by Chad Dundas
Stettler shrugged, turning his palms at his sides as if to say, Why not?
Moira stood up. She put her hand on Pepper’s shoulder. “It won’t work,” she said. “If Boyd Markham thinks he’s owed that money, he won’t rest until he gets it. Lawyers, Pinkertons—he knows just as many unsavories as your man O’Shea, I assure you. You really want people like that constantly sniffing around your new scam?”
Stettler looked annoyed, like she wasn’t supposed to know about their plans, but Moira didn’t care. Pepper had told her of Stettler’s idea to fix the wrestling business the morning after they’d arrived in the city. He’d also informed her, in a matter-of-fact way, that he’d cut a side deal with Stanislaw Lesko to have their match be on the level. At the time, she’d done her best to smile at him and say she thought it was the right move, though she worried for him. It had been so long since he’d been in a real wrestling ring, and Lesko was so much bigger. But if Markham’s contract was genuine and things were spoiled anyway, she was glad he would get his chance and was happy to see how dismayed it made the other men. It made her skin crawl to think of them getting duped into a long-term deal with Stettler, Mundt and O’Shea. Like a return to the carnival circuit, with more comfortable beds.
“Maybe our best bet is to get through the weekend,” Fritz said, “and sort the rest out later.”
Pepper shook his head again. His voice was suddenly grave, almost apologetic. A tone she seldom heard him use. “I know you fellows don’t like it,” he said, “but I’m going to wrestle Stan Lesko in a square match on Saturday night. It’s what Lesko and I both want. If Boyd Markham has got me over a barrel and there’s nothing we can do to change that, then so be it.”
Stettler was nearing the end of his rope. “You’d wrestle Lesko nearly for free?” he said.
“This time,” Pepper said. “After I’m the world’s heavyweight champion, perhaps we can restructure our agreement.”
The promoter’s smile returned—those huge teeth—as if he’d just remembered he was talking with a crazy man. “That sounds like our cue to leave,” he said.
Moira was worried Pepper would stay up all night, pacing a gully into the rug at the foot of the bed, but after they’d shared a meal of dry, flaky roast beef sandwiches and oily au jus—terrible, considering the price—he crashed into one of his dead-to-the-world sleeps on top of the bedspread, his shoes still on. She sat smoking in a lounger on the opposite side of the room, hoping he was dreaming about revenge.
He looked small and vulnerable on the big hotel bed, his ankles pressed together and his knees tucked almost to his waist. His hands occasionally fretted around his face, but otherwise he was at peace, his breathing barely audible as the hotel slammed and gurgled around them. Public spaces like this never settled all the way down, no matter what the hour. Doors crashed open and shut, pipes groaned in the walls. People shouted merrily to each other in the halls: old friends parting at the end of the night, traveling salesmen announcing they’d see each other at breakfast. A thousand strangers meeting to spend a single night under the same roof and in the morning scattering out into the world.
His face lost its edge as he slept, the nervous lines of his forehead going slack, his lips relaxing into a pout. It was the face of the man she had married, the one who was still out to make the whole world say uncle. She imagined this was what he must have looked like as a boy, before first his father and then the orphanage pounded him into something harsher. One of the things she loved about him was that he was never afraid, but sometimes she enjoyed watching him rest. The way he slept was part of how he lived, fighting and scratching against everything, as hard and as long as he could until he finally collapsed, exhausted and a million miles deep.
When her cigarette was finished she gathered what she needed and quietly left the room. It was late in the evening, but not so late that a man like Dion O’Shea wouldn’t still be up. Even so, there was a moment of quiet surprise inside when she rapped on the door to O’Shea’s suite, trying to make her knocks sound even and confident. The scowling thug who answered had eyebrows that nearly grew up into his widow’s peak. He looked like he was about to close the door in her face when O’Shea himself appeared at his shoulder and insisted that she come in at once.
He’d been with the rest in Stettler’s room earlier that day, but this was her first time seeing the gangster up close. He was of unremarkable proportions, dressed neatly in a brown suit and a maroon polka-dot bow tie. His wispy hair was combed to one side and his round, sagging face reminded her of a frog. Brushing aside thoughts of how badly she’d missed the signs of Carol Jean’s betrayal with Markham, she hoped O’Shea would be as easy to read as his friend James Eddy.
She made herself appear cool as she walked in and declined his offer of a drink. The way his hands fussed at his sides when she said no made her think he wanted one himself, but he left the bottle on the side table. He brought her into the suite’s small sitting area, where the chairs were sturdier and done of finer woodwork than the stuff in their room. The man who’d answered the door sat a good distance behind her in a leather armchair, where she could hear the material squeaking under his weight. Having an audience gave the meeting a weird, staged feel, but she pretended not to mind. The important thing was to sell it, she knew, and so she needed to be calm and matter-of-fact. Just a person doing a favor for a man who she hoped could be her friend.
When she set the papers facedown on the table it was with the sure, captivating poise of her father. Since she’d come in, O’Shea had been chattering nonstop, saying how interesting it was to be working with her husband again, a note of irony flashing in his voice. He told her he was starting to know the Van Dean family as people who showed up at all hours when they had something important to say. He liked that, he said, he really did. As they were getting settled in their chairs he asked her if she was excited for the match.
“I’ve always been a man of sport,” he said. “A good fight, a fine wrestling match—there’s just something exhilarating about it, don’t you agree?”
She smiled at him, batted her eyes a little bit and said, “No, sir. I daresay I’m less excited for it than almost anything in my life.”
He grinned in response, and she could tell he liked her, maybe thought she was pretty. He said he was sorry to hear about the death of Garfield Taft. He had always been intrigued by the Negro and had been hoping to see him give Stanislaw Lesko a test, even if Billy Stettler insisted that Lesko emerge the winner in the end. O’Shea said Stettler was angry now that Pepper had refused to take part in the fix and had foiled his plans to place bets on the match, but—leaning forward as if sharing a secret—O’Shea said he honestly didn’t mind. In fact, he was interested in seeing her husband take on Lesko in a square match.
She nodded, encouraged by his openness. She hadn’t expected him to play it that way, but it was a good thing.
“And now this Markham fellow,” he said, rattling on, almost like he’d been waiting for someone he could tell about it, “a great, fat slob of a man, eh? I hope he doesn’t make too much trouble for you all.”
She took a deep breath, knowing it was time. Telling herself that every nickel poker table and backroom betting circle she’d ever taken part in had been leading her to this moment. The time for being scared had passed. She was here now, sitting with him, with the papers on the table. Second thoughts would only undermine her play. She was a gambler and it was time to gamble.
“That’s precisely why I’m here,” she said. “I’ve come across a piece of information I feel might be helpful to you.”
O’Shea’s eyes darted to the man behind her, as quick as a wrestler’s hand feint. He was on his guard now, though you couldn’t tell it from the friendly way he said: “Information?”
“While we were still in Montana,” she said, “I discovered something that could mean your other venture there is in danger.”
“Danger?” he said. “Other venture?”
Jesus, she hoped he wasn’t going to keep talking like that. “Yes,” she said. “I have reason to think the man you left behind there to guard your interests actually intends to do you harm.”
O’Shea fiddled with his ear. “What is this about?” he said. “It’s too late at night to listen to nonsense. If you mean Jimmy Eddy, you should know you’re talking about a man I’ve known my whole life.”
“Be that as it may,” she said, “I believe Mr. Eddy intends to rob you and sell off the liquor you have stockpiled there for his own profit.”
O’Shea laughed, a strange slapping laugh that ended with him wheezing and coughing into his fist. The man behind her laughed, too, and when O’Shea had recovered there was a small, hard light in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. “That’s a very serious thing to say,” he said. “You shouldn’t say things like that to a man like me unless you are very, very sure you’re right.”
“I’m sure,” she said, hearing her own voice clear and self-assured, watching him as it sank in. O’Shea’s eyes fell on the documents and suddenly she could feel the texture of the paper under her fingertips.
“What have you got there?” he said.
“I’m not going to show you,” she said. “Not without your assurance that it’s worth something to you.”
She flinched when he moved, thinking he was going to snatch the papers from her grasp. Instead, he just crossed his legs. “I see,” he said, like somebody had explained a joke to him. “Mrs. Van Dean is here to shake us down, Francis.”
The leather groaned as the third man shifted in his seat, though all he said was, “Yeah?”
Another little bubble of panic inside her. “No,” she said, too fast. “It’s not that at all. It’s just that in light of recent events, the reemergence of Mr. Markham, I’ve realized a few things about my situation.”
“Realized what?” O’Shea said. “That your husband isn’t the world’s greatest future planner?”
She closed her eyes, reset herself and opened them. “All that booze sitting in that barn,” she said, “what do you suppose that’s worth? A hundred thousand dollars? More? If I can show you that it’s in jeopardy, I’ll want two things from you.”
O’Shea sighed. “It’s not in any jeopardy,” he said. “In fact, I just assigned another man out there to help keep watch on it.”
She remembered Fritz mentioning the same thing the day they left Montana. Quickly, her mind spun back through the night she’d encountered the Canadian bootleggers in the road. What could she say that would throw O’Shea off his game? She decided to play a bluff. “Ah,” she said, “you must mean our young Mr. Templeton. Do you think he’s up to the challenge, if Mr. Eddy is really planning to betray you?”
At the mention of Templeton’s name, O’Shea dropped his shoulders, tugging on his ear again. It was twice he’d done that, and now he didn’t seem so sure of himself. He was trying to figure out how she’d known that. “Show me,” he said, nodding at the papers.
“Not yet,” she said. “Not until you agree to my terms. I came here as a person with needs. I think the information I have to trade is of considerable value. If it turns out you agree with me, I want twenty thousand dollars.”
He repeated the sum back to her as if he couldn’t believe it. “Why don’t I just take those papers and give you nothing?”
“You could absolutely do that,” she said. “But you said yourself you’re a man of sport, and that wouldn’t be very sporting.”
He didn’t find any humor in that. “Fine,” he said. “If what you’ve got there is enough to make me believe one of my closest associates has turned on me, I’ll pay you. If not, then I’m going to have Francis break one of your legs. How does that sound?”
Her mouth was very dry, the backs of her teeth rough against the tip of her tongue. She flipped over the first half of the papers and slid the pile across the small table. It was the receipt showing that Eddy had put down a deposit on a property outside of Los Angeles. O’Shea reached for them quickly, their fingers briefly touching, and then his face darkened as he scanned through the documents.
“Now,” she said. “What would James Eddy want with a house in California? Does that make sense to you?”
“What?” he said, distracted. “This is nothing. This doesn’t prove anything.”
“With all due respect, sir,” Moira said, “I spent the last few months living in Montana like some kind of lumberjack, while you’ve been getting your information at some remove. Mostly, I assume, from James Eddy. I know Eddy was angry you sent him there, I know he hates the Canadian men who bring the liquor across the border, and I know you have a shipment being brought in tomorrow. You tell me who knows more about what’s going on there.”
Mentioning the next shipment of booze tore his attention away from the papers. One of the dates she’d noticed marked on the desk calendar in Eddy’s room was the next night. Some color was starting to show in O’Shea’s face.
“How do you know all this?” he said.
“I’d rather not say,” she said. “Just know my information is valid.”
“What else have you got there?”
She shook her head, just one little nod. “Do you agree to my terms?”
“Jesus,” he said, aggravated now. “Will it mean something to you if I say I do? I could easily be lying.”
“You won’t be.”
“How could you know that?”
“A man in your position understands the value of his word,” she said. “If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be here right now. You’d probably already be dead.”
She could see her words had an effect on him. “Fine,” he said. “I accept. But if what you have there isn’t very, very convincing I can guarantee with equal certainty you won’t walk out of this room.”
She slid the letter she’d gotten from Eleanor across the table facedown. Her last hole card. O’Shea turned it over and read it. Then he picked it up off the table and read it again. A small, almost imperceptible tremor in his hands. When he spoke it was to his man. “Francis,” he said. “Telephone Canada. Tell them I need to speak with them right away.”
Moira turned in her seat so she could see Francis. He was looking at his watch. “Is there time?” he said. “I know we have a couple hours on them, but—”
“Go!” said O’Shea, slapping his free hand on the table.
As Francis hurried from the room, O’Shea settled back into his seat, the documents lying askew on the table in front of him. “I hope you’re not wasting my time,” he said to her. “Jimmy is my oldest friend.”
“I know,” she said. “That’s probably why he thinks he’ll get away with it.”
He sighed. “You’re making me angry,” he said. “I think you should go.”
“What about the money?” she said.
“Mrs. Van Dean,” he said carefully. “I’m not an unreasonable man, but it’s late, I’m tired, and now I’m not going to sleep. When I say you should go, you must know that’s really the best course of action for you.”
She’d brought along her handbag and picked it off the floor as she stood up. “Wait,” he said, his voice not quite as icy. “You said you wanted two things. What else is there?”
She turned to face him. “Five years ago my husband lost the world’s lightweight title to a man named Whip Windham,” she said. “He wrestled the match with a broken leg and then never wrestled professionally again. I’d like you to tell me what you know about it.”
O’Shea looked exhausted, but he had enough left in him to offer a sad little lift of the eyebrows. “What do you know about it?” he said.
It gave her a sick and slippery feeling, but she sat down again and told him the story as she knew it. That a promoter or someone had paid Fritz Mundt to injure Pepper during training before the m
atch against Windham. That Pepper had wrestled with a spiral fracture in his leg and still put up a good fight before he was finally pinned and beaten. After that Pepper’s leg had never quite been right again and no promoter would give him a shot at a comeback.
When she was finished, O’Shea sat eyeing her in a way she didn’t like.
“And you know this how?” he asked.
“Everyone knows it,” she said. “No one would come out and say it, but there were whispers.”
“Whispers?” O’Shea said.
“That’s right,” she said. “Whispers that Fritz Mundt got paid five thousand dollars to break his leg with a toehold during a workout.”
O’Shea held up a finger. “Aha,” he said. “See what you said there? He got paid five thousand dollars. Nobody said who paid him.”
She felt like a pit was opening on the path in front of her, but that she was powerless to do anything but press forward. “It was Blomfeld,” she said, “or it was you. Who else could it be?”
O’Shea sat forward, folding his hands on the table. “Would it surprise you to learn,” he said, “that once upon a time a certain former lightweight wrestling champion of the world found himself unable to pay some substantial debts he’d accrued to some very serious people? And that as a way to be forgiven for those debts, he was offered the simple solution of losing his title to a heavy underdog, in a time and place chosen by his creditors?”
“That’s a lie,” she said, feeling the pit growing in size and herself now stumbling toward it. “We had no debts when Pepper was champion. We had everything we could ever want.”
He pressed on: “Would it further surprise you to learn that this former lightweight wrestling champion of the world, a hardheaded little fool if there ever was one, categorically refused to take part in such a solution, as easy as it would have been?”
“Of course not,” she said. “Pepper would never lose a wrestling match on purpose, no matter what the stakes.”