Dutchman and the Devil : The Lost Story (9781456612887)

by Dutchman

  In Weiser’s unsophisticated eyes, membership in Nagold’s prestigious Boxing Club was a symbol of social success. The club was a stately stone mansion with fireplaces in each room, overstuffed leather chairs, and white-jacketed waiters. The men lounging in those overstuffed chairs were the city’s elite.

  The chairman of the Club’s board, Karl Schultz, had a son, and Weiser thought becoming Karl Jr.’s friend would get him into the club. Karl Jr. was not a popular person and was ecstatic to have Weiser’s attention, but his friendship did not get Weiser an invitation to join the club.

  Weiser’s next ploy had been to make Karl Jr. a celebrity, and what could be easier than helping him win a boxing contest?

  Regrettably, Weiser didn’t know much about boxing. He groaned inwardly as he remembered Schultz’s match earlier this afternoon. In his mind’s eye, he saw Schultz climb between the ropes and step into the ring, looking every inch a fighter in his white tights, narrow black sash knotted at the back, and high-top leather boots. Schultz had looked so good, Weiser had wagered heavily on Schultz, and it was money he didn’t actually have.

  But clothes don’t make a man, nor does a correct costume make a boy a fighter. After a few initial jabs, Karl Jr.’s opponent had grabbed hold of his blond curls, pummeled his face unmercifully, and thrown him ingloriously to the mat. Schultz had been down for the count, and Weiser had been left scrambling to pay off his bets.

  Weiser’s soul-searching was put aside when Jacob Waltz burst into Otto’s, hung his workman’s wool cap on a peg, and took a seat at the bar. Otto drew a lager and greeted him with a grin, “I hear you surprised the Gypsy fight crowd last night.”

  Waltz smiled modestly and said, “You heard about it already?”

  “Sure I did,” Otto replied, leaning his elbows on the bar. “This is a pretty small town.”

  Waltz lifted his beer to his mouth, drank heartily, wiped the foam from his whiskers, and said, “We was pretty even at first, but the other guy was out of shape. All I had to do was keep my guard up until he got tired of throwing punches.”

  Otto’s grin widened as he said, “The way I heard it, you laid him out cold.”

  The corners of Waltz’s mouth twitched and his greenish-brown hazel eyes crinkled as he said, “Well, I did wallop him pretty good.”

  “Sounds like Raoul’s making a real fighter out of you,” Otto observed.

  “I guess he is,” Waltz agreed, grinning from ear to ear. “Drinks are on me tonight.”

  Weiser heard the sound of opportunity knocking: If this Raoul could make an obvious nobody like Waltz into a winning fighter, he ought to be able to turn a privileged man like Schultz into an even better one. Weiser finished his drink, slapped his stylish grey fedora on his upper-class head, and hurried to the Gypsy camp to find Raoul and set up an arrangement for revenge.

  The following night, Weiser took Schultz to the Gypsy camp. Schultz had never seen anything like this kind of fighting. The sheer excitement captured him at once. Awestruck, he didn’t notice the knowing look Raoul exchanged with Weiser as he approached and greeted them, “Welcome to my camp, gentlemen.”

  Turning his dark gaze on Schultz, Raoul said, “You’re a big fella. How’d you like to go a round with one of my boys?”

  Remembering his ignominious defeat at the boxing club, Schultz blushed and said, “I don’t think so, sir.”

  Raoul ignored his refusal and beckoned to a Gypsy boy who was standing near the ring. This boy was about Schultz’s height, but much thinner.

  The boy came quickly, walking with the easy stride of a natural athlete, and stood obediently beside Raoul.

  “This is my son, Gino,” Raoul said, putting his swarthy hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  As if on cue, gypsies surrounded them, laughing and clapping their hands.

  Schultz still hesitated, but Raoul took his arm and helped him into the ring, and Gino followed. After a few minutes of circling and making little jabs at each other, Gino let Schultz land a solid punch — at least solid enough that he could fake a fall to the mat.

  Schultz’s round face shone with happiness as Raoul helped him out of the ring, patted his shoulder, and said, “You’re a natural boxer if I ever saw one. With a few lessons from me, you could go back to the Boxing Club with your head high.”

  Schultz reddened as he said, “You know about that?”

  Raoul flashed his gold tooth and replied, “Of course I do. And I also know you will be able to put the man who defeated you on the mat, after a few lessons with me.”

  Weiser could see where this was going and didn’t intend to let Raoul cut him out of his share. He put his arm on Schultz’s shoulder and said, “Let’s go, champ. We can talk about the future tomorrow.”

  The next afternoon, Weiser returned to the Gypsy camp to make a deal with Raoul. He found the Gypsy seated at a table beside his caravan, studying a spread of greasy tarot cards.

  “Can you tell my fortune?” Weiser asked with a sly smile.

  “Of course,” Raoul replied without looking up. He moved three cards to the center of his table and peered at them intently.

  “Well, what do you see?” Weiser said.

  “I see the Fool, the Magician, and the Devil in your future,” Raoul said, still not looking up.

  Weiser laughed, “But do you see wealth?”

  Raoul looked up then, and met Weiser’s eyes as he swept the cards into a stack. His gold tooth gleamed as he said, “I don’t need a crystal ball to see that you are after money. But so am I. If we work together, you an’ I, we could undoubtedly fill our pockets with ease.”

  Weiser pulled up a chair and said, “Can you make my friend Schultz into a Boxing Club champion?”

  “Of course I can,” Raoul replied with a contemptuous smile, “even though he doesn’t have the grit of a real fighter.” Raoul drew himself erect and said proudly, “With enough support from his father’s purse, I — Raoul, King of Gypsies and renowned coach of fighters — can teach even pitiful Schultz to beat those amateurs.”

  “Schultz’s father will support him all the way,” Weiser said.

  Raoul fixed his shrewd gaze on Weiser and went on, “But I think you, Mr. Weiser, want more than that.”

  Weiser was silent, speculating on how much to confide in this Gypsy.

  Raoul persisted, “What are you really after?”

  Deciding to trust the Gypsy, Weiser said, “Money an’ a place in society that I can’t rise to in Germany. I want enough money to go to America.”

  “I can get you that money, if you’re willing to invest six months getting it,” Raoul said.

  “I can do that,” Weiser said. “What’s your plan?”

  Raoul bent his head over the table an inch from Weiser’s forehead, and whispered, “I will teach Schultz enough to make him club champion. When he has achieved that title, I have a ringer who can defeat him. My man will be content with taking home the prize money, while you an’ I will make a fortune betting against Shultz.”

  “I like this idea,” Weiser said. “It may not get me all the way to America, but it sounds like a damn good start!” He started to stand, then paused as if in afterthought, and said, “Who’s your fighter?”

  “You don’t know him,” Raoul replied in an equally offhand manner.

  Weiser, who was always attentive to the details of his schemes, would not be put off. “I want to know who my money is riding on!”

  “Don’t you trust me?” Raoul said, with a slight frown.

  “As far as I can throw you,” Weiser said firmly. “No name, no deal.”

  “All right, if you must know, my man is Jacob Waltz,” Raoul said.

  Weiser sat back down, thought for a moment, and said, “Can you guarantee Waltz will beat Schultz?”

  “I can guarantee it will be a slaughter.” Raoul replied, showing his gold-star grin. “But are you concerned that Schultz will get hurt?”

  Weiser didn’t hesitate. “I don’t care who gets hurt, as long as I g
et my money.”

  Schultz’s father knew a thing or two about the manly sport of boxing, and he also knew Raoul’s reputation as a trainer. Pleased as punch at his son’s interest, Herr Schultz reached into his wallet, pulled out a handful of bills, and sent his son off to become a man.

  For his part, Schultz worked hard at his training and even ran five miles to Raoul’s training ring every day. Once there, he punched a sandbag until his fists ached, then went on to spar with the young Gypsies. As he improved, he began asking Jacob Waltz for tips and advice. Completely unaware of his teacher’s scheme, Waltz was more than happy to help Schultz. The two were fast becoming friends, until Raoul stepped in to keep Waltz from unknowingly tipping their hand.

  The day finally came when Schultz hit one of the Gypsies hard enough to knock him out. It certainly wasn’t confirmation that Schultz was the greatest fighter in the world, but it showed he was good enough to beat the rest of the dilettantes at the club. And to convince Schultz he was a contender. Raoul put his arm around Schultz’s shoulder, smiled his gold-tooth smile, and said, “Good work, Schultz. You’re ready to go back to your Boxing Club.”

  As Shultz neared the top of the club’s ladder, his betting odds changed and it was time for Weiser and Raoul to bring Jacob Waltz into their scheme. Weiser began by following Waltz to Otto’s and waiting until Waltz was seated before he sat down and ordered his own pint.

  Waltz paid no attention to Weiser. He was worried about his mother, who had been bedridden for a month. She needed expensive medicine and he didn’t have enough money to pay for it.

  Looking for a way to strike up a conversation, Weiser spotted a dish of salted nuts on the bar. He reached for the nuts and, as if it were accidental, brushed Waltz’s half-empty glass with his sleeve. The glass tipped over and beer poured out, soaking Waltz’s trousers.

  Startled out of his normal politeness, Waltz jumped to his feet and burst out, “You idiot!”

  Weiser grabbed his napkin to dab at the spill, then looked more closely at Waltz and said, “Aren’t you Jacob Waltz, the famous Gypsy fighter? Please accept my apology, and don’t smack me for my clumsiness.”

  By this time, Otto was there with his bar towel. Weiser turned to him and said, “Otto, why didn’t you tell me I was sitting next to the best bare-knuckle boxer in Nagold?” Without waiting for an answer, Weiser turned to Waltz and said, “You must permit me to buy you dinner, Mr. Waltz. It’s the least I can do to make up for drenching you in your own drink.”

  Otto’s wife Hilda had been watching from the doorway. She caught Weiser’s nod and came over. “Good evening, gentlemen,” she said graciously. “A table for two overlooking the garden?”

  “By all means, Hilda, and bring us a bottle of your finest champagne,” Weiser replied.

  Waltz tried to protest, but he hadn’t eaten since that morning and a new voice in his head said, “Accept it. You deserve a little fun and a good meal.”

  Weiser was at his persuasive best as he popped the cork on the champagne bottle, poured two glasses, and handed one to Waltz. “Here’s to the best boxer in Nagold,” he said, raising his glass in a salute.

  Waltz had never tasted champagne. As Waltz blushed at Weiser’s praise and took a sip of his drink, Weiser knew he had Waltz just where he wanted him.

  Hilda brought them a steaming platter of Waltz’z favorites — beef sauerbraten, potato dumplings, red cabbage, and green beans. He devoured all the food on his plate and guzzled champagne greedily, only half listening to Weiser praise his fighting skills.

  As Hilda brought out great slabs of Cherry Nut Cake, Weiser turned the one-way conversation to matches at the Boxing Club, saying, “If I was your manager, I could arrange for you to challenge the club champion.”

  This got Waltz’s attention. “No, I don’t think you could,” he protested. “I’m not a member.”

  “We can challenge if they decide to have an open competition,” Weiser said.

  “I don’t know...,” Waltz murmured, distracted by the cake in front of him.

  But Weiser was not backing off. “Trust me,” he said. “That club will have an open tournament and you, Mr. Jacob Waltz, can win it — and half the prize money that goes with it.” He paused, then said softly, “A man can always use extra money, especially when his mother is ill.”

  Waltz looked up at Weiser, surprised this stranger knew so much about his personal affairs. After a minute he said, “So I do the fighting and you get half the money?”

  “I can understand your confusion,” said Weiser, “but managers have expenses involved in setting up a bout. I have to make sure they are covered.” He paused, then added, “I wouldn’t call it hard work putting Karl Schultz on the mat.”

  “Who?” Waltz said, his deep set eyes widening.

  “Karl Schultz,” Weiser repeated. “Karl is their current champion.”

  “But Karl is my friend, a man I spar with at the gypsy camp,” Waltz answered slowly, a frown furrowing his brow, “I don’t know if I would feel comfortable fighting a friend.”

  “What’s the matter?” Weiser asked. “Don’t you want easy money?”

  Waltz met Weiser’s eyes and said, “It isn’t about the money.”

  Weiser’s trim brows curved in surprise. “What else is there?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.

  “Honor,” Waltz replied. “It wouldn’t be ethical to take advantage of a friend.”

  “Why not?” Weiser asked, amazed by Waltz’s attitude.

  “It just wouldn’t be right,” Waltz said firmly.

  Weiser knew when to back off. “Well, you just think about it, Mr. Waltz. But don’t take too long deciding. There are plenty of other fighters who’ll jump at a chance like this!”

  “I’ll do that,” Waltz said. Remembering his manners, he added, “Thank you for dinner.”

  “It was my pleasure,” Weiser responded smoothly, confident Waltz would go along with them once he thought it over.

  The following afternoon, Waltz arrived at the Gypsy camp earlier than usual, seeking Raoul’s advice on Weiser’s proposal. A small group of Gypsy boys were playing beside Raoul’s tarot table. To Waltz’s surprise, Weiser was also there, deep in conversation with Raoul. From the ease of their postures, it was easy to see the two men knew each other well.

  Without thinking, Waltz left the footpath, concealed himself in the trees, and moved closer.

  Weiser was giving Raoul an account of his evening with Waltz. When Weiser described Waltz’s refusal to make a deal, Raoul threw his head back and roared with laughter.

  Puzzled, Weiser asked what was so funny.

  “You are, my friend,” Raoul replied. “Sometimes you have the sensitivity of a shoebox.” He paused, then said, “You don’t understand a man with ethics because you have none of your own.”

  “What does ethics have to do with it?” Weiser asked.

  “Everything,” Raoul replied, “an’ you’d better get out of sight before Waltz gets here.”

  Furious at being double-crossed, Waltz stepped out from his hiding place, strode over to the tarot table, and flipped it on its side, sending the cards flying.

  Weiser jumped up and hid behind Raoul, who was on his feet with his fists on his hips and his elbows turned outward. For a frozen moment, Waltz and Raoul stared soundlessly at each other.

  The Gypsy boys were the first to move, quietly picking up tarot cards and placing them at Raoul’s feet.

  As they did, Raoul’s face softened. He put his hand on the head of the smallest boy and said, “Thank you, my son.” Raising his eyes to Waltz, he continued, “You, Jacob, are one of my sons also. Why are you angry?”

  Surprised and confused, Waltz’s fury melted in the face of Raoul’s gentleness and he realized he wanted desperately for Raoul to explain his part in this fraud.

  A master at turning awkward situations to his advantage, Raoul replied, “Your mother is gravely ill and you need money to pay for doctors and medicine.”

  Waltz no
dded without speaking.

  Raoul laid his hand gently on Waltz’s arm, meeting Waltz’s clear hazel eyes with his own coal-black ones, and said, “It isn’t wrong to use your boxing skill to help your mother.”

  Waltz was silent for a moment, then asked, “But is it right for me to fight against a friend who I can beat so easily?”

  Raoul peered intently at Waltz, measuring his words carefully before replying, “You’re wasting your time worrying about Karl Schultz. He has already made his father proud by his successes — but he has also risen as high as he can with his limited ability.”

  “Maybe so,” Waltz agreed, “but does that make it right for me to take advantage of him?”

  “I’ll leave that up to you,” Raoul replied. “But bear in mind that you, Jacob Waltz, are the best fighter in this town. An’ you deserve the rewards that go with being the best.”

  Raoul’s feigned concern was convincing enough to make Waltz believe it was wrong to walk away from what was rightfully his. “All right,” he said, with a cynical smile that was new for him. “I’ll fight — but in addition to the prize money, I want a share of the betting proceeds.”

  Raoul threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Welcome to our brotherhood,” he said.

  Raoul spoke to Schultz’s father and hinted that the Boxing Club could pay off its mortgage if they opened their championship match to anyone willing to pay a hefty entry fee. The board approved with enthusiasm and erected a temporary tent to accommodate the expected crowd. As a result, on the night of the fight excited boxing fans from Nagold mingled freely with members of the Boxing Club and filled the tent to overflowing. Vendors sold beer and pretzels and sausages, a brass band played rousing marches, and everyone bet as they waited for the fighters to appear.

  Schultz was heavily favored at first, as Boxing Club members backed their man. But the betting became brisk as men who supported the Gypsy matches put their money on Waltz.

  Fearing that the odds would change too quickly, Weiser whispered to Waltz, “Don’t forget to make sure Schultz and his fans think he has a chance of winning.”

  Waltz’s face reddened and he snapped, “Don’t you tell me what to do, mister. I’m going to win this match, an’ you’d better not suggest otherwise!”