Tomahawk Mccloskey

Thrilling Sports, March 1938

TOMAHAWK McCLOSKEY

Tomahawk Clipped Special Delivery Sweeney on the Chinola

Dan Cupid and a Hash-House Brunette Flatten a Fightin’ IrishInjun for the Long Count!

By THOMAS THURSDAY Author of “Westward Ho!-Kum,” “A Jay Out West,” etc.

I

T WAS a hard right to the chinola and my belting beezo, Dynamite Delaney, dropped to the sand for a count of 46, Eastern Standard Time. This annoyed me no little bit, on account of Mister Delaney being my sole contribution to the welterweight crown—not that he ever got it. More, the gate receipts were positively minus plus nil, and to add to the insult the guy who smacked him slantwise never had a glove on in his life. But Delaney asked for it, and in a very nasty manner, and if he didn’t get it, neither did Wellington give it to Napoleon at Waterloo. It was Delaney’s own notion that we ought to take a little

trek up the Miami River, where a guy was advertised to wrestle alligators for the benefit of the tourists and what came in at the ticket box. This crocodile crusher is a bronzed and muscular lad about nineteen, and there is something about his face that struck me as being most odd and also peculiar. He resembled a Seminole Indian, and then again he didn’t. He also looked like an Irishman, and then again he didn’t. He has the hair and black eyes of the Injun, but his schnozzola is short and pudgy, the sort of beak that can be tapped tasty and often without much damage to same. He’s billed as Chief Flamingo, the Alligator

TOMAHAWK McCLOSKEY King, and before he gave a demonstration of how to make ‘gators refined and tame, he was tuned up by a native band blaring forth music that was two hundred percent terrible. After the racket turned off, the chief leaped over the rail into the pen, where at least forty alligators were basking in the sun. Next, the chief grabbed a big baby by the puss or jaws and landed on his back. The ‘gator switched his tail and the chief just got his left ear out of the way by a flash. I could see that the ‘gator was being irked, and when the chief began to place half-Nelsons and headlocks on the gent, both chief and ‘gator gave some lessons in speedy turnovers. All this, mind you, is taking place in a pen with a flock of other ‘gators, any one of which could have taken a slice out of the chief’s body with no trouble at all. Although the demonstration is a very interesting display of strength and nerve, Dynamite Delaney let forth a sneer and remarked that it was not so hot. In fact, it was the loud opinion of Delaney that it was not even lukewarm. The chief heard the sour cracks but kept on with his wrestling, pausing just long enough to look Delaney plumb in the eye. “Which of them two bums is the alligator?” cracked Delaney. This was his idea of wit and humor, but the chief didn’t care for it in the least. He dropped the dumbfounded ‘gator, walked up to Delaney, and let go that right wallop of his. While the tourists are working over Delaney, tossing half of the river into his pan, I have a quiet chat with Mr. Chief Flamingo. The lad has my attention in a large way, and I figure that anyone who could knock out Delaney with a single sock should have something that the ring needs. It was the first time that Delaney had ever been knocked off his feet, and the job was very successful, indeed. “I don’t know nothin’ about boxin’,” said the chief. “Me very quiet and peaceful.” “Very peaceful,” I said, noting the sleeping Delaney. “But you got what it takes to pull the cash customers into the arena. They pay and pray for the soothing sound of some lad bouncing on the boards.” The chief promised to meet me at Bill Gore’s gym the following morn, and then I went over to collect what was left of Delaney and tossed him into the car. “That guy must have hit me low!” said Delaney. “Yeah,” I replied, “way down on the chin.”

B

2

EFORE going to the gym the next day I ran into Headline Harrigan, famed press agent, who has put more boxers over—and under—than half a dozen gentlemen I could mention. I informed Harrigan that I have the find of the century, if not of all time, and that the racial combination is unbeatable. “What is he,” asked Harrigan, “a cross between a Cossack and a chimpanzee?” “A mick-warwhoop,” I explained. “What is that?” “Irish-Indian. Can you imagine those two bloods in a fighter?” “What’s his name?” skeptically. “That’s a story in itself,” I said. “His parents fought like all get-out over naming him. His mother, a full-blooded Seminole, wanted to name him Little Shark Fin. His father, a full-spawned Irishman, broke a couple of shillelaghs yelling that the boy be named Patrick Francis McCloskey, after no less than himself. They finally compromised by having a visiting missionary give him a moniker.” “What was it?” “It wasn’t. They sent him down in history as Fauntleroy Big Hawk McCloskey.” “Terrible,” said Harrigan. “They name ‘em better in Hollywood.” “I know it. I’m leaving it to you to think up a fighting title.” When Harrigan and I reached the gym, we found not only the alligator kid but also his mater and pater. Mommer McCloskey is a sober-faced squaw with a look as sad as a final notice from the landlord. Popper is a jolly Irishman, short and stocky, with a grin that must have annoyed Mommer McCloskey since she married him. Mommer is very much against her papoose entering the manly art of self-defense, while Popper is a hundred and two percent for the game. “I think he will make a great, natural lightweight,” I told Pop. “An’ that he will,” agreed Pop, “if he takes after meself!” Pop was one of those modest boys—who always hid in front of a mirror. “Urgh!” grunted Mommer, and gave Pop a look that slayed him. I asked Spike Sullivan, a great trial horse, to put the gloves on with young McCloskey to see what he resembled, if anything. Spike made him look like a whole family of monkeys in the first round, what with smacking him with hooks, jabs, rights,

THRILLING SPORTS lefts or what have you. The youngster couldn’t break through Spike’s guard, and gave an imitation of a windmill in full bloom. The second round was different. Ask Mr. Spike Sullivan if it wasn’t. McCloskey busted through Spike’s guard with a natural straight left. Mr. Sullivan dropped to the canvas like a lead-sinker, moving neither an arm nor a leg after he landed. “The boy,” said Headline Harrigan, “appears to have a fair punch. That is the first time I recall Professor Sullivan resting on his crankcase.” “Only fair, eh?” I sniffed. “Would you care to have a personal demonstration?” “That brat is a press agent’s dream of ballyhooey,” went on Harrigan. “Take a slant at tonight’s Sentinel. I’ll have some salami about Tomahawk McCloskey.” “Did you say Tomahawk?” I asked politely. “Do you prefer Algernon or Percival?” “Hm,” I said. “Hm,” said Harrigan, and that was all settled. That evening Harrigan plastered a yarn about one Tomahawk McCloskey all over the sports page of the Sentinel. It would have made the Grimm Brothers, famed fairy tale writers, toss their books into the ashcan from pure envy. Harrigan claimed that Tomahawk McCloskey was a lineal descendant of Pocahontas on his Mommer’s side, while on his father’s he was from the direct line of St. Patrick and Robert Emmet. Harrigan also stated that Monsieur Tomahawk has most peculiar eyes, and he wouldn’t be at all surprised if he kayoed his opponents with hypnotism. There is a swell picture of Tomahawk in the center of the page, and it looks like a cross between Custer’s Last Stand and Jack Dempsey’s first. The caption reads: Is This the Next Lightweight Champion of the World?

W

ITH only a week of training behind him, I asked Cap Pepples, the local promoter, to give my belting beezo a trial. “This lad is scheduled to be the next champeen of the entire world—or don’t you read the papers?” I said. “I read ‘em,” admitted Cap, “and that’s why I doubt if he will be the champeen of anything, including Monopoly and table tennis.” “I have two bucks that Tomahawk will upset anything you place before him.”

3

“You know I don’t allow machine guns in the ring with fighters. Or is your lad going to fight with his fists?” “I will bet fifty bucks, made in Washington, that Tomahawk McCloskey can kayo any boy near his weight in town.” The Cap pricked up his shell-like ears. “I get a kick out of finding money in the street. It’s a bet.” “Okay,” I said. “Suckers are born, not paid!” “I’ll match him with Six-Sock Smelli for next Monday night. Afraid of Signor Smelli?” “Not if Smelli was quintuplets,” I snapped. “Two rounds or less will be plenty.” Now this Six-Sock Smelli is a pretty fair chinchipper, but has a jaw that was manufactured by one of the leading glass companies. And I figured that if Tomahawk hit him with only half-speed, the good Signor Smelli would meet the floor more than halfway. He has a fair punch in both mitts, however, but he will never be more than a prelim boy if he lives to be one hundred and nine years old. Well, the Smelli-McCloskey brawl went on first, and I must report that for the first two rounds, it was very sad, indeed. Smelli kept dancing around my boy, jabbing him with rights and lefts, but my brat doesn’t even attempt to cover up. He just takes it like flies on the schnozzola. Mommer and Popper McCloskey have ringside seats and, when Smelli let go a stinging one-two in the third to Tomahawk’s chinola, Mommer was about to leave her seat and give Smelli a lacing. Popper hauled her back, but not without difficulty. Some customer began to razz Mommer, and this annoyed her battling son no end. He stopped dead from the business of playing with Smelli and took a mean look at the lad who was mocking Mommer. This was a golden opportunity, and Smelli took it. While Tomahawk’s back was turned, Smelli sent in a terrific right-hander to the jaw and it should have jarred the Pyramids. I looked around the floor, hoping that Tomahawk would not land on any tacks, but he didn’t seem to be in any mood for landing. Shaking his head, he forgot about Mommer’s annoyer and paid special attention to Mr. Six-Sock Smelli. In short, he crashed through his guard with a twin one-two, and the good Signor Smelli thumped to the floor and tuned in on a canary sonata. The next day, the papers gave my boy the razz,

TOMAHAWK McCLOSKEY along with the berries. They claimed he was as crude as a giraffe with a six-inch neck and should have remained at the profession of alligatorwrestling. But they concede that he has a terrific punch, which they suggested he use in a South American revolution and not in the prize-ring. I inquired of Mr. Headline Harrigan why in Sam Hill he can’t stop such oom-blah publicity, and I nearly collapsed when he coyly replied that he wrote it himself! “Just plain psychology,” he smiled. “Dished up a little fancy,” I said. “The fans will begin to hoot Tomahawk out of the ring.” “Let ‘em hoot. Before they can hoot, they’ll have to buy a ticket to get in!” During the next few weeks I get my merry mullah five fights, in various parts of Florida, and he wins them all via the kayo system. I also note that he has a terrible temper, which he is just as liable to use on me as on his playmates in the ring. I begin to hope that some lad will belt my beezo horizontal, in order to teach him that fight managers should be highly and greatly respected.

R

ETURNING to the home port of Miami, I am informed by Mr. Harrigan that he has been appointed to promote a local Beauty Contest. The object is to select a Miss Miami who will appear later in the All-Florida Bathing Beauty Contest. Nine of the state’s principal cities are to select their cutest twist-noodles, and the final elimination is to take place in Miami. I can’t get excited about any beauty contest and wouldn’t mind in the least if they held it in the center of the Gulf Stream, which is all wet, at last reports. But what sets me in flames is when Harrigan tells me that he must have four judges, from various professions, and that Tomahawk McCloskey will be one of them. “Nothing doing,” I said. “That bird isn’t used to so much beauty in one spot. Besides, he wouldn’t know a pretty girl if one sat in his lap.” “Consider the ballyhoo angle,” said Harrigan. “He will sit beside the city’s leading lights—and that puts him in society.” “Which makes me an admiral in the Siamese Navy. But—don’t allow me to ruin Mister McCloskey’s social aspirations. Why not ring in Mommer and Popper?” “Besides,” went on Harrigan, ignoring me completely, “it’s all good publicity.”

4

The beauty contest is two weeks off and, in the meantime, Tomahawk ruins two more local aspirants for the lightweight crown. I asked Dinty Bell, a sports writer, what he really thought of my belting babe. “Can’t tell,” he said. “Why don’t you let him fight somebody?” “Hazelnuts to you, my friend,” I sniffed. “Who do you want him to lick—the French Foreign Legion?” “Just a regular fighter,” said Dinty, and walked down the street. Comes the night of the Beauty Contest. It is held in the Armory A.C. and the ring is moved for the occasion. The house is packed. Sitting among the four judges is no less than Tomahawk McCloskey, dressed in full Indian regalia—another idea of Mister Harrigan’s. The flowery outfit gave the boys and girls something to kid about. One wit, or maybe quarter-wit, began to pick on Tomahawk like he was a juicy hambone. For a while, Tomahawk paid no attention to the wisecracks, but when half the house began to laugh at his expense, he merely walked leisurely off the platform, up to the clever boy, and socked him—bam!—right on the pussola. This caused considerable respect for Mr. Tomahawk McCloskey, formerly Fauntleroy Big Hawk McCloskey. Well, the judges’ decision in the cutey contest went to a brunette entitled Bula Barry, who is the star hash-hoister in the Golden Hamburger Barbecue Cafe. This gal has everything—below the ears—and even wins the vote of Tomahawk, who can’t seem to keep his eyes off her from the time he took his seat. Bula got her face and form in all the papers, not that anybody looked at her face. She became the main attraction at the barbecue trap where she toiled, and other joints tried to lure her away with a boost in wages. I chanced to be passing the barbecue place two days later and am somewhat dazed at a sight I observed. In brief, I note Mr. Tomahawk McCloskey sitting at the counter and doing himself some good with Miss Bula Barry, the new Miss Miami. Myself, I don’t think so much of the setup, knowing that women have knocked out more boxers than gloves. Calling Tomahawk to one side, I told him the very sad cases of up-and-coming boxers who fell in love, but all I got for my sage advice was a raised

THRILLING SPORTS right eyebrow.

I

TOOK the case to Headline Harrigan for solving. I asked him if he had any sound ideas as to separating the next lightweight champion of the world from Miss Miami. Mr. Harrigan brightened up considerably and snapped his fingers like he had made a great discovery. “Have I got any ideas!” whooped Harrigan. “Just leave everything to me!” “Thanks a lot,” I said. “I’ll appreciate anything you can do to bust up the tandem.” It appeared that he had a very good idea, indeed. However, if I had had any glimmer as to what the idea was, I would have knocked it right out of his nut. Because when I picked up the papers the next morning, I am suffocated with disgust. I find that Tomahawk McCloskey and Bula Barry are going to be married a week from date in the Cinderella Ballroom. The public are invited to attend, at fifty cents a throw, with a possible sniff at the wedding cake and maybe some razzberry punch as a chaser. All of which proved that Harrigan was a great pal of mine, with a knife in one hand and a brick in the other. Well, I’m at the wedding, along with Mommer and Popper McCloskey. Mommer didn’t seem to be exactly tickled at her son marrying any pale-faced squaw, and grunted when Bula gave her a peck on the cheek. Popper kissed the bride six times and would have been at it yet, only Mommer gave him a tap on the short ribs, indicating that she was not entirely pleased. After the ceremony, the yappy couple go off to West Palm Beach for a two-day money-moon via auto. They must have enjoyed themselves until they discovered me trailing them, after which Madame Tomahawk told her new husband that he should get a new manager at once. I retaliated by calling on the promoter at West Palm Beach and booking Tomahawk for a fight that very night with a chap named Special Delivery Sweeney. It seems that his regular opponent had contracted mumps, measles or blisters, leaving the promoter frantic for a substitute. I take delight in offering my lovebird as a playmate. This caused Madame McCloskey to take seven fits and eight brainstorms, while Tomahawk slayed me with grunts, growls and assorted yelps. I pointed out that I had a ten-year contract with him, and that there was a clause therein which said he

5

could not get married without the permission and general blessing of the manager. This was news to both him and the lady, and they piped down considerably. Before the fight, I call on Special Delivery Sweeney and ask him, as a great favor, to knock Tomahawk into the lap of his bride and collect ten bucks from me as a personal reward. I am burned up over his sudden marriage, and would like to have some of the starch knocked out of him. At the bell, Sweeney came out of his corner like a three-alarm fire, with both hands cocked for immediate business. For the first round he gave Tomahawk a nice plastering with a concrete finish. “Kill him, darling!” bellowed Mrs. Tomahawk McCloskey from the ringside. “He’s nothing but a big tramp!” Sweeney stopped dead then and looked at Mrs. McCloskey. “So are you a big tramp!” snarled Mr. Sweeney. All of which was a slight error in etiquette, on account of Tomahawk not caring to have anyone call his bride a big or even a little tramp. He rushed Sweeney into his own corner and cracked a murderous left to the jaw. Sweeney dropped straight to the floor for a clean knockout, and I went straight back to Miami, first telling Mr. and Mrs. Tomahawk McCloskey that, if they aren’t back within two days, I’ll send the G-men after them.

B

ACK home I meet Headline Harrigan, and he has some excellent news, well-done on both sides. “Did you know that Moe Manning, lightweight champ of the world, arrived this afternoon for a month’s vacation?” asked Harrigan. “So what and so why?” I said. “Wouldn’t it be a break if I could induce Manning to box Tomahawk a six-round exhibition?” “The climate’s got you,” I said. “He never heard of Tomahawk, who isn’t even in the record books. Where does he rate a shot at the champ?” “Have you ever heard of money?” went on Harrigan. “Slightly,” I admitted, “but it never wore any holes in my pockets.” “Listen,” he continued in a low voice. “I happen to know that his manager, Ben Hinkle, has been hit pretty hard by the ponies at Hialeah and could use

TOMAHAWK McCLOSKEY some ready cash. I think I can get Manning to box Tomahawk for a five-grand guarantee, C.I.F.— meaning Cash-In-Fist.” “How do you get the five grand—with a machine gun?” “I’ve got good connections.” “With which mint?” I drawled. “With some of the biggest merchants in town,” said Harrigan. “Look. First I go to the Chamber of Commerce and get their endorsement, explaining what a whale of a lot of publicity the fight will get the town nationally. You know how they flop for that publicity goo. After I get their okay, I put the bite on the big-shot business tycoons for the five grand. No trouble at all.” “You dream well,” I admitted. “What will you bet that I don’t put it over?” “The Pyramids against Little Willie’s mud pie.” Three days later I encounter the eminent Mr. Harrigan again. “I put it over like Niagara Falls,” he beamed. “At last reports,” I said, “that place was all wet.” “At two bells this afternoon,” went on Harrigan, “Tomahawk McCloskey and Moe Manning will report at the boxing commissioner’s office and sign for a bout to take place three weeks from today. How’m I doin’?” “Good,” I conceded. “You must have used mirrors.” “The fight will take place about a week after the finals for the Miss Florida Beauty Contest,” added Harrigan. “I will clean up a nice bit of change on the contest, and you get a twenty-five percent cut of the brawl.” When the sports writers got a sniff of the forthcoming mêlée between my bouncing beezo and the lightweight champ, they let out a whinny of sizzling sarcasm. Dinty Bell suggested that the fight was in the well-known and ever-handy bag, and that perhaps the champ and Tomahawk should be investigated and also fumigated, along with their managers. I am about to sue Dinty for that crack, when Harrigan reminded me that any kind of publicity is good stuff, so long as they spell the names right. It was then I got a sudden, charming thought. “Listen,” I said to Harrigan. “Suppose—just suppose—my boy knocked the champ into the center of Biscayne Bay. Will that make him the lightweight champ?”

6

“I put that up to Ben Hinkle,” said Harrigan, “and he yelled his head off for a no-decision fight. I then told Hinkle what a terrible fighter Tomahawk was, that he couldn’t knock over a feather with a brick in one hand and a cannon in the other. That calmed him down, and he said that if such a boy as Tomahawk McCloskey knocks out the champ, he will not only concede the title but along with it his right and left eyes. Personally, I don’t think Tomahawk will get any nearer to Manning than Hoboken is to Berlin. The champ is one of the cleverest boxers of all time, and he also packs a sock in his right hand.” I thought a moment. “Speaking of socks, just suppose Tomahawk pins one on his buttonia? Just one wallop is all I would like to see. You know and I know that my babe will ruin anyone that he happens to nail with his straight left.” “If your lad ever hits Manning one punch,” said Harrington, “I will admit that Moe Manning will land in the ashcan.”

T

HAT night I went to sleep dreaming of private suites in swell hotels, and a valet named FitzPerkins. This dream came to a sudden end in the morning when the landlord knocked at the door and stated that, through an oversight on my part, the room rent was due five weeks ago. I told him about the fortune I am about to make on the forthcoming McCloskey-Manning waltz, promise him no less than sixteen ringside seats—which he will get over my dead body—and also state that I will pay up when the fight is over, with a ten percent addition for his kindness. This satisfied the lug, and I turned over for some more pleasant nightmares. The evening of the All Florida Beauty Contest, which is held in the park, every seat was taken and the band-shell was sardined all over. It was then I got a snappy surprise, viz., among the honored judges was no less than Moe Manning, the lightweight champ of the world. When Tomahawk gets wind of this he goes into a very high-grade war-dance, seeing that his new wife is one of the contestants. He wanted to be a judge, himself, which would have helped his wife in a substantial way. “Forget it,” Harrigan told him. “You were a judge in the local contest, and that’s enough. If you crave to be a judge for life, get a seat on the Supreme Court. Besides, if you were a judge in the finals, you would vote for Mrs. McCloskey,

THRILLING SPORTS wouldn’t you?” “If he didn’t,” said Mrs. Tomahawk, “I’d slap him silly!” She’s rigged out in a two-piece bathing suit—and she better not go near the water. Sitting in the middle of the judges’ table is Moe Manning, encased in a nobby tuxedo that any waiter would gloat over. He is smiling, and I note that he kept his eyes on Miss Miami, the present Mrs. Tomahawk McCloskey. Her husband would be happy to kill anyone who as much as blinked at her, the poor sap not knowing that she’d flirt with anything wearing pants or even bathing trunks. But I am amazed to observe that Miss Miami does not care to return the flirtatious winks of Mr. Moe Manning, and merely gave him what they call a haughty stare. Each time he ogles at her she returned it with a terrible scowl, as if he was a poor grade of arsenic. The band struck up the Grand March for the contestants to parade across the platform before the Honorable Judges. Miss Miami is near the center of the group and, when she reached Manning, he let out a sneer. “Hey, Toots,” he cracked, “how much did you have to pay to win the title of Miss Miami?” That got Miss Miami in a big way. She stopped dead in her tracks and turned red, white and even pink. Tomahawk, who sat near the bandstand, did not hear the remark and just kept staring at the tableau with his black eyes gleaming. “How dare you speak to me—you—you tramp!” snapped Miss Miami. “I hear you’re married now,” beamed Manning. “What did you use, ether?” Bam! Mrs. McCloskey whirled around and delivered a short right uppercut to the champ’s chin. He fell over backward and landed with his left hand in a cuspidor. The band stopped as one man, the crowd roared, while the other judges gaped in amazement. Tomahawk, not knowing what it was all about, leaped to the platform beside Manning and his squaw. “What’s the mattah, honey?” he demanded. “This big bum insults me somethin’ fierce!” she flared. “Aw, she’s nerts!” said Manning, trying to get his hand out of the cuspidor. “Yuh bettah shut yore mouth!” sizzled Tomahawk. “Just who’s gonna make me?”

R

7

IGHT there I could see the end of my dreams of a championship. Not only that, but the gate receipts would be null, void and also minus. Tomahawk hauled back his famed left and let it go, full speed ahead. It landed like the Pilgrims and must have felt like the same rock. At the same moment, the champ let go his equally famed right and it landed on Tomahawk’s chinola. Both boys go down together. Both boys stay down together. Both boys are out together. Nice teamwork, what? And you can have my share of the profits for as little as a dime. Mommer McCloskey waddled to the platform and appeared about to scalp Moe Manning. She grabbed the sleeping champion by the hair, but the judges yanked her back. I plucked my prize persimmon from the floor and dragged him backstage. He came to earth in two minutes and began to blink. I am about to tell him that I think he is the world’s premier boob, when the door opened and in came Mr. Moe Manning, still holding his chin. “Listen, guy,” he said to Tomahawk, “you got me all wrong!” Tomahawk hauled back to give him another dose, but I pulled him away. “One flop is enough,” I said. “It’s illegal to have two fights, without any gate receipts, and a single boob is better than a double one.” “No foolin’,” went on the champ, “I was just kiddin’ Bula. No harm meant, honest. I used to know her well.” Tomahawk blinked. “Used to know her?” he asked. “Sure,” said Manning. “We used to be engaged, onct.” “Huh?” said Tomahawk. “Hmm,” said Headline Harrington. “Haw!” I added. “But I busted the engagement,” went on Manning. “Why?” demanded Tomahawk. “Flirtin’,” replied Manning. . . . I met Harrigan a little later along Flagler Street. “Nice break,” said Harrigan. “But, don’t forget, you got at least half of the lightweight championship of the world. He knocked out the champ, and the champ knocked him out. That makes it fifty-fifty.” “Fine,” I admitted. “Er—know any sucker who would like to buy my share for a cluck quarter?”