Vital Ingredient Read online

it, boy? That vital ingredient?_

  _What you talking about?_

  _Huh? Me? Oh, nothing. Take it easy._ But Milt's thoughts were troubled.

  _When you going to let me go?_

  _I said, take it easy. We'll see._

  * * * * *

  The sixth round came and Frankie felt no weariness. Milt was working himlike he was made of fragile glass. Nor was Nappy tiring so far as hecould notice. Pop Monroe was trying for just one solid blow to slow downthe Champ. So far nothing even jarring had come close to landing.

  In the seventh Frankie noticed a little desperation in Monroe's tactics.To win now Monroe and Gordon needed a knockout. Frankie had only tostay on his feet to be home safe. But when was Milt going to let him go?Milt had turned in a masterpiece of defensive fighting. The left haddeadly accuracy and now the openings were truck-sized as Monroe had cometo ignore the light tattoo of the Champ's punches.

  Milt withdrew the control in the middle of the seventh round. It hitFrankie like a dash of cold water, the exultation of being on his own!He looked over at Milt, perched rope-high in his control chair atringside. Milt was looking at him, his face tight and grim; almosthostile.

  Frankie circled warily, a touch of panic coming unbidden. What to do? Hehadn't known it would be quite like this. He tried to remember how itwas--how it felt to move in the various ways Milt always sent him. Funnyhow you could forget such things. The left hook--that jab--how did theygo?

  A pile driver came from somewhere and almost tore his head off hisshoulders ...

  He was looking up at the ceiling. He rolled his eyes and saw PopMonroe's face--smiling a little, but also puzzled. Even with his braingroggy, Frankie knew why. He'd stepped wide open in Nappy's loopingright and Pop couldn't figure Milt doing a thing like that.

  Pop looked over at Milt. Frankie followed Pop's eyes and saw the lookMilt returned. Then the spark of understanding that passed between them.Odd, Frankie thought. What understanding could there be?

  He was aware of the word seven filling the studio as the loud speakerblared the count. He was up at nine.

  Nappy swarmed in now. Frankie felt the pain of hard, solid blows on hisbody as he tried to tie up this dynamo Poppy Monroe was releasing onhim. He couldn't stop it, dodge it, or hide from it.

  But he finally got away from it--staggering. Nappy came at him fast andthe left jab Frankie sent out to put him off balance didn't even slowthe fury a bit. Frankie took to the ropes to make Nappy shorten hispunches. It helped some, but not enough. No man could take the joltingeffect of those ripping punches and keep his feet under him. Frankiedidn't--he was down when the bell ended round nine.

  * * * * *

  In his corner the seconds worked quickly. He looked at Milt and saw adead-pan expression. Milt wasn't sending him anything. Punishing him ofcourse. Frankie took it meekly; ashamed of himself. Milt would take overagain when the bell sounded. Frankie knew that he couldn't stay awayfrom Nappy for another round. Nobody could. Monroe smelled a knockoutand Frankie was never fast enough to run away from the burst ofviciousness that would come at him in the form of Nappy Gordon. No, Miltwould take over.

  At the bell, Frankie moved out fast, waiting for the familiar feel ofMilt expertly manipulating his arms and legs and body; sending out thejabs and punches; weaving him in and out.

  But Milt didn't take over and Pop sent Nappy in with a pile-driver rightthat smashed Frankie to the floor. Frankie rolled over on his knees andshook his head groggily, trying to understand. Why hadn't Milt takenover? What was Milt trying to do to him?

  Milt's cold face waved into focus before Frankie's blinking eyes. _Whatwas Milt trying to do?_ Frankie heard the tolling count--six, seven,eight. Milt wasn't even going to help him up. Sick and bewildered,Frankie struggled to his feet. Nappy came driving in. Frankieback-pedalled and took the vicious right cross while rolling away. Thushe avoided being knocked out and was only floored for anothereight-count.

  _Milt--Milt--for God's sake--_

  The round was over. Frankie staggered, sick, to his corner and slumpeddown. The handlers worked over him. He looked at Milt. But Milt neithersent nor returned his gaze. Milt sat looking grimly off into space andseemed older and wearier than time itself.

  Then Frankie knew. Milt had sold him out!

  The shocking truth stunned him even more than Nappy's punches. Milt hadsold him out! There had been rare cases of such things. When money meantmore than honor to a veteran. But Milt!

  Numbed, Frankie pondered the ghastly thought. After all, Milt was old.Old men needed money for their later years. But how could he? How couldhe do it?

  Suddenly Frankie hated. He hated Nappy and Pop and every one of themillions of people looking silently on around the world. But most ofall, he hated Milt. It was a weird, sickening thing, that hatred. Butonly a mentally sickening thing. Physically, it seemed to make Frankiestronger, because when the bell rang and he got up and walked into astraight right, it didn't hurt at all.

  He realized he was on the floor; the gong was sounding; he was gettingup, moving in again. There was blood, a ringing in his head.

  But above all, a rage to kill. To kill.

  * * * * *

  He remembered going down several times and getting up. Not caring how hehad swung under Milt's control--only wanting to use his fists--to killthe thing weaving in front of him.

  Nappy. A grinning, weaving, lethal ghost.

  He felt a pain in his right fist and saw Nappy go down. He saw Pop'sface go gray as though the old man himself had felt the force of theblow. Saw Nappy climb erect slowly. He grinned through blood.Frankie--ghost-catcher. He had to get him.

  He was happy; happy with a new fierceness he had never before known. Thelust of battle was strong within him and when Pop weaved Nappydesperately, Frankie laughed, waited, measured Nappy.

  And smashed him down with a single jarring right.

  The bell tolled ten. Pop got wearily off his stool and walked away.Frankie strode grimly to his corner, ignored Milt, moved on into thedressing room.

  He knew Milt would come and he waited for him, sitting there coldly onthe edge of the table. Milt walked in the door and stood quietly.

  "You sold me out," Frankie said.

  There was open pride in Milt's eyes. "Sure--you had to think that."

  "What do you mean, think? You didn't pick me up when Pop flattened me. Isaw the look between you and Pop."

  "Sure." Milt's eyes were still proud. "You had to know. That's how Iwanted it."

  "Milt--why did you do it?"

  "I didn't do it. I just had to make you think I did."

  "In God's name--why?"

  "Because I'm sentimental, maybe, but I've always had my own ideas aboutthe kind of fighter who should be a Ten-Time winner. All my life I'vekept remembering the old greats--Dempsey, Sullivan, Corbett--the men whodid it on their own, and I wanted you to get it right--on your own--likea real champion."

  Frankie was confused. "I wanted to go on my own. Why didn't you tell methen?"

  "Then you'd have lost. You'd have gone down whimpering and moaning. Yousee, Frankie, all those old fighters had a vital ingredient--the thingit takes to make a champion--courage."

  "And you didn't think I had it?"

  "Sure I did. But the killer instinct is dead in fighters today and ithas to be ignited. It needs a trigger, so that was what I gave you--atrigger."

  Frankie understood. "You wanted me to get mad!"

  "To do it, you had to get mad--at me. You're not conditioned to get madat Nappy or Pop. It's not the way we fight now. It had to be me. I hadto make you hate me."

  Frankie marveled. "So when Pop looked at you--"

  "He knew."

  Frankie was off the table, his arms around Milt. "I'm--I'm so ashamed."

  Milt grinned. "No, you're not. You're happier than you ever were in yourlife. You're a real champion. Great feeling, isn't it? Now you know how_they_ felt--in
the old days."

  Frankie was crying. "You are damn right! Thanks."

  Milt looked years younger. "Don't mention it--_champ_."

  THE END

  Transcriber's Note:

  This etext was produced from _Amazing Stories_ September 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. Informal spellings remain as printed.