by Ed Gorman
“He made you take down the picture of the Virgin?” “Yes.”
“And he does not want you to see a priest?”
“No, he does not want me to see a priest.”
“And he wants you to leave your children?”
Teresa said nothing. She did not want to be called a whore again.
“Does this not tell you about the man, Teresa? About what is in this man’s heart?”
“He’s a good man.”
“In bed he may be good. No other place.”
“We will be back often.”
“You don’t really believe that. I can see the lie in your face, Teresa.” She wrung her brown hands. “You are so stupid.”
“He loves me.”
The old woman scoffed. “He puts gaudy dresses on your back. He makes you promises. He puts his seed in you. These things are not love.”
“He said we will live in a fine house in St. Louis.”
“You are forgetting your cousin Donna.”
At mention of the name, Teresa lowered her head. “He is not like the man Donna was with.”
“Oh, no? And what makes him different, Teresa? What makes him different?”
“Victor is a man of honor.”
“So was her man until he got tired of her. And do you remember what he did then?”
“Please. You know how I hate to talk about it.”
“He threw fire in her face so that she would be in agony and no other man would ever want her. He could not even give her the rest of her life, a chance to live well without him. He would not even do this much for her. So he burned her.”
“Please.”
“Do you know how she lives today?”
“I know.”
“She lives in the cellar of her parents’ basement because she looks so horrible that no one can stand to set eyes on her.”
“He is not like this.”
“Oh, no. He is a most honorable man. He makes you take down the picture of the Virgin, and he persuades you to leave your children.”
She got up and walked across the room to where Teresa sat in a chair. She slapped her very hard across the side of the face.
Teresa began sobbing.
“Because he puts his seed in you does not mean he loves you, Teresa.”
The old woman shook her head sadly, then went out the door and down the steps to play with her grandchildren in the sunlight.
Chapter Twenty
The referee was a man named Macatee. Stoddard had requested a man named Simek but Simek was sick with gout.
Stoddard knew nothing about Macatee, whose first name was George, and this made him nervous. He stood inside Macatee’s dressing room, watching a bluebottle fly perch at an angle on the windowsill.
Outside the open window four women in crisp summer dresses carried placards back and forth. Obviously they knew this was where Macatee was getting ready. They wanted him to understand their seriousness.
Stoddard tried a nervous smile. “You can’t escape them these days. They’re in every town with more than one hundred people.”
“Oh, they’re all right.”
“They are?”
“Sure. They just don’t like to see people get hurt. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”
Stoddard continued to smile. “I like to see men get hurt. When men get hurt, I have a good payday. So do you.”
Macatee had been shining his black boots with a coarse-bristled brush. The room they were in was smaller than many closets. There was a chair, a bureau with a mirror, and a spittoon.
As they passed by the window this time, the ladies leaned in toward Macatee. One of them, a redhead in an emerald-green picture hat, waved.
Macatee waved back.
“You know her?” Stoddard said.
Macatee, a tense little man with freckles on a white bald head, nodded and said, “I should. She’s my wife.”
“You have a wife who protests boxing?”
“It’s her right. Just as it’s my right to referee.”
“Oh, I’m glad I came over here, Mr. Macatee. To see you, I mean.”
“You are?”
“I certainly am. Do you know how many people are going to be here today?”
“How many?”
“The estimate is four thousand now.”
Macatee whistled. He took a cigar from his shirt pocket, ran a lucifer along the front of the bureau. “Four thousand. That’s the biggest sporting event this town has ever seen.”
“That’s one of my concerns.”
“What is?”
“That the event lives up to the billing.”
Macatee looked at him with eyes as green as his wife’s hat. “What are you trying to say, Mr. Stoddard?”
“They tell me you’re a good referee.”
“I try to be.”
“But I wouldn’t want you to be too good.”
Macatee blew heavy cigar smoke in Stoddard’s direction. The blue-tailed fly was noisy in the corner. “Wish I had a swatter,” Macatee said. “That goddamn thing’s driving me crazy.”
“You ever hear of the Sorgenson fight?”
“Sorgenson?”
“Over in Omaha about four years ago. Hmmm. Four years ago exactly this summer.”
“I think I’ve heard of it. But what about it?” Macatee went back to shining his boots with the brush. He wore a short-sleeve shirt. He might be a small man, but he had outsize biceps for his size.
“Sorgenson was supposed to knock out his opponent pretty early in the fight. Everybody expected it. But Sorgenson was so good that he put the other fellow to the canvas in the first round.”
Macatee whistled again. He didn’t look up from his brushing. “Guess I should pay more attention to this Sorgenson.”
“That isn’t the point of the story.”
“Then what is?” He still didn’t look up. He seemed fascinated with getting the oxfords to shine perfectly.
“It’s what happened after the first round. Sorgenson ran back in the ring at the top of the second and really started hitting the other man. Knocked him down again. Knocked him down so hard that the referee got scared.”
“It can get scary in there.”
“The referee stopped the fight.”
“Oh. I see.”
“Maybe you don’t. He stopped the fight and a riot started.”
“A riot?”
“It was a hot day, just like today. There was a huge crowd, just like this one. One man was predicted to win, just as Victor is supposed to win today. But the crowd still wanted a match. They didn’t want to see it end too soon. They rioted. They took over the town and made it impossible for decent people to be anywhere near them for the night.”
For the first time Macatee stopped his brushing. He raised his very green eyes to Stoddard. “You don’t want to see this stopped today?”
“Not too soon.”
“What if the colored boy gets hurt real bad?”
“He knows what he’s getting into.”
Macatee studied Stoddard’s face for a long minute. “That story wasn’t true, was it, Mr. Stoddard? About Sorgenson?”
“It was meant to illustrate a point.”
“But it’s not true.”
“Not strictly speaking.”
“Meaning there was no Sorgenson?”
“No.”
“And no Omaha fight?”
“Not exactly.”
“And no riot?”
“No, no riot.”
Macatee had inhaled on his cigar. He was still studying Stoddard. “You’re worried I’m going to lose you money, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Mr. Macatee, I am. Especially now that I know your wife is carrying a placard.”
Macatee picked up the shoe brush once again. He returned to his polishing. “I’m not going to let him get killed.”
“Meaning what exactly, Mr. Macatee?”
“Meaning I’ll stop the fight before it goes too far.”
“Afraid
of your wife?”
Macatee tapped his bald head. “Afraid of my conscience. I don’t want to be responsible for a man’s death. Even if he’s colored.”
“Just because a man gets hurt real bad, that doesn’t mean he’s going to die or anything like it.”
“I know you want a show, Mr. Stoddard, and I intend to help give you a show. Just not at the expense of a man’s life.”
“You’ll stop the fight, then?”
“When it’s appropriate. I’m going to keep watching the colored boy’s face close. When he looks like he’s had enough, I stop the fight.”
“The colored fellow wants to make some money. Remember, he’s getting paid for every round he can get through. He’d sure appreciate all the money he could earn.”
“It’s nice you’re so concerned for him,” Macatee said. “The colored fellow, I mean.”
“There’s no call to get sarcastic.”
“The mayor’s office hired me because they don’t want the responsibility of a death on their hands. If they hadn’t hired me, or someone else with my attitude, Mr. Stoddard, you wouldn’t have gotten your permit. A boxer dying may be all in a day’s work to you, but not to the mayor’s office. You have a fellow die in a ring like that and the state newspaper starts to paint you as an uncivilized place, and once that starts then businesses get real nervous about settling in your town, and pretty soon, before you know it, you’ve become a little fork in the road again and nothing more.”
“That crowd’s going to get awful mad if they don’t see a fight.”
“In Houston, I hear a crowd took its money back.”
Stoddard said, “I’m just asking you to be fair, Mr. Macatee.” “How about if his eyes roll back in his head? Is that a fair time to stop the fight, Mr. Stoddard?”
“Eyes rolling back don’t always mean anything.”
“How about if he starts strangling on his own blood from his mouth being cut up so bad inside? Is that a fair time to stop the fight, Mr. Stoddard?”
“He takes a little salt water, he’ll be fine.”
“Or how about if his arms start twitching because his nervous system has been damaged? Is that a fair time to stop the fight, Mr. Stoddard?”
“He could be just arm-tired.”
Macatee put the shoe brush down and dropped his leg from the chair. He stood up straight, touching a hand to a crick in his back. “I’m sure glad you’re not going to be referee, Mr. Stoddard. You know that?”
Stoddard slid the white envelope from his pocket. He dropped it on the chair. “I like to give referees a little bonus. Before the fight.”
Macatee stared down at the envelope. He leaned over and picked it up. He hefted it, estimating the number of bills inside. He handed it back unopened to Stoddard. “I don’t believe in bonuses, Mr. Stoddard. Especially before a fight.”
A minute later, after stuffing the envelope back inside his pocket, Stoddard was gone.
Chapter Twenty-One
He went over to one of the thirty different beer tents. He knew it was the last place he should go.
He had a sausage sandwich and two mugs of beer. He figured that the food would help offset any damage the beer would do.
He hated it out here. It was too hot, the sunlight almost a bleached white, and too dusty. The dust smudged his clothes and got in his eyes and even down his throat.
He was eager now to get it over with.
He would go in and not even hesitate. He would shoot Guild right in the leg. When Guild was trying to recover, he would grab the money and flee. He would vanish into the crowd. That was the reason Stoddard had hired him. He was no good as a gunnie, but he was very good at vanishing.
So that not even Victor Sovich could find him.
He stood in the beer tent, hearing the first of the preliminary bouts announced.
A few more hours, he figured. A few more goddamned hours.
* * *
“I’m sorry I got so pissy.”
“It’s fine, son. We all get pissy.”
“I know you’re only trying to help.”
“It isn’t my business, and I shouldn’t put my nose in it.”
“It’s just I wish you knew him better before you passed judgment on him.”
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe he’s a wonderful man.” “You’re being sarcastic, aren’t you, Leo?”
“No, son, I’m not. Maybe he’s a wonderful man and it’s just my blind spot.”
“He took right over as soon as my mother left.”
Guild smiled at him. “He couldn’t ask for a better son. You know that?”
Just then the crowd shouted and whistled and began stomping their feet.
“The prelim must have started,” Stephen Stoddard said.
Guild picked up the rifle from where it stood next to the chair he was sitting in. He laid it across his lap. “Should be some more money coming our way pretty soon.”
“I really am sorry I got so pissy, Leo. I hope you understand.”
“Oh, I understand, son. I understand fine.”
Stephen Stoddard grinned. “Maybe when this is all over, the three of us will go out and have some drinks. Would you go along if we asked you?”
“Sure.”
Stephen Stoddard sat back and shook his head. “I’ve got a feeling you’re good for him, Leo. He seems to act a little better when you’re around.”
“That’s me,” Leo Guild laughed. “A good influence on everybody I meet.”
He rolled himself a smoke and checked out the rifle again.
Chapter Twenty-Two
They started rubbing Rooney with liniment half an hour before schedule. He was tightening up, and the bald, lanky man John T. Stoddard had appointed as Rooney’s trainer could see why.
Rooney was obviously afraid he was going to die, and probably with good reason. Rooney, from everything Simpson, the trainer, could see, was no longer much of a fighter.
Oh, there had undoubtedly been a time when Rooney had been respected enough giving and taking in the ring, but he had probably always been one of those men who look more ferocious than they really are. Harold Simpson had been watching Rooney work out the past three days. If he were Rooney, he’d be afraid, too.
The liniment smelled of alcohol and another sharp odor. In the tiny dressing room the odor was overpowering.
“You probably should talk.”
“Huh?” Rooney said, glancing up from his reverie.
“Talk. It would probably be good for you. You’re real tight.”
“I was remembering this fishing hole in Arkansas.”
“Nice, huh?”
“Biggest snappers a man ever saw. And the water so blue and cold in the morning with steam coming up off the lake.”
“Sounds pretty.”
“Real pretty. Real pretty.”
“You remember what I told you about his right hand. The son of a bitch comes up from nowhere.”
But Rooney wasn’t listening. “Then when it got hot you could lay back on the shore and look at the clouds. I never had it so peaceful before or since.” Rooney was still back there fishing in Arkansas.
“You got to keep moving, first to your left, then to your right. It’s your best chance, Rooney.” He wanted to say your only chance, but he knew how that would sound.
“Sometimes I’d stay there right through the night,” Rooney went on. “I’d get me a fire going by the shore, and I’d clean the snapper and put it in a pan and cook it right there. It was beautiful, the way the fire glowed in the darkness. Downright beautiful.”
“You keep moving and his punches won’t land clean. And if his punches don’t land clean, he’s going to get frustrated. And if he gets frustrated, you got a chance of hitting him back, Rooney.”
Rooney turned his ebony torso toward Simpson. “You ain’t been listening to me, have you?”
“You ain’t been listening to me, either, Rooney.”
“I was telling you about this fishing spot in Arkansas.�
�
“And I was telling you about how to get out of that ring alive.” Simpson said this with such vehemence that Rooney had no choice but to forget about Arkansas and face the situation at hand.
“I need to go fifteen rounds anyways,” Rooney said. “I need the money bad, Simpson.”
“He could hurt you a lot in fifteen rounds.”
“Not if I keep moving like you said.”
Simpson thought of the thick, ponderous body he’d seen working out yesterday. At some point in the past five years or so, Rooney had been hurt. The arms didn’t come up quite right, the legs were always wobbly, and sometimes, for no reason, he’d start to shake.
Fifteen rounds could kill him for sure.
“You ever want to go with me?”
“Where, Rooney?”
“Back to Arkansas. That’s where I’m going when this is all over.”
“You are, huh?”
“Yes, I am. I’m getting me a pole and some elderberry wine and some good cigars, and I’m going to do nothing but fish for a month and watch the steam come up off the lake every morning.”
“It sounds like it’s going to be swell.”
“It is. You wait and see.”
Simpson had the impression that Rooney was gone again, was refusing to face the battle at hand by slipping into dreamy dialogue about fishing holes in Arkansas.
But suddenly Simpson knew better.
When he looked down at Rooney, he saw him starting to cry. “I’m scared, Harold. I’m scared.”
Simpson put a white hand on the black shoulder. “It’ll be all right, Rooney. You wait and see.”
But Simpson knew better. Simpson was scared, too.
“This’ll probably be the last big box,” the guard said as he put the strongbox on the desk next to the other two strongboxes.
John T. Stoddard took the cigar from his mouth and nodded. Guild watched Stoddard as he obviously resisted the impulse to start running his hands through all the greenbacks.
Stephen Stoddard, standing next to his father, said, “Dad and Victor are certainly going to be on easy street after this one.”
Guild said, “If this is the last big strongbox, why don’t I take it all to the bank right now instead of letting it sit here the rest of the afternoon?”
John T. Stoddard turned and looked at him. “The agreement was that you’d guard the money, Mr. Guild.”