Irish Dukes (Fight Card)

by Jack Tunney

  When I wasn’t running, shadow sparing, or lifting two bricks over my head, Peter had me doing an exercise they called fist walking, then soaking my fists in a concoction of salt water and whiskey. No one seemed very happy that whiskey was being wasted.

  We didn’t have the luxury of punching bags, weights and all the other gym equipment I’d grown used to at Templehof. But different innovative ideas seemed to show up every morning. New forms of torture if you ask me.

  The fist walking was an interesting if painful experience. It was a technique devised by Jimmy, an old friend of Peter’s. He looked to have taken more than one blow to the head with a nose that spread almost to the edge of his cheekbones and droopy eyelids suggesting he’d never kept his fists quite high enough. Still, he talked a good game and I was dumb enough to listen.

  Peter’s son, Sean, held me by the ankles as I walked down the lane on my fists. The neighbor boys swept the street before me in the hopes of removing any rocks or bits of glass. Residents leaned in their doorways with mugs of tea, shouting encouragement as Sean guided me past.

  The first day I was more than a little tentative and felt for sure I’d break a wrist before we traveled a few feet, but we made it partway down the lane.

  “That’s enough for me. What’s left of my knuckles are like ground beef,” I cried, calling a halt to our so called progress.

  Sean lowered my ankles to the ground then helped me up by the elbows, careful not to grab my fists.

  “Hell’s teeth, I’m done for and I haven’t even stepped into the ring,” I groaned, staring at my throbbing raw fists.

  “That’s just the first phase,” Jimmy said. “Next is the soak. You’ll see. The soak will do wonders.”

  I wasn’t so sure as they forced me to hold my fists in a bucket of warm saltwater and whiskey.

  “Come on, Kevin, keep them in there,” Jimmy said. He held a watch and timed me. I was supposed to keep my fists in the bucket for fifteen minutes. It felt closer to fifteen days.

  “The pain is killing me. My hands feel like they’re on fire. I’ve got to take them out.”

  “You can’t, Kevin. Come on. Just fourteen minutes left.”

  Not exactly the thing I wanted to hear at that point.

  “Besides, every house on the lane has added a bit of their whiskey. You can’t let it go to waste, not now.”

  They were probably all secretly against me. At least that was the way it felt on day one. Eventually the pain stopped, but only because I could no longer feel my hands.

  “I’ll be useless in the ring. The water’s pink with my own blood” I pleaded.

  “You’re almost halfway there. Just eight minutes more. Maybe wiggle your fingers for a bit just to keep the blood moving,” Peter encouraged.

  “I don’t think there’s any blood left.”

  I survived, somehow.

  “The first three days are the worst. You did well, Kevin. You’ll see,” Jimmy encouraged, then held up a phone book that had arrived from somewhere. “Here, we’ll be using this as your punching bag. Not hard now, just soft combinations. Remember your fists.”

  How could I forget?

  ***

  By day four, we were getting back on track. The fist walking and soaking seemed to be doing an amazing job to toughen up my knuckles. I was able to make it almost all the way down the lane.

  Later, after soaking my fists, Sean would follow me on a bicycle while I did my roadwork. I ran up and down through the tight little streets of the Liberties. More often than not, people would clap or a cheer as we passed. Sean tipped his hat. I just kept focused on the ground in front of me, wondering what in the world I’d gotten myself into.

  Gran was busy cooking up the beefsteaks, and of course roast potatoes and turnips with every meal… plenty of roast potatoes.

  It was midway through the training regime -- or was it torture? - I had been sleeping in front of the fireplace in the sitting room. Gran had been able to make it back upstairs in the past couple days. I got up in the middle of the night, but before I laid back down I glanced out the front window and saw a shadowy figure lingering on the sidewalk. He had a cap pulled down over his head, a coat with the collar up, and carried what looked like a club. He seemed to be alone.

  I tiptoed to the door, waited a moment, then rushed out and grabbed the man from behind and quickly wrestled him to the ground.

  “Wait, wait! Don’t! It’s me, Noel! Don’t,” he cried out.

  “Noel?” At that moment, I recognized him as a neighbor from down the lane. One of the men drinking Guinness the night I learned of the rent increase. “Noel, what are you doing out here at this hour of the night?”

  “It’s my shift,” he said, rolling over and looking up at me.

  “Your shift?”

  “We’re taking turns, all of us on the lane. We’re watching Kathleen’s house to make sure nothing happens to the likes of you.”

  “You’re standing guard?”

  “Yes, that’s it exactly,” he said, getting up off the ground and brushing himself off.

  “But for how long?”

  “Oh just till four. Then Liam comes on until about six.”

  “No, I mean how long has this gone on? Everyone standing guard?”

  “Since the day you entered into the bargain with that devil Ardee. He’s not to be trusted any further than you can throw him.”

  “You don’t have to convince me, but someone has been standing out here every night?”

  “Aye, and the women are taking turns watching out the windows during the day. Anyone we don’t know so much as steps onto the lane, they’ll be out banging pot lids on the footpath to warn you.”

  “You think he’s that serious? Ardee, I mean.”

  “I think he’d stop at nothing. You’re our one hope, Kevin. Sure as the sun comes up, the good lord sent you to rid us once and for all of the likes of that knacker Basil Ardee. You know we all knew your father.”

  “I’ve only seen a picture. He left before I was born,” I said.

  “Load of bollix,” Noel said and spat on the ground. “Your father wasn’t the sort of man to run from trouble, Kevin. He was a man’s man, stood his ground. Have you ever actually met Basil Ardee?”

  “Yeah, I have. Twice, as a matter of fact. It’s pretty hard to say which meeting was less pleasant.”

  “Sounds like Ardee all right. Did you ever see that massive lump on his nose, or that dead eye of his?”

  “See it? It’s impossible to miss. Let’s just say, not what you’d call movie star material.” I half laughed.

  “True enough. You know, he got that compliments of your father.”

  “My father?”

  “Sure enough. Ardee always fancied your mother, not that she ever encouraged it. But he had harsh words with her one day. That evening your father marched right into McQuillian’s, grabbed Ardee by the collar, and dragged him out into the street. He beat the hide off him, right there. Left Ardee with that dead eye and that massive hill of a nose.”

  “I’d no idea.”

  “Mmm-mmm,” Noel nodded. “It was just a day or two after that he disappeared. We all knew the likes of Ardee was behind it, but there was nothing anyone could do. We’d no proof, none what-so-ever. Never saw him again, your father, ‘til now. You’re the very image of the man, Kevin.”

  “You mean you think Ardee killed him?”

  “Ardee? No, not directly. Most likely he paid someone to do it. It’s his way. That sort of scum never actually gets their hands dirty. We can’t prove it, but we know he’s at the root. The very devil himself, so he is.”

  “No argument from me. So, Ardee and my father went at it?”

  “Aye, he was a great one, your da. All right, come on, off with you, now. You’d best go in and get some sleep. You’ve more important work to do tomorrow than talking with the likes of me at this hour.”

  “Can I make you a tea, or get you some soda bread, Noel?”

  “No, thank you
. I’m just fine. You can get yourself back inside and get a good night’s sleep, that’s what you can do for me. Not to worry, Liam will be along at four and stay ‘til the sun comes up. God Bless, young Kevin, to bed now, off with ya.”

  I thanked Noel for the information then went back inside and lay down in front of the fireplace, but I didn’t really sleep very well. Noel’s words ‘You’re our one hope, Kevin,’ kept echoing in my head. Well that and ‘We can’t prove it, but we know he’s at the root, the very devil himself, so he is.’

  ***

  The next morning, I was marching down the lane, in a manner of speaking, doing my fist walk. I felt Sean slowing maybe fifteen feet beyond where we’d stopped the day before.

  “We’ll keep going,” I shouted then bit my lower lip and thought, I can go ten feet farther. Then it was another ten and another, and suddenly I looked up and we were back at Gran’s. I’d made it down the lane and back, my fists hurt, but they weren’t killing me.

  Jimmy slapped me on the back, “That’s the stuff, lad, that’s it.”

  I grinned back at him, but I couldn’t help but wonder if Baldy James Keane was training as hard as I had been. He’d better, because I was coming after him and then Ardee.

  ROUND 15

  Peter knocked on the door at five-thirty and Gran let him in. I had been pushing beefsteak around my dinner plate for the better part of the last half hour. Today and yesterday had both been light workouts. Despite my accomplishment earlier in the week, mercifully the past two days there’d been no more fist walking.

  I’d done some shadow sparing, my roadwork with Peter on the bicycle, and light combination drills with Jimmy holding the phone book. The clock seemed to move slower and slower as the day progressed until right now it seemed to be standing completely still. It was just two and a half hours before I stepped into the ring with Baldy James Keane and time seemed to just hang out there.

  Mary sat quietly next to me at the table. She looked like she would burst into tears at any moment.

  “Kevin, you’ve got to eat something. Tonight of all nights, you have to keep your strength up. He hasn’t touched so much as a bite,” Gran said, turning to Peter.

  “I suppose I’ve just time for a tea,” Peter replied, then pulled a chair up next to us, took a piece of my beefsteak between his finger and thumb and popped it into his mouth.

  “Mmm-mmm. We’ll leave here in about fifteen minutes. It’s no more than a ten-minute walk. We’ll have your hands wrapped once we’re there.” He tossed another piece of beefsteak into his mouth.

  “Will someone inspect the hands? I don’t want Baldy having a lead pipe or some brass knuckles wrapped up in there.”

  “Jimmy and Noel will inspect old Baldy. They’ll be right next to him when his hands are wrapped. They’ll send someone over to inspect you. The two of you will have your hands wrapped at the same time,” he said, then examined my plate of beefsteak and chose another piece.

  I pushed the plate in front of him and handed him my fork. “Will Ardee come over to watch?”

  “To watch the wrapping? Not very likely. You may not think it, but he’s kept his distance from you. I don’t see him doing anything different tonight. He’ll be there watching the fight, I guarantee it, but we’ll likely not see the plonker.”

  “Will the weigh-in happen when they inspect our hands?”

  “Weigh-in?” Peter asked, and then speared a piece of beefsteak with my fork.

  “I think you just answered my question,” I said. “Exactly how big is Baldy James Keane, anyway?” It suddenly dawned on me I knew virtually nothing about Baldy James other than he was mean and ugly.

  “Big enough, and did I mention he’s uglier than a donkey’s arse?”

  “You did,” I said. With the cheerful news there was no weigh–in, so I would most likely be outweighed by probably twenty-five pounds. The clock seemed to suddenly pick up speed ticking ever faster toward my potential demise at the hands of mean, ugly Baldy James Keane.

  “Will you take milk with your tea, Peter?” Gran called just as Peter speared the final piece of beefsteak, examined it for a brief half second, and slipped it into his mouth.

  “Yes, if you would, Kathleen. Not too much milk,” he said, then pushed the empty plate back in front of me.

  I was trying to envision exactly how big Baldy James Keane would be. It dawned on me that in the past two weeks I’d been so busy training I hadn’t had time to think about the man. Other than Jimmy dancing the phonebook around and shouting; Here’s your man, Baldy James, Kevin. Hit him, Kevin, come on lad hit Baldy James.

  “Oh, there, much better,” Gran said. “Now that wasn’t so hard was it, Kevin?” She set Peter’s tea down in front of him and picked up my clean plate. “It won’t serve to be going in there on an empty stomach.”

  “Thank you,” I said. I returned to thinking about how large Baldy James Keane might be, oblivious to Mary rubbing my arm.

  Peter’s tea was suddenly gone and we were at the door. Gran gave me a kiss and I could tell she was fighting back the tears. If I had any confidence I must have left it at the table. I suddenly didn’t feel like going.

  “Little something,” she whispered and slipped what I thought was a note in my hand.

  I nodded, but couldn’t think of anything to say.

  The next thing I knew, we were walking down the lane. I looked back and Gran was standing at her door, making the sign of the cross. Mary stood next to her with her arm around Gran’s shoulder. Maybe a half dozen other women from the lane had gathered round them.

  As we walked down the lane, we were joined by men and boys from every little doorway - Noel, Liam, Jimmy, Sean and a number of others whose names I couldn’t remember.

  We made it out to Meath Street where a crowd of about twenty men waited on the corner and cheered as we approached, then fell in step behind us. Pats on the back to me and nods of the head. When we passed The Stoop Inn, the place seemed to empty out. The same thing happened with a half dozen different pubs we passed along the way. By the time we reached the brewery gates, our crowd had swelled to over one hundred.

  We were nodded in the gate by a couple of officious looking guys who may have been police, Guards. I wasn’t sure, but everyone seemed to know them and no one complained about the half shilling they collected as a gate fee.

  Inside the brewery yard were another maybe three or four hundred men. All standing around a ring about fifteen feet square in the middle of a patch of grass. It looked to be constructed of thick rope strung to corner posts of six by six inch beams buried into the ground. All heads seemed to turn as one when we entered.

  A dozen brewery trucks were parked around the outside edge of the crowd on three sides. Their flat beds were crammed with men vying for second tier viewing. Three or four young boys sat on the roof of the truck cabs. The brewery yard suddenly looked far bigger than Templehof. I would have given anything to see Sergeant-Major Taylor, or better yet, Father Tim, in the crowd.

  With every step closer on our walk to the brewery, Peter had grown more serious. Now he kept a straight face and never gave so much as a nod in response to all the pats on the back and wishes of good luck. I was in the middle of a moving pocket, surrounded by the men from the lane. Each one looking like they we’re ready and more than willing to step into the ring with Baldy James Keane. Too bad I didn’t feel that way.

  We were maybe twenty feet away when I spotted him from the back, or what I thought was him. A large bald head gleamed white and appeared to be about the size of the moon, only not as good looking. His head seemed to float almost a foot or two above everyone else. He had a whiskey bottle raised to his lips and, as we approached, he turned with a sneer. I could see a large Adam’s apple bobbing as he gulped. Eventually, he pulled the bottle away, revealing a massive black mustache, and then he licked his lips. It was clear the back of his head had been the better side.

  Even at this distance I could see his nose seemed to take a sharp ni
nety degree turn to the left. As he sneered, his mouth showed a dark cavity where two or three teeth had gone missing on the right side of his jaw. He had thick, dark eyebrows that moved up and down as if alive, heavy, hairy shoulders and a thick muscular neck. As we pushed through the crowd, I was sure I could even smell him, acrid and sour.

  We pushed our way through the crowd into an open area surrounded by men linked arm in arm to keep the throng back. In the middle of the area stood three wooden beer barrels, rolls of gauze I presumed to wrap our hands sat on top of the barrels.

  Baldy James gulped again from his whiskey bottle and laughed loudly, spraying whiskey in a five foot radius. I’d been wrong. He wasn’t twenty-five pounds heavier than me. It looked more like a solid hundred. The man was huge.

  “This is what’s been causing all the trouble? This little thing? I’m afraid you’ve wasted a good half shilling if you came to see a fight, lads,” he roared to the crowd, and then pointed his bottle in my direction.

  There was a lot of laughing from the immediate mob around us.

  “I’ll give him a minute,” he said, turning round to everyone as he yelled. Then he directed his attention toward me. “Maybe you’d feel more at home coming at me from behind with this bottle. That seems to be your style ain’t it, Yank?”

  I didn’t say anything. I moved my head back and forth to get the kinks out and wondered how in hell’s name I’d gotten myself into this situation.

  “We’ll settle Billy’s score in just a minute,” Baldy James said, then followed that with another gulp or two from his bottle. “Only this time it’s just you, all alone.”

  He didn’t have to remind me. We lined up on either side of the beer barrels to have our hands wrapped. I’d already taken my shirt off and planned to fight in my trousers. Baldy James wore wool trousers torn off at the knees. I could see the hint of a rope wrapped round his waist to hold the trousers up. Massive rolls of hairy fat jiggled down over the belt loops.