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- Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Serie: Doc. Turner Series
- Sprache: Englisch
In This Corner—Kid Death by Arthur Leo Zagat is a pulse-pounding crime thriller that throws you into the gritty underworld of boxing and criminal intrigue. When a rising boxing star known as Kid Death becomes embroiled in a dangerous conspiracy, he must fight not only for his title but for his very life. As he delves deeper into a web of corruption, deceit, and betrayal, the line between friend and foe blurs. Will Kid Death uncover the truth behind the deadly conspiracy, or will his next fight be his last? This high-stakes drama will keep you on the edge of your seat with its relentless tension and unexpected twists.
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Seitenzahl: 33
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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Table of Contents
In This Corner-Kid Death
Synopsis
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Landmarks
Table of Contents
Cover
In This Corner-Kid Death
Synopsis
It was a grim prizefight that Gaxter's gang had arranged—with Death for the referee and only Doc Turner there to meet the grisly challenge at the final bell!
The Spider, September 1939, with "In This Corner—Kid Death"
1
TWO things about the man caught Andrew Turner's immediate attention. The first was his great size—a hugeness not of obesity but of bones grandly moulded, of a frame heroically proportioned. The second was the way he stumbled into the herb-redolent dimness of Turner's drugstore on Morris Street. He lumbered a pace or two along the rutted floor—gropingly, blindly. And this, because of his size, was pitiful.
His great body loomed against the faded showcases, the bottle-serried walls, quivering with tension. His arms extended stiffly down, slanting a bit forward. His massive fists were turned a little to the front, not prepared for attack or defense but holding tight in his agony—as Samson's might have in Gaza.
A shaft of early afternoon sunlight, slum-grimed, shadow-barred by the "El" trestle that roofs Morris Street, lay across his hatless head. It brought out of the gloom a wide, blunt jaw, high cheekbones, brush-stiff yellow hair. The broad nose was squashed flat. The lips were thick, puffy—the ears, shapeless gristle. The eyes...
Peering from behind the sales counter, Doc Turner saw that the eyes were not sightless but blurred by tears! And in the columnar throat, left bare by the low neck of a scarlet sweater the man wore under his loose jacket, was revealed the pulse of sobs sternly repressed.
A strong man in tears! A giant crying! To many the incongruity would have been a matter for laughter and mockery. But when Andrew Turner moved out behind the counter, his voice was gentle.
"What's the trouble, Kenny?" he asked. On the muscle-swollen arm the druggist's hand was gnarled, its almost translucent skin corrugated by blue veins. "How can I help you?" Noting the little crowd that had clotted the store's doorway—wide-eyed boys; alien-countenanced, shabby men—Doc exclaimed, "Wait, Kenny. Come in back where they can't hear."
Overtowered by the other's bulk, Turner seemed doubly tiny and feeble. His hair and bushy mustache were white-bleached by the years; his thin, big-nosed face, grey and wrinkled. Yet the youthful giant seemed to draw strength from the old man's touch. He went with him through a curtained doorway into a narrow, shelf-lined room pungent with the acrid odors of tinctures, fluid extracts and medicinal chemicals.
A small boy's shrill, excited cry followed them. "That's him. That's Magraw himself!" And a hoarser voice: "Giva the Tiger hell tonight, Bruis'. I got ten bucks on you!"
To these hero-worshippers who recognized him, but not his distress, the big man was "Bruiser" Magraw. But to Doc Turner he was still Keniat Paliechka, the dirty-faced urchin to whom he had given many a handful of jelly-beans; the sturdy little fellow who, after school, had hawked penny market-bags to the shawled patrons of the pushcarts that lined Morris Street, and had gathered broken wood from the dumps so that his widowed mother might have warmth for her long nights of weary sewing.
"All right now, son," Doc murmured. "What is it?"
Tautness still gripped the man. His lips, thickened by many blows, moved. "It's Mom," he husked. "She's gone!"
Sara Paliechka need sew no longer, but she had refused to leave her cronies of the slum. She accepted from her son's fistic earnings only enough for those luxuries of luxuries—a flat with steam-heat and running hot water; a worker-by-the-day to relieve her of the more laborious tasks of housekeeping.
Doc stirred. "What do you mean—gone?" he asked.
