by Tom McNab
“I reckon well over five thousand,” said Liebnitz quietly.
“From the runners’ point of view, all we need is food and shelter,” said Doc. “That, and to be pointed in the right direction every day. So far Flanagan’s delivered. The moment that stops, so do we.”
Liebnitz nodded. “Keep this information between us for the moment, Doc. My sources indicate that pressure to stop the Trans-America is coming right from the top.”
“Just how high is ‘the top’?”
“Certainly state level, maybe even higher. If you want to know the truth, check it out with the gambling boys. They’re already giving two to one against the Trans-America making it to Chicago, four to one against it making New York. Those boys don’t lay odds like that without solid information.”
“Well,” said Doc, frowning. “That’s real bad news. But there isn’t much we can do about it. We just keep running.”
“One other thing, Doc,” said Liebnitz. “I trust that you won’t take this personally, but what was a smart guy like you doing selling milk-shakes for five bucks a week at a soda fountain?”
Doc blinked. “No offence taken,” he said. “But I really can’t answer that question.” He chuckled. “I don’t know, perhaps I grew up too late. By the time I woke up, the carnival was over and everyone had settled down in comfortable jobs. I suppose that’s why the Trans-America is so important to me. lt’s what you might call a second chance – another bite at the cherry. That’s why the Trans-America’s got to stay on its feet.”
“A three-thousand-mile cherry,” said Liebnitz. “That’s one helluva piece of fruit.”
Doc smiled. “Carl, perhaps I like life better as a dream – the down-payments are lower.” His smiled faded. “Seriously, running’s what I do best, and the Trans-America’s my last chance.”
“But do you think you can do it?” asked Liebnitz sharply. “Don’t you ever think you might be too old?”
“Off the record?” said Doc.
Liebnitz nodded, and put his pencil away in his top pocket. The two men walked to a corner of the conference room and sat down.
“The toughest thing for an athlete,” said Doc, “is competing in life when there’s no more clapping. That happened to me in 1913, when the pro marathon boom went bust.”
Liebnitz nodded.
“But I kept running – God knows why. I must be psychic, because up comes Flanagan last year with his Trans-America race. And do you know my first feeling?”
Leibnitz shook his head.
“Fear. Know why? Carl, if you took an X-ray of my skeleton it would look like a junk yard. Years of running, years of injury. The only thing I haven’t broken is my concentration.”
He bent and unbent his right knee. “Listen to that,” he said. “Sounds as if it’s full of gravel.”
Doc sat back in his chair.
“You asked me if I think I can win it,” he said. “Does a fish shit in the sea? Of course I can win it.”
“Thanks, Doc,” said Liebnitz. “A pity I can’t use any of this.”
In another corner of the room Ernest Bullard had engaged Hugh.
“Glasgow, Scotland,” he said. “You’ve come a long way, Mr McPhail. Do you miss it?”
“I miss my parents. I miss my friends,” said Hugh. “But it was like living in a rotten tooth in Glasgow. Here everything’s clean and bright. Fifty miles a day, three good meals. When you’ve been on the Broo for two years – man, that’s paradise.”
“The Broo?” queried Bullard.
“The unemployment bureau,” explained Hugh. “Every Thursday I lined up with a thousand others to pick up my money. Then it was down to the park, the pub or the library.”
“Not much of a life,” said Bullard.
“No,” said Hugh. “Not much of a life.”
Bullard thanked him and scribbled a single hyphenated word at the bottom of his notes. It read: ‘non-political’.
Hugh stood alone in the noisy, crowded room, his eyes idly scanning the milling throng around him.
For a moment he could not believe his eyes. He walked forward a couple of paces and looked again. But there was no doubt who it was. There, at the entrance to the room, dressed in an outrageous white tropical suit, sunglasses, a straw boater and white patent leather shoes stood Stevie McFarlane.
“Over here!” Hugh shouted.
The little Scot recognized Hugh and immediately pushed his way through the crowds to him, losing his straw boater on the way. The two men hugged each other excitedly.
“Easy on the suit,” said Stevie, brushing off imaginary dust. “This put me back all of five pounds, courtesy of the Glasgow Citizen.”
Hugh stood back and gazed at his friend in mock admiration.
“Stevie McFarlane, ace reporter,” he said.
“None other,” said Stevie. “The Glasgow Times started sending back reports of the Trans-America race and people in Glasgow had only got one paper to find out how McPhail the Flying Scot was getting on . . . So next thing the Glasgow Citizen send me and a reporter called McLeod out here, post haste.”
“And where’s McLeod now?” asked Hugh.
“Propping up a bar in town somewhere,” replied Stevie. “The poor fella nearly lost his mind when they confiscated all his whiskey as he got off the ship at New York.”
At the same time as the two Scotsmen were talking to each other a Western Union messenger was making his way over to Carl Liebnitz, finally handing him a slip of paper. Liebnitz scanned the telegram and walked over to Flanagan at the dais, threading his way through the mass of journalists and athletes.
“Just received this from Reuters, Flanagan. Topeka, Bloomington and Peoria have formally withdrawn their financial support for the race.” He handed over the telegram. “Have you any immediate comment?”
Flanagan glanced at the telegram then looked up at Liebnitz. “Only a strictly off-the-record one, Carl, so don’t mention this, even to your mirror. This whole thing is beginning to look like a fix.” He walked away, screwing the telegram into a ball as he did so.
Liebnitz smiled wryly. Two good stories, both “off the record”. Still, the thousand-mile conference had given him plenty to write about.
AMERICANA DATELINE 20 APRIL 1931
Despite claims to the contrary Charles C. Flanagan is alive and well and somewhere on the dusty road to Salina, Kansas.
The race is in a strange position. On the one hand, all indications are that it has now captured the attention of America, even the world. Despite this its catering company, De Luxe, may withdraw its services within a matter of days, and such cities as Hays, Salina, Junction City and Topeka have already announced their withdrawal from the race-schedule.
If, as Napoleon said, an army marches on its stomach, certainly Flanagan’s army does, and any stoppage of its food supplies will bring the Trans-America to an abrupt halt somewhere around Hays, Kansas.
The financing of Flanagan’s Trans-America is unclear. His prize monies, guaranteed by the Trans-America Bank, are secure; but, by most informed reckoning, the Trans-America requires some $5,000 to $6,000 a day simply to stay on its feet. By now, what with the refusal of such towns as Las Vegas and Grand Junction to pay their “appropriations”, massive hospital bills in the early California days, equipment repairs in Burlington and mounting legal costs, Mr Flanagan must be deeply in the red.
As a journalist it is my task to report rather than serve as advocate. I must say, however, that it would be a tragedy if the Trans-America were to wither away somewhere in the green cornfields of central Kansas. These men, the cream of the world’s long-distance athletes, have gambled not only on Charles Flanagan but on themselves, on their capacity to grind out fifty miles a day, day in, day out. The Trans-America athletes represent human beings trembling on the tight-rope of the ultimate – both in their physical and mental potential. As such they represent the human race at its best, and it is my hope that the towns and cities spread ahead of us on the way to New York will s
tand firmly by their obligations. It is not too much to say that they owe it, not simply to Mr Flanagan, but to themselves and to all of us.
CARL C. LIEBNITZ
16
King of the Wharf
The Roosevelt Suite, the Green Davison Hotel, Kansas City. Charles Flanagan had always rather relished the sound of the word “suite”. It smacked of opulence, of heavy drapes and spongy carpets and the discreet chink of cut glass. He settled back in the soft green velvet cushions of the sofa, placed a thick wad of newspapers on the glass-topped table to his left and sipped his coffee.
He picked up the first newspaper, the Detroit Star. A full half-page was devoted to the Trans-America, much of it dedicated to the hopes of a local hero, a gnarled veteran called O’Brien, now labouring in eightieth position. Flanagan eagerly leafed through the other newspapers. Yes, the press boys had come round: even Carl Liebnitz was beginning to melt as Flanagan’s men slowly made their way across the nation.
And yet Kansas City might be the end, with bills piling up, his catering staff threatening to pull out and towns from Burlington to St Louis likely to withdraw their sponsorships. It didn’t make sense, now that things were beginning to go so well.
Flanagan leant forward, fingered his cup and grimaced. Hell, that’s how he was going to earn his keep, by holding it all together. He sat back and allowed his mind to drift back over the years . . .
His father had arrived bog poor in New York from Ireland in 1877, all the way from MacGillicuddy Reeks to 10 Baxter Street. Ten years later Flanagan had been born, and within five years the stones of the streets of the neighbourhood had become as familiar to his bare feet as the fields of MacGillicuddy Reeks had been to those of his father.
He was nine when he made his first business deal, selling newspapers. Dazzled by the stories of older boys who had given glowing accounts of the profits to be made, he pleaded with his parents non-stop for three days until they funded him. Daily he ran all the way to City Hall, two miles distant. There he battled with two hundred other tough, barefoot urchins, elbowing, pushing and struggling to get first to the tables at which the newspapers were handed out. He had kept his money in his mouth, under his tongue, and did not take it out until the precise moment of delivery.
His bundle secured, he had fought his way out of the crowd without losing a single paper and rushed back through the streets to secure his corner. Young Charles Flanagan became the Tarzan of the tenements, leaping up flights of stairs, sliding down balustrades or darting over roofs and serving customers on the way down.
But a day’s work was never complete without a fight for a corner with another boy; and there was never time to think about a bloody nose, a thick lip or a loose tooth. The evening crowd moved thick and fast, and if young Flanagan was not quick enough they would buy from another boy further on. In certain districts of the city, from five to six-thirty, the sidewalks seethed with people returning from work. From this mass young Flanagan received valuable training in concentration, the quick reading of faces, discrimination and judgment of human character. Bread and butter was at risk; decisions had to be made quickly.
Flanagan did well, for he had two advantages. First, when he was forced to fight, he fought with all he had, without reserve, and this total commitment caused fear – even in older, stronger boys. Second, he could think on his feet, juggling with mental arithmetic whilst planning his next move.
Flanagan’s territory was from City Hall to Grand Street and from Broadway to the Bowery. In his seven years on the street he sold to Chinese, Italians and Jews, to prostitutes, gamblers, crooks, drunkards and dope fiends, to priests, policemen, truck drivers and bankers. It was an education no college or university could ever have provided.
Yet even in those early days it had been sport first, always sport. He had first learnt to swim – in thirty-foot-deep murky water at the Fulton Street Fish Market wharves – simply by wallowing from one fish box to another. There was no room for error in such deep waters; one either sank or swam. A boy who went down was scarcely missed until the following day. There young Charles Flanagan soon learned to swim and dive, to plunge underwater for clam shells and coins.
High and fancy diving was also popular, and the boy who could dive from the greatest height was the King of the Wharf. The greatest challenge came from diving from the masts of visiting ships. Half the thrill lay in avoiding the rattan canes of the ship’s officers as one scrambled up the mizzen-mast before diving into the dark water to the cheers of one’s friends.
The wharf was the Olympic arena for the children of the area. Once Flanagan had even swum from the Battery to Bedloes Island, across strong tides and treacherous currents, to the newly-built Statue of Liberty.
Baseball in the streets, handstands against walls, somersaults into water – every day had presented some new form of physical challenge. And now Charles Flanagan of Baxter Street was directing the greatest long-distance race in the history of mankind. And still, thirty years later, thinking on his feet – or rather on their feet.
Flanagan’s mind travelled back to the present. He pulled back his shirt cuff and checked his watch. Just over an hour to go before he confronted Mike Poliakoff of De Luxe Catering. Surely it had to be some misunderstanding: he and Mike Poliakoff went too far back, to Baxter Street and the brown waters of Fulton Street Wharf. No, old Mike Poliakoff would not pull out on him now. An hour to go, so time for a little more shut-eye. Flanagan swivelled round, lifted both feet up on to the sofa, put his hands in his lap, and closed his eyes . . .
It was only a little over an hour later that he faced Mike Poliakoff, managing director of De Luxe Catering, in the speakeasy in the basement of the hotel. All around them he could hear the clink of glasses. And the quiet hum of talk in the small, dimly-lit room as the romances and business details of Kansas City were discussed and resolved in alcoves across glass-topped tables.
“Whiskey, Charles?” asked Poliakoff, smiling uneasily as he looked up at the waiter.
“Thanks,” said Flanagan, watching the brown liquid pour into his glass. He thought for a moment of his Trans-Americans, running across the plains of Colorado towards their camp at Agate.
“You’ve come a long way, Mike,” said Flanagan, thinking back to his musings in his room.
“Yeah,” said Poliakoff, smiling, “we’ve both come a long way, Charles.”
Michael Poliakoff was fat and Polish. As he sat in front of Flanagan, his massive stomach spilling out over the waist of his expensive slacks, it was inconceivable that he had once been the undisputed King of the Fulton Street Wharf.
“You were the first to swim it to Brooklyn, Mike,” said Flanagan.
“Yeah, and the cops wouldn’t let me land there and I had to swim a mile back till you came and picked me up in the rowboat.” He smiled. “Them was real good days.”
“They were, Mike,” said Flanagan. “They sure as hell were. But we both know that we’re not here just to jaw over old times.” He paused. “Mike, you’ve put me in a real fix.” The smile left Poliakoff’s round, indulgent face and his left eye started to twitch. “We have an agreement,” Flanagan continued. “Thirty grand when we reach Kansas City, the final payment in New York. Now I get a letter saying you want fifty grand now, or you pull out your catering staff as of this week. So how do we stand?”
Poliakoff fingered his glass uneasily, and avoided looking Flanagan directly in the eye. “We got nothing down on paper, Charles,” he said. “You know we got nothing down on paper. Nothing legal.”
“Jesus Christ, Mike,” exploded Flanagan. “Come on, you tell me, when did we ever have anything on paper?”
Poliakoff looked nervously around him. “Keep your voice down,” he whispered. “People know me around here.”
“Shit,” said Flanagan, settling back in his chair, visibly controlling his feelings. He dropped his voice. “Mike, I’ve got the biggest thing since the Charge of the Light Brigade back there in Colorado. When we get to New York I’m going
to bust this whole amateur thing wide open. We’ll have a goddam Trans-Europe next year! And you’ll be right up there with me, Mike, De Luxe Catering, all the way from London to goddam Red Square Moscow.”
Poliakoff continued to peer down into his glass.
“Great, Charles,” he said. “So I’m happy for ya; but I got no way round it. I got to have my fifty grand right now.”
Flanagan shook his head. The Trans-America was money in the bank for De Luxe, so there was no rhyme or reason for Poliakoff’s attitude. Unless someone was pressuring him. His voice dropped.
“Level with me, Mike,” he said.
Poliakoff lifted his eyes from his glass.
“Has someone got to you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. Is someone leaning on you?” It was almost a shout.
“Keep your voice down,” said Poliakoff, his own voice quavering. “No one got to me. No one’s leaning on me.” He moved to the bottle of whiskey on the table in front of him and poured himself a large measure. He again turned to Flanagan, withdrew a white silk handkerchief from his top pocket and wiped his brow.
“You know the Los Angeles Olympics are next year,” he said. “Well, this time they got something new, called an Olympic village. Just for the guys – the gals are stashed safe in hotels in L.A. Well, the catering contract’s up for grabs, for the village, the Coliseum stadium and all the other arenas. Charles, this is going to beat all the other Olympics into a cocked hat. It’s got to be worth over a quarter of a million clear to the guy who gets it.”
“So what’s that got to do with the Trans-America?” asked Flanagan, gulping at his drink.
Poliakoff grimaced.
“That’s what I’m trying to tell ya. I got it on the grapevine that there’s no way they’ll even look at my tender if I stay with the Trans-America. Those Olympic guys have got me by the balls.”