heating system in the playhouse. Buddy left his weekly allowance, his "walking around money" on the dresser in his room, the way he left the cook's wages on the kitchen table.

One night, after one of Pancho's fights, Buddy let himself in the front door and started up to his room. He noticed a light on in the living room and went in to investigate it. He found Pete stretched out on the couch. There was a bottle of liquor on the floor and an empty glass on the coffee table beside the couch. Pete opened his eyes, started at Buddy for a minute and then sat up. He was loaded.

"Hello, Buddy-Bud. Who'd he knock out for you tonight? Mr. Perlmutter? Your old lady? Or was it my turn? Did you sit there in your white cashmere turtle-neck and watch him beat me to a pulp, for old time's sake"

"You're loaded."

"Sure. Loaded."

"Why don't you get to bed?"

"I should, shouldn't I, Buddy-Bud? I got a busy day ahead of me tomorrow. After the mailman comes, I may have to autograph 10 or 12 of your pictures and send them out to your fans."

Buddy sat on the couch.

"What's the matter, Pete?"

"Nothing," said Pete. "Not a goddamned thing. I just got the feeling it's time for me to start moving again."

"Come on. Cut it out, Pete."

"Don't bring you down? Right? Who needs me?"

"I do."

"Sure. How's Anna?"

"Fine."

"Pancho win?"

"Third round. Knockout."

"And you've been celebrating. Rhumbaing. You know, Buddy, you keep it up, Pancho keeps winning, you may turn into a pretty good rhumba dancer."

"Knock it off."

"Sure. Knock it off. Don't bring you down. Did you make a pass at her yet?"

"I told you to cut it out."

"Sure. Want a drink?"

"No thanks."

"You sworn off booze as well as dames? How is Anna?"

"Fine I told you."

"Take it easy, Buddy-Bud. Easy. I like Anna. I like Anna fine. A nice girl. The only thing I can't figure, Bud, is why you have to get the big yen for the one girl in town whose husband you can't buy off. Any other dame you want you can buy the husband off with a bit part. Or you can send him out of town on location. You have to go boom for the one dame in Hollywood it looks like to me isn't for sale. Where'd you go tonight?"

"The Statler."

"The what?"

"The Statler. Anna wanted to see the ice show."

"Oh, Buddy-Bud. The ice show! You got it bad."

Buddy smiled.

"Great show," he said."It Stinks on Ice starring all your old favorites of the skating world. You'da loved it."

"How's the picture going?"

"Fine. Great picture. Give me a drink, will you, Pete?"

Pete reached for the bottle and poured a drink into the dirty glass.

"You want some ice or water? I'll get it for you."

"No. Straight is fine."

Buddy downed the drink in one gulp. Put his feet up on the coffee table and rested his head against the back of the sofa.

"This clean living is getting me down," he said.

"You want me to get a couple of broads over here?" asked Pete.

"No, Pete. That won't solve a goddamned thing."

"It's bad, huh?"

"Real bad. I'm out of my mothering mind. She's not beautiful. There are 20 dames in every extra call that are more beautiful than she is. Christ knows she's no brain wave. What is it? What's with me?"

"It happens. Not to guys like us usually: not to the stud horses and the stallions. We're immune. Most of the time. They ain't invented a shot or a pill for it yet."

"You know I can't do anything about it. Maybe that's it. Maybe you gotta have something you know you can't have. I won't make a move. She ain't about to, ever. You run into anything good, Pete?"

"The usual. Strictly biff, bam, thank you, ma'am. You started hating him yet?"

"Pancho"

"Yeah, Pancho. You started hating him? On those long drives home you started picturing where they are and what they're doing? You started thinking if he isn't around it'd be easy?"

"Once in a while. Why don't you mind your own goddamned business?"

"Sorry. Force of habit. It used to be my business."

"It was a mistake putting him on the picture. He's always around."

"I thought I might go away for a while, Bud. I got a cousin up north, outside Frisco. I thought I might go up there for a while."

"For what? For christ sake, Pete, don't you walk out on me now."

"I figured it was the other way around. How do you think I feel sitting around with nothing to do, finding my money on the bureau? I figure up to now I've been paying my way. Sure. I got you girls and sobered you up, ran your errands and wet-nursed you. At least I earned my keep. I don't even do that any more. What am I? A boarder on a due bill? A poor relative? A moocher? You don't need me worth a damn. At least before I had the illusion I was paying my way. I don't even have that any more. I figure it's time to move on."

"You ain't got no cousin in Frisco."

"All right, I ain't got no cousin in Frisco."

"Pete, listen to me. Willya?"

"Sure. Talk."

(continued page 50) Prince and Gladiator (continued from page 38)

"I need you. Who cares what you do? I need you around. Things are all screwed up right now. They won't always be that way. Give me some time to work this thing out. Don't go barreling off somewhere. Stick around. Give me a chance to work it out."

"Ok. I'll give you a month."

"Thanks, Pete."

Pete looked up at him.

"You want me to get you a girl?" he asked.

"No. I'm pooped. I'm gonna hit the hay, Pete."

"You hit the hay, Buddy-Bud. I'll hit the bottle."

• • •

Pancho won his next two fights in spectacular fashion. In one of them he got off the floor to knock out his opponent with one punch. He was getting more publicity than most main event fighters. The picture was grinding its way to a conclusion and Pete wasn't around much except to sleep. Buddy continued to leave his money on the bureau in his room.

One afternoon Buddy had no call at the studio and drove down to the gym. He found Al Swanson standing by the ring watching Pancho spar with a flyweight.

"It sharpens up his timing, sparring with a kid that light," said Al.

"Come on over here, I want to talk to you," said Buddy.

He and Al walked over to a bench against the side wall.

"What's on your mind, kid? You getting much?"

"Pancho looked good the last time out, didn't he, Al?"

"He looked great. I told you right from the start. The greatest prospect I've ever seen. He's got big things ahead of him."

"That's what I want to talk to you about. What's the reaction to him around the gym? How do the matchmakers feel about him?"

"They're crazy about him. They haven't had a draw like this in years. They're trying to talk me into throwing him into a semi-windup."

"Well?"

"He ain't ready for it."

"Who says so, Al?"

"I say so. Remember our agreement. You take the bows, I take care of the fighter. He needs four or five more setups before we're ready to move up into the semi-finals."

"Get him Carroll for his next fight."

"Are you nuts? Carroll will kill him. He'll tear his belly out. We're at least five fights away from Carroll."

"You heard me, Al. Get Carroll."

"What are you trying to pull, Buddy? If you got any idea of throwing Pancho in with Carroll so you can pick up a wad betting on Carroll, forget it. This kid is too good to throw away for something like that. I know what'll happen. Carroll will tear him apart."

"Don't you think they'd make the match?"

"In a minute. They'd love to throw Pancho and Carroll together in a semi-windup. We won't make the match."

"Who says we won't?"

"I say we won't."

"I say we will, Al. Let me ask you something. You like the way things been going, don't you? You like all the hoopla, all the publicity. You like eating regularly and having the kid's grocery bills off your neck, don't you. Suppose I pull out? Let's see how easy it is for you to get fights for Pancho then, without me up in the ring acting as a shill. See how easy it is when I get the publicity boys to spread the word around. Did you ever sit down and figure out how easy it is for a guy like me to make a guy like you unemployable? Or maybe I get real generous and buy your hunk of the kid. You don't know how hard it will be for you not to sell me your piece of him if I really want it. No, Al – Pancho fights Carroll. Just because I say so."

"All right, Buddy. You got all the cards. He fights Carroll."

"I knew you'd see it my way, Al."

"Just let me ask you one thing. What's the gimmick. What's the percentage? You betting against him?"

"I'm, betting on him. You oughta to know me well enough to know I wouldn't bet against my gladiator. Relax, Al. He's good. He's the best prospect you've ever seen. One or two things happen. If he wins, I pick up a big chunk of change and we have a main bout fighter. If he loses . . . look, everybody loses a fight once in a while. I can afford to lose a little money. It's what they call a calculated risk."

"OK," said Al. "I just want one thing straight. I'm gonna train him for this one to win. Maybe he can. We're gonna try."

"Of course you're gonna try. You go on over and make the match. A week from Thursday if you can swing it."

"Not that soon."

"That soon. Because I said so, Al."

Al Swanson made the match. Buddy replaced Pancho as his stand-in to give him a chance to work with Swanson at the gym all day.

The ticket sale was sensational.

While the fourth preliminary fight was on, Buddy walked down to the dressing room. He was surprised to find Pete there. Pancho was stretched out on the rubbing table with his eyes closed. Al came toward him.

"How is he?" asked Buddy.

"He's never been in better shape," said Al. "I think he has a chance. He could win it."

"Of course he could win it," said Buddy. "He's going to."

Buddy walked over to the table. Pancho opened his eyes and smiled up at him. Buddy hit him on the arm.

"How's the gladiator?"

"Great, Buddy."

"You're gonna take him. Big."

"I'm gonna try."

"Good."

He turned to Pete.

"Where you been keeping yourself?" he asked.

"At the Public Library," said Pete. "I've been studying ancient Mayan culture, whatever the hell that is."

"He looks great, doesn't he, Pete? Tell the truth."

"The truth, Bernie? In front of all these people?"

"Knock it off."

"Sure, Bernie."

"Knock off the Bernie, too."

"Yes sir. Consider it knocked off."

Pete turned and left the dressing room. Buddy followed him a couple of minutes later. He wasn't working Pancho's corner tonight. He had a seat right below the ring stairs. He watched the last round of a dull four rounder and stood up with the rest of the crowd when Pancho and Al came down the aisle and climbed into the ring. Carroll came in to complete silence. As the referee called them to the center of the ring for their instructions, Buddy glanced to his right and was surprised to find that Pete was sitting next to him.

"I figured you'd want me here tonight," said Pete.

"You figured right," said Buddy.

The fighters came back to their corners. Buddy cracked his knuckles and leaned forward. Al took the silk robe off Pancho, rubbed his shoulder muscles, climbed out of the ring and whispered some last-minute instructions to him. As the bell rang, he pulled the stool out of the ring and crouched below the stairs, his eyes on a level with the ring floor.

For most of the first round they circled and felt each other out. Pancho tried a jab, Carroll countered and they fell into a clinch. Two minutes in, Pancho landed a hard right high on the head that forced Carroll back and he followed with combinations that had the crowd on its feet. Carroll, pinned

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Prince and Gladiator (continued from page 50)

in the corner, dodged, slipped the punches and rode out the storm. The bridge of his nose was cut and he wiped it away with his glove and kept his distance for the rest of the round.

In the second round, Carroll landed two hard rights to the midsection that hurt. In a clinch he drove a left into the solar plexus and a hard right to the side of Pancho's face. Just at the bell Carroll unleashed a hard right that caught Pancho flush on the mouth and sent his mouthpiece spinning across the ring.

By the middle of the third round it was apparent that the fight was over. There was no doubt about the outcome. Carroll sunk punch after punch into Pancho's stomach, shifted his attack to the head and roughed him up in the clinches. In the third round Carroll opened a cut over Pancho's eye that bled for the rest of the fight. In the fourth round, a right hook broke Pancho's nose. Carroll shifted his attack. His body attack had slowed Pancho down to a crawl and he was able to circle and jab, hard slashing blows that opened a cut over the other eye and ripped a long gash on the upper lip. At the bell ending round four, Pancho was hanging on, his back against the ropes, his face a mass of blood. The second worked frantically to close the cuts and Al Swanson came down the stairs and knelt in front of Buddy.

"He's whipped,"he said. "I'm telling him to find a spot to go down."

"The hell you are," said Buddy.

"He can't win. All he can do is to get cut up. His nose is broken. He's having trouble breathing."

"You have him quit and I'm through with both of you," said Buddy. "He don't go in the tank. He finishes the fight."

"You bastard," said Al.

"You heard me," said Buddy, "You have him quit and you'll be riding the top of every blacklist in this town."

The 10-second warning buzzer sounded and the seconds climbed out of the ring. The bell rang and Pancho walked flat-footedly out to meet Carroll. Carroll measured him carefully . . . glided around him, landing light blows to the face. Within 30 seconds the cuts had been opened and the blood was pouring off Pancho's face. Carroll pushed in close and standing right over Buddy's seat he sunk a hard right to the stomach. Buddy looked up and watched another punch go into the midsection of his fighter. "Kill him, Carroll," he said quietly. "Kill him." Carroll landed two hard rights to the face and Pancho fell forward on his knees. He got to his feet at the count of eight and fell into a clinch.

"Kill him, Carroll," said Buddy and as he turned he saw Pete looking at him. Their eyes met and held.

"Kill him," said Buddy softly.

Only Pete heard it.

In the ring, Carroll backed away, measuring his man carefully. He stepped in and landed two perfect punches, a left to the stomach and a right to the jaw. Pancho fell forward on his face and lay there. The referee counted him out.

Buddy got up and started up the aisle. He looked back and saw them put Pancho on a stretcher and carry him out of the ring.

• • •

The night was chilly but he didn't put the top of the convertible up. He drove slowly and methodically and 25 minutes later pulled up in front of the Lopez house. He didn't knock or ring the bell. He walked in, walked down the long hall, into the kitchen, through the kitchen and into the living room. Anna was sitting on the sofa. She jumped up when he walked in. She saw it was Buddy and sat down again.

"I came as soon as I could, Anna," he said.

"How is he? They said on the TV they took him to the hospital."

"He's gonna be fine, Anna. Just fine. Come on now. Take it easy."

He sat down beside her and saw that she was crying.

"I never watch his fights," she said. "Never. Tonight I couldn't keep the set off. I turned it on in the third round. They said his nose was broken. He was all cut. He was bleeding and his nose was broken." She started to cry harder.

Buddy moved closer and put his arm around her shoulder. He reached over and put her head against his shoulder.

"Easy, Anna. Easy, darling. Easy."

"He was bleeding . . . They said his nose was broken . . ."

Buddy took her chin in his hand and turned her face up toward his.

"Easy, darling," he said. "It'll be all right."

He leaned forward and kissed her. For a moment she relaxed in his arms and his arm slid down around her waist and held her body to his. He kissed her again. Harder. Anna suddenly realized what was happening. She pushed against him.

"No," she said. "No. Please."

Buddy held her on the couch. He forced her head back and kissed her. He started opening the buttons on her blouse. Anna pushed against him hard. She dug her nails into the back of his hand. "No. No." she said. "No."

She pulled back and her blouse ripped open. Buddy grabbed with both hands, held her firmly and forced her down on the couch. She started to cry again and stopped resisting. She lay quite still and sobbed.

She was still sobbing when he left.

He drove home slowly. He stopped at a drive-in on Hollywood Boulevard and had a hamburger and a cup of coffee. He let himself into the house, took a shower, put on a dressing gown and went down to the bar. He mixed himself a drink and sat in the darkness, not feeling anything. Not thinking anything. When he heard the knocking he paid no attention to it. Who would be knocking at his door at this time of night?

He got up.

"It's probably Pete. Forgot his key."

He walked to the hall and opened the door.

Pancho Lopez was standing there. His face was covered by bandages. There was an adhesive tape bridge over his nose. He stood on the threshold looking at Buddy standing in the robe with the glass in his hand.

"Hello, Pancho," said Buddy, very matter-of-factly.

"They let me out of the hospital," said Pancho. "My nose is broken. They put splints on it. I went home. I found Anna."

Buddy took a step backward into the hall.

The punch caught him on the cheek as he turned. The glass in his hand went spinning out and crashed against the wall. Pancho walked forward slowly and landed a second punch on the chest. It sent Buddy across the hallway and back against the stairs. Pancho walked slowly forward. There was no haste in his movements. He reached down and pulled Buddy to his feet and held him against the wall. His third punch broke Buddy's nose. The blood spurted down his face. He screamed.

"Pete," he screamed. "Pete. Pete. For god's sake, Pete."

Pancho's fourth punch knocked two teeth out and ripped his lip open. As Pancho set himself for the next punch he looked up the stairs. Pete was standing at the top of the stairs.

"Pete," yelled Buddy, choking on the blood flowing down his throat. "Pete, for god's sake, help me. He's broken my nose. Pete, for god's sake."

Pete and Pancho looked at each other.

"Kill him," said Pete. "Kill him."

The fifth punch broke Buddy's jaw and he fell unconscious to the floor of the hallway.

"Kill him," said Buddy, "kill him."