by Jack Tunney
A small open space, like a bubble in a rolling sea of screaming faces formed and we moved back and forth, me landing punches, Baldy swatting me away, but unable to pursue. The bubble moved through the crowd, farther away from the ring and toward one of the lines of flatbed trucks. I thought I might have heard the cowbell clanging, but couldn’t be sure with everyone screaming around us. I wasn’t about to stop and give him time to recover.
Baldy was bleeding from his mouth and nose. His left eye was swollen and cut along his furry black caterpillar eyebrow. He held his elbows tightly against his ribs, which seemed to cut his punching range by almost half. Still, I was cautious, backing him up.
Work that right side, Kevin, work his right,” Father Tim yelled in my head, and I did.
I suddenly saw the picture of my parents, the father I never met. The mother I never really knew. Ardee did that and I was going to slug my way through Baldy James to get to Ardee if it was the last thing I ever did.
That left eye, Kevin, the left and again, that’s the lad.
The crowd might have been roaring, but all I heard was Father Tim.
Now lad, now, give it to him, left, right, left, right uppercut lad, another left. That’s the stuff.
Suddenly Baldy James wasn’t backing up anymore. I was vaguely aware of feet, a lot of feet and a battered face about the size of a melon with a pair of eyes rolled up into the forehead.
We were up against one of the flatbed trucks. It looked like a thousand guys were standing on the thing, all screaming for blood, mine or Baldy’s. I didn’t think it much mattered. I couldn’t seem to suck in enough air, couldn’t feel my arms or my fists as I slammed another right, left combination into Baldy James.
His arms were down and my left caught him on the lower jaw, snapping it far over toward his left ear. My right crashed into the opposite side of his face. I felt something in there give way. Baldy James suddenly stood straight up, towering over me with just the whites of his eyes showing. He looked like a giant, furry, sweaty oak tree, then he suddenly stiffened and fell face forward onto the ground.
The crowd let off a deafening roar that seemed to last for an awfully long while. Someone lifted me up and placed me on the shoulders of a couple of guys. I clasped my hands together over my head in a victory salute. The crowd continued to roar. Somewhere in the distance I could hear the cowbell clanging, slowly growing closer.
I spotted Derby Hat, holding the cowbell over his head, pounding it with the wrench and shaking his head no. Someone grabbed the cowbell out of his hand and hurled it up onto the rooftop of a nearby shed. Another hand grabbed his derby and sailed it back toward the ring. Then some guy took a swing at him and he suddenly disappeared.
I was passed from shoulder to shoulder back toward what remained of the ring. Peter, Jimmy, Sean, Noel, and the others from the lane were there cheering and waiting. Everyone seemed to be waving five pound notes in their hands. It was utter madness.
ROUND 17
The madness continued until late into the night. I must have made it back to Gran’s somehow, because I woke up there. My head was killing me, but I don’t think it was from the three large knots on my skull. My hands were throbbing as I sat at the small table while Gran made my breakfast that afternoon. I silently made a vow to never step into a ring again, ever.
I was halfway through my bowl of porridge when there was frantic pounding on the door, followed by someone calling my name.
“Kevin, Kevin, are you in there? Open up, Kevin. Kathleen, open up.”
It was Peter and half-a-dozen others from the lane.
“Come on. Ardee’s vanished. Gone they say. We’re going down to have a look. Come on, Kevin, Kathleen, come on.” Peter said this last bit over his shoulder as the group started off down the lane.
Gran and I pulled the door closed behind us and followed. A few more people filed out of The Stoop Inn as we passed and joined our crowd.
When we turned the corner at McQuillian’s pub, we were met by a group of about twenty people milling around in front of Ardee’s betting parlor.
“Is it true?” Peter asked a group of three men leaning against the front window sill.
“Locked up tighter than a drum,” one of the men said, shaking his head.
“I’m owed,” shouted a man maybe ten feet away. He was waving a betting slip in the air.
“He’s run off with what little money he had left after his ruin yesterday,” another said.
I tried the door knob. It was locked.
“Why didn’t any of us think of that?” another man joked.
“Maybe he’ll open later today?” I suggested.
“The man is open Christmas, New Years, and Easter. He’s never closed the place in over twenty years. I’d say he’s done a runner,” someone in the crowd shouted. This was followed by a low chorus of grumbling.
“You’re the lad what put Baldy James in his place yesterday, aren’t you?” someone asked me.
I nodded.
“The very same,” Peter said, then added. “And we’re here to collect our winnings.”
More grumbling came from all sides of the crowd.
“Do you hear that, Ardee? We’re down here waiting to be paid by the likes of you,” Peter yelled up to a second floor window, but received no response for his effort.
“What does this mean?” I asked Peter.
“Well, just for starters it means we won’t get the money we won yesterday,” he said. Then yelled, “Because that plonker Ardee has run out on his betting obligations.”
One of the crowd cautiously scaled a stone wall next to the building. The top of the wall was imbedded with bits of broken glass, which he carefully avoided. Eventually, he made it to the top of the wall. He reached around the corner and raised the open window a bit, then wrapped a hand and leg around the window frame and gingerly slunk around the corner, stretching to stand on the window sill.
Once he was standing on the sill, he raised the window some more using his foot. Then he carefully lowered himself until he was seated on the window sill with his back facing those of us on the street below.
“Where’s he going?” I asked.
“Probably just to fetch a cup of tea,” Peter said.
The man slid through the window into the room, and a minute later the front door opened. “Looks to be empty,” he said, then stepped aside so we could enter and see for ourselves.
The place felt empty. No radio playing, no threadbare men standing at tables fretting over poorly placed bets. There was no big mangy dog asleep against the wall. No one was glaring out at me from behind the little barred window. Not so much as a cloud of smoke in the place.
“Ahhh, it looks like we won’t be seeing the likes of Basil Ardee anytime soon.” Peter said.
“What about that solicitor of his, Archie Hooley?” I asked.
“That plonker is just another criminal wearing a tie. He’s probably too busy taking high tea to flee the scene.”
Two guys shouldered open the side door. I didn’t want to stay around too long since we were already trespassing at best, breaking and entering sounded like the more likely charge, but I was curious.
The door led to a long hallway at the end of which was another open door leading to the small room where I first cast my eyes on Ardee and the sharp featured woman.
We walked down the hall and peered into the room. There was nothing in there except for a floor safe sitting with the door wide open, looking very empty.
“I’d say that just about sums it up,” I said to Peter.
“What’s this?” One of the two who had shouldered the door open reached deep into the back of the safe and pulled something out, a ring. A gold signet ring, actually, the sort of ring popular with an older generation. They passed it around, then peered into the safe to see if there was anything else left. I looked at the ring’s initial; a much worn KC, almost invisible. Peter looked at it and passed it over to Gran. She held it for a long moment.
; “I recognize this. It was your father’s, Kevin. It belonged to your grand father. I gave this to your father on the day he married your mother. He never took it off, ever,” she said.
“Then how…” But I didn’t finish the obvious question. I knew the answer. So did Gran.
ROUND 18
“No good will come of it,” Mary said, and then set the sandwiches down in front of me. They were wrapped in brown paper. She placed an apple on top of the sandwiches.
“I’ve six days of leave left. The longer I wait the farther away Ardee can get. His family has a home in the North of England. I’m willing to bet he fled there.”
“And what if you find him? What then? Drag him back to Dublin?”
I hadn’t thought that far to tell the truth. I drummed my finger on the edge of the table. I liked listening to the click of my new signet ring as it bounced off the wooden edge.
“Your father used to do that exact same thing whenever he was thinking,” Gran said, then smiled, maybe the hint of a tear in her eye. “You don’t have to go. We’d love it if you’d stay.”
“I have to try and find Ardee. If I find him I could get word back and you could alert the authorities.”
“Please God you’ll be careful,” Gran said.
“I can feel my luck changing,” I said. “I’ll find him, get word back to you. Then back to Germany. I put in for a transfer before I left.”
“A transfer, where? Here or England?” Gran asked.
“Even better, a unit over in Japan, it’s the easy life out there. Things are quiet. I’ve had enough action with the airlift in Berlin. I’ll take it easy my last year. I think I’ve earned it. Then once I’m out in early ’52, I’ll be back. I mean, if that’s okay?”
Mary gave my arm a squeeze, looked into my eyes then suddenly leaned over and kissed me. She sat back in her chair bottom lip trembling, eyes suddenly red and watering.
“Promise me you won’t be off adventuring in Japan, that you’ll be careful, Kevin, please,” she said.
It took me a moment to catch my breath before I answered.
“I promise. Relax, the pair of you. What can possibly go wrong?”
Epilogue - The Final Count
I never found Basil Ardee. I did find his family home, or what was left of it. The place had been leveled in a bombing raid back in ’43. All that remained was a scorched fireplace and chimney standing amid some rubble. I mentioned his name around the pubs, but no one knew anything. I’m guessing he’s hiding somewhere back in Ireland.
I made it back to Templehof Airbase and my waiting transfer. I wished everyone well and headed off to the easy life lounging around in Japan. “See ya, suckers!”
But wouldn’t you know my plan has been delayed for the moment. Our troop ship was diverted yesterday, just one day out from Tokyo. Still, I feel my luck has really changed and right now we’re headed to Korea. Some skirmish or something over there. MacArthur’s in charge, so it’ll be quick work, probably over before we even dock. That’s just fine with me. I had to pull a lot of strings to get out here. Now I’m looking forward to just sitting back, taking it easy and counting the days until I get back to Gran, and well… Mary.
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