'We'll move up to New York a week before the fight. That ought to be enough time for a press conference every day,' Hymie had suggested.
Dutch had continued to protest. 'Hymie, it ain't me. Personally I hate the bastards in the game in America. It's a dirty business and the less we have to do with them the better. But it's the lad I'm thinking of. If 'e don't know the score it's gonna throw him summink awful. All the carry-on the Yanks go in for, it gets a fighter pumped up, ready. Besides, the promoter, he's gonna insist on all the malarky, it builds up the gate.'
'Dutch, Peekay's a fast learner. A week will be sufficient. As for building up the gate, that's not included in the contract. In fact, it's one of the few bloody concessions I managed to get. They didn't think Peekay's rep carried much weight in America. People will simply come to see the shit knocked out of the timey!'
In fact Hymie had tied up the contract for the fight some months previously when he'd made the trip to sign up King Coon Sinders, stopping for a week in New York. The contract had been on condition that Peekay won against Sinders, but apart from this clause, which was now negated, the formalities were long over when the four of them, for Togger was now included, arrived at O'Hare a week after the fight in Munich and exactly nine weeks before the title fight.
Hymie knew he had a lousy contract. Jackson's manager was a big, red-nosed, morose Irishman who smoked large, foul-smelling Philippines cigars most of the time and drank Four Roses whiskey neat. Michael O'Rourke looked like a larger version of W.E. Fields, though he had none of the great comedian's acid humour or repartee. He was stubborn and not very bright, but he knew the fight game and he was accepted in New York boxing circles.
From the beginning he'd insisted the fight be promoted by another Irishman, a millionaire scrap-metal merchant from Philadelphia named Patrick O'Flynn. O'Flynn, with a consortium of New York Irish, had promoted most of Jackson's fights and O'Rourke wanted it no other way.
Hymie was soon to discover why.
The deal they wanted from the start had been one-sided to say the least. The purse was set at one hundred thousand dollars with Jake 'Spoonbill' Jackson taking eighty-one thousand and Peekay, win, lose or draw, a flat nineteen thousand dollars. They would barely cover their costs. In addition,Hymie had to pay O'Flynn a further two thousand dollars for the seats occupied by the Odd Bodleians.
Hymie had little option but to go along with the deal. Jackson was established as a title holder who was expected to hang on and hang in and Hymie had to have the fight come what may.
The TV deal had been sewn up before Hymie had met with O'Rourke and O'Flynn. Both had been delighted when Hymie had capitulated with little more than a token fight except to ask for the TV rights to the fight worldwide. Both Irishmen knew they didn't have a snowball's hope in hell of interesting a major American network in the fight and they readily agreed.
Hymie wanted a second clause inserted into the contract.
He wanted a return bout, win, draw or lose in the first fight, in which he guaranteed Jake 'Spoonbill' Jackson a purse of three hundred and fifty thousand US dollars in return for agreeing to contest the title in Johannesburg. There was no withdrawal clause and a three-month postponement clause which required the offending boxer to be examined by three medical practitioners from the other boxer's country before the postponement clause came into effect. The fight to take place no later than six months after the Madison Square Garden bout.
It was nearly double the largest purse for which Jackson had hitherto fought and the return bout clause was quickly drawn up by an attorney at law and inserted in the contract. Elmer Milstein had booked the four of them in at the Plaza. He met them at Idlewild when the Pan American Boeing Stratocruiser landed at seven o'clock in the morning. Hymie stared in astonishment at the car Elmer had brought along. 'Jesus, my old man's identity crisis is over! Just wait until Solomon Levy hears about this Lincoln. It's in such appallingly bad taste he's going to love it to death!'
TWENTY-TWO
Elmer Milstein had purchased a second-hand, twelve-seater Chevvy bus which was to take them the fifteen hundred mile journey through the centre of the United States to Colorado. Most of the trip would be over flatland states: through cities like Indianapolis, St Louis and Kansas City. While this meant they'd make good time, Peekay wanted to see the south. It meant catching a Greyhound bus to Atlanta and then flying from Atlanta to Kansas City to join up with the others coming across in the bus. The trip, though an additional expense, had one other advantage: it meant Peekay would only miss two days of training rather than four or perhaps five.
They were running out of time and Peekay was anxious to settle into a training routine. He'd not fought in America and he had to learn the fight culture of the place quickly. He wanted as much going for him as possible. He told himself he had to be perfectly prepared if he had a chance against Jackson, that everything mattered. Though good sparring partners mattered the most. It wasn't simply their ability, although this was very important, but also their minds. Jake 'Spoonbill' Jackson was black and from the South, Peekay could recite his boxing history in his sleep but he needed to know what made his opponent tick.
One of the sparring partners they'd hired in New York hailed originally from Atlanta, and he agreed to keep Peekay company on his trip to the South. Jerome 'Pumpkin Face' de Cresphy, so called because of his amazingly yellow skin and almost perfectly round face, had suggested checking out another young fighter from Atlanta, a Golden-Gloves winner, who'd turned pro two years earlier.
Although Jerome 'Pumpkin Face' de Cresphy was more accustomed to being called 'P.F.' than by his Christian name, Peekay reverted back to Jerome, deciding that 'P.F.' was rather too close to his own name and bound to cause confusion. The two of them caught the night bus out of the New York Greyhound terminal to Charlottesville, Virginia so they would have the benefit of travelling through most of the South in daylight.
'Ain't no prettier in the South than it is in the North, Peekay,' Jerome had insisted. 'Jus' more coloured folks and honkies.' Peekay had never heard of the term 'honky', but it served well enough to register Jerome's fear and disapproval. How could he tell him this was why he wanted to travel the South in daylight? He'd lived most of his life in a racist environment and he'd often enough heard it said that the southern states of America were no different to his own country in their treatment of the negro.
By morning they'd reached Charlottesville. They'd commandeered the long seat at the rear of the bus and had managed to get a reasonable night's sleep. Charlottesville was closer to the Appalachian Mountains and the dawn was cold and crisp in the early fall morning as they alighted from the bus and made for the showers. They entered the large rest room and paid for a towel and a shower. Jerome stopped and looked around the clean tiled space, then he laughed softly. 'This is the last of mah freedom, this is the last place where the negro is and the nigger ain't. Nex' time we go in to a rest room, I go where it say, "Coloured Folks Only" and where there ain't no hot water and towel for hire; you go where it says, "Strictly White Folks," where the towels are soft and the water is steamin' and hot.'
'How the hell do you know, Jerome?' Peekay laughed.
'You're not allowed in, remember!' Peekay was being flip, trying to ease Jerome's anxiety.
Jerome laughed, his big smile splitting his round face. 'That's a good question, Peekay. When I was goin' to school I had me a job cleanin the bus station rest rooms, evenin' shift. "How come," I said to mah pappy, "white folks' shit smell jus' same as coloured folks'. Why they got towels and hot showers and seats on their toilets?"
"Son," my pappy says, "that's the million dollar question. That the one question coloured folk not supposed to ask. When coloured folk ask question, then they know for sure it's time to quit the South!'"
Around noon they passed into Tennessee and Jerome nudged Peekay. 'Time you went to sit up front, Peekay. From here out this ain't friendly
country no more.'
Peekay felt awkward. He knew what was likely to happen; he also knew that by staying with Jerome he wasn't making a point. The opposite was true. Jerome was the one who stood to be hurt. Peekay would simply be branded a nigger lover; his foreign passport would get him out of trouble, but they'd take it out on 'the nigger'.
Peekay rose and moved up the bus to the front half where he sat staring out of the window, seeing nothing for a long time.
They arrived at Atlanta around ten that night and Peekay checked into a motel near the gym. Jerome had stayed on at the bus station to catch a bus to a small hamlet which he had previously described to Peekay on the journey. 'It ain't got no name, it ain't got no importance, you jus' leave the road and walk some, soon's you get near the bayou you know you're about to arrive. That's coloured folks' territory.' He'd laughed, throwing back his head. Then his face took on a serious expression for a moment. 'When I'm the champion, I'm gonna buy my mama a big house someplace where the ground is always dry.'
At eleven the following morning they met downtown at the YMCA gym for a sparring session with Peppy 'The Kid' Smith, the Golden-Gloves champ who'd turned pro and who had won six of his first eight fights, four on points, two knock-outs and a drawn bout with Jerome 'Pumpkin Face' de Cresphy. Peekay had put Jerome into the ring first so he could watch the young fighter; later they sparred together.
Peekay knew exactly what he was looking for. Hymie had spliced together all the footage they could find of Jake 'Spoonbill' Jackson and they'd watched it over and over again on a small sixteen-millimetre projector in the room they shared at the Plaza. It was the old Hymie-Peekay combination doing their homework, covering every possible aspect of the champion so that Peekay felt he knew Jackson's fighting style inside out. Almost immediately he'd been happy with Smith. The young fighter had a lightning-fast right hand but lacked a little power in the left; however, his style and fighting demeanour were very like Jackson's.
Peekay spent ten minutes or so talking to Smith, who turned out to be a shy and modest young man but with a quiet determination to make it to the top. He would make an ideal addition to the team and, at the end of their discussion, Peekay told him he was hired.
Peppy 'The Kid' Smith, the hint of a smile on his face, shook his head slowly, looking down at his still bandaged hands. 'What's the matter, Peppy, don't you want the job?' The young man lifted his head slowly. 'Nos sir, yessir, thank you, sir…it's my mamma, she wants to meet you before she let me go.'
Eventually Jerome managed to get out of Peppy Smith that Peekay was expected to dine with Mrs Smith in her home that evening. The young fighter gave Peekay his address and left, but then returned, shrugging his shoulders. 'Some white guys, they ain't happy 'bout drivin' there; it's best you look for a coloured man taxi driver,' he said simply.
Peekay found a florist in the foyer of his hotel and bought two dozen creamy, long stemmed roses of a type called Peace. They were one of the many varieties in his grandpa's garden and the name seemed appropriate to the occasion. Besides, Peace is a rose that opens slowly and holds its open head firm. Red or pink roses might have made a more spectacular immediate impression on Mrs Smith, but he could count on Peace to keep the goodwill going for up to a week.
The third cab to approach him was driven by a coloured man. Peekay hailed it and gave the driver Mrs Smith's address. Twenty minutes later the cab drew up outside a small, free-standing house with a neat garden. The street seemed in need of repair; the surface carried several large potholes and in front of many of the houses the grass and weeds grew tall. Every third or fourth house seemed to have a Chevvy or 'beetle-back' Ford outside on the pavement jacked up on bricks.
The houses were a job lot, more or less identical; only owner-pride separated their condition. Their front gardens were either dust bowls filled with weed or, like Mrs Smith's, were neat and tidy.
A cockerel crowed in a nearby back yard, followed by the soft 'quarrrk' of a broody hen. It was nice to know chickens had not yet been banished in this urban environment. Peekay was fond of chickens; a neighbourhood with chickens was usually settled. You can't go carting chickens all over the place.
The street was filled with children who matched the houses, some dressed with care while others were ragged, though they all seemed to be playing happily together in the late afternoon sun.
As Peekay approached the house and stepped onto the porch the door opened and a large woman appeared. She was dressed in a black satin dress with a gigantic brilliant scarlet bow attached to its front. Her thick pebble glasses seemed at first to be trying to focus on Peekay, for her head moved around to his left and then right and then over his head before steadying on him. Then Peekay realised she was looking to see if he was alone.
'Y'all come alone, Mr Peekay? Where's that bum, Jerome "Pumpkin Face" da Crecipe? What kind name that, da Crecipe? That French from down Louisiana way, for sure! My Peppy he done whup that bum, that ain't no draw'd boxing match if ever I seed one!'
'I'm afraid I wasn't there to see it,' Peekay laughed. 'But if Peppy did beat him he's a very promising fighter. De Cresphy is good, very good; I would have thought a draw at Peppy's age was a very creditable performance.'
'That jus' what the man sayed in the paper! Come Mr Peekay, why y'all standin' there, come, come into my house.' It seemed to Peekay less like an invitation than a demand. He followed the very large Mrs Smith into the tiny front parlour. Peekay handed her the roses and she broke into a big smile. 'You got winnin' ways, Mr Peekay. Decidedly winnin' ways!' She proceeded to count the roses, touching each with a large, fat, ringed finger.
'Why, I do declare, ain't nobody ever give me two-dozen long-stem roses before. Sit!' The fat, ringed finger, which moments before had been counting the roses, now-emphasised the unexpected command by pointing in the direction of a deep overstuffed armchair. It was one of three, making up a brown vinyl suite encamped around a small coffee table covered with a white lace cloth, its tassels touching a carpet patterned in pink roses against a deep purple background. On the table was a cut-glass vase into which had been placed an arrangement of red and pink crepe-paper roses. Beside the vase on the table lay a newspaper.
'Please, Mrs Smith, just call me Peekay, I'm not much older than Peppy.' Peekay found himself seated in the chair without quite knowing how he got there.
'You old 'nough to be the boss, Peekay. You got the drive. I can see you got the drive. Some folk got it some, some ain't got it none and some folk got 'nough to push the world' round with their little finger. But hear me, boy! Y'all ain't gonna push the likes of me 'round, lain' t goin' nowhere, nossir!'
Peekay was embarrassed and somewhat bemused. 'Well, I don't quite know what to say, Mrs Smith. We, er…hadn't thought of moving you. It's your son, Peppy. Didn't he tell you?'
'Yeah, he tol' me.' She was still holding the flowers, clutching them against the large scarlet bow. She stooped and picked up the newspaper and slapped it down hard against the arm of Peekay's chair so that he jumped in alarm. 'It say here in the newspaper this is the catfish and caviar contest. That Jake "Spoonbill" Jackson, he the catfish and you, Mr Peekay, you the caviar. That's jes' another way of saying the good-for-nothing nigger is fightin' the nice, rich white boy! Well you listen up good, Mr Peekay. Peppy he catfish! His mamma she catfish! Even that bum "Pumpkin Face", he catfish! Ain't no catfish that belong helpin' caviar to win no world champion. title!'
Peekay was stunned; he'd come expecting to be confronted by a slightly worried and caring mother, anxious to confirm her boy would be in good hands. A little ego massaging and all would be well, because, in fact, her boy would be in good hands. Now, facing this mountain of indignant opposition, he was at a loss to know how to react. He sat quietly, trying to calm his thoughts, to think of something appropriate to say. 'Ho! Cat got your tongue, boy?'
He could feel the heat coming from her large frame as though she were a generator
, which, he supposed, in a way she was. The first rule of combat Peekay knew was to put your opponent on equal or inferior terms. Authority in its most basic form is two things: the way you appear and the way you talk. It is impossible to have authority standing in the nude addreSSing a roomful of fully clothed people. In the same sense, his small frame sunk deeply into the large vinyl chair with the quivering mass of black and scarlet female hovering over him had the same effect. Her enormous presence was calculated to reduce anything he said to pathetic drivel.
'Please, Mrs Smith, won't you sit down?' Peekay rose from his chair and indicated the chair next to him. Once down he knew it would be difficult for her to rise, she was far too big for sudden, spontaneous movement. Mrs Smith hesitated, but then sank slowly into the chair. Still clutching the roses she lowered herself into the chair by propping one arm onto the arm of the chair until a soft expulsion of air indicated she'd filled the interior. Peekay took the roses from her grasp.
'Do you know the name of this rose, Mrs Smith?' He placed the bunch on the table and seated himself on the arm of the second vinyl armchair so that he was in a position to look down at the mountainous woman.
Mrs Smith chuckled. 'A rose by any other name smell jus' as sweet!'
'That's William Shakespeare!'
'Mr Wolfson, he tell me that once when they bring me back some perfume from Paris, France. "A rose by any other name smell jus' as sweet!" My name is Rose you see.'
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