TWENTY -THREE
Hymie had spent very little time in the mountains. Most of the time he was in New York tying up details for the fight, getting the film crew organised and supervising the footage which had been shot of Peekay in training camp. It had originally been intended that the film crew would spend a month in Colorado, but a good training schedule is pretty routine and after a week they'd obtained all the footage they needed. This was good on two counts: it made up for the money Peekay had spent on air fares for himself, Mrs Smith and the two fighters flying from Atlanta to Kansas City and it left Dutch and Daddy Kockle free to run a tight, uninterrupted programme.
Peekay had entered training camp six pounds under the welterweight limit. Mrs Smith's cooking steadily took care of the deficit. No training stable ever ate better. Despite the gruelling programme, by the time they returned to New York he was a pound and a half under the correct weight, which was the strongest he'd ever been going into a fight.
Mrs Smith was a fighter's mother and was therefore conscious of diet and she'd served Peekay well.
She also realised Peekay and Dutch were helping her boy. Peekay fought hard in the training sessions but he never set out to hurt his sparring partners as some champions do and he would often enough stop when Peppy made an error of judgement and explain it to him, showing him how to avoid the trap it inevitably led to. After the seven weeks in training camp the young speed-merchant from Atlanta was starting to develop a good left-hand punch and was a much improved all-round boxer. Mrs Smith showed her gratitude by delighting their stomachs at every meal.
On one occasion Hymie had returned to the ranch with a new orchestration by St Martin in the Fields of the Odd Bodleian Choir singing the Concerto for the Great Southland. Mrs Smith had loved it immediately. She'd previously organised them all into a small musical group. Daddy Kockle played a nice clean clarinet and Dutch was no slouch with a mouth organ. Peppy's voice was light but clear and Jerome was a good baritone. Only Togger was almost tone deaf but this was no big deal and he was expected to sing along anyway. Seated at the ranch piano, an old upright which wasn't too badly out of tune, Mrs Smith taught Togger, Dutch and Peekay most of the well-known negro spirituals. To Peekay's surprise he knew a great many of them, coming as he did from a background of the Apostolic Faith Mission. With the advent of Hymie's new pressing the small group now learned to sing and play Doe's wonderful concerto, Mrs Smith taking the lead part with the rest of them following as the chorus. She was a skilful pianist and a superb contralto, and she sang the haunting refrains with an instinctive sense of Africa, though the music would often reduce her to tears. She would remove her pebble glasses and wipe her eyes and sniff. 'I bin visitin' my people in the great Southland of Africa. Peekay, yo' people and mine they sure got lovin' and hopin' in their voice!'
With a great fire crackling in the huge open fireplace, Mrs Smith's musical soirees proved to be among the happiest memories Peekay would take back with him from America. It had been expected that Mrs Smith and Peppy would return to Atlanta when the camp broke up but there was simply no way she was going to miss the fight and she wrote to kin folk in Harlem to tell them to expect the two of them. Peekay had selected Jerome and Togger as the sparring partners he wished to work out with in his last week, which was basically easy stuff and a wind down to the fight. Together with Dutch, the three boxers had taken a plane from Denver to New York, leaving the others to make the long journey back in the Chevvy bus.
The Odd Bodleians had arrived, taking an entire floor of the Waldorf Astoria and sending Manhattan's socialites into a veritable whirl. The arrival of the Oxford contingent led by Aunt Tom almost guaranteed the fight would be a society affair, and Bergdorf Goodman enjoyed a sudden upsurge in business as lavish parties were hastily arranged all over town.
Jam Jar took a suite and seemed to party on from the moment he arrived. Even when he was out at the invitation of some Boston Brahmin or Sutton Place socialite, a business acquaintance or friend of the family, the party in his suite continued.
The weigh-in took place mid morning on the day of the fight at the offices of the New York boxing commission just up from Madison Square Garden. The auditorium with its high ceilings was crowded with people: reporters and photographers hoping for a confrontation between the two fighters, ex-fighters and hangers-on, people who hoped to be seen and who called hello loudly to others they hoped to impress. Mrs Smith was there wearing a brilliant yellow dress with a pale blue picture hat and carrying a yellow silk parasol like a walking stick. Yellow and blue were Peekay's colours and she wore them with a huge smile as she walked with Dutch. Peppy had joined Jerome at the opposite end of the room, conscious that his mama was the only woman in the room. O'Flynn the promoter was talking to Hymie waving his hands, obviously upset over something and Elmer Milstein was talking to the unit manager of ABC Wide World of Sports who were setting up a camera.
Jake 'Spoonbill' Jackson hadn't yet arrived. It was the champ's prerogative to be late and to be weighed in first and Peekay stood quietly with Togger and Daddy Kockle. He'd made no concession to the event and wore the blue tracksuit Hymie had given him the first day they'd turned out for Dutch three years earlier. The yellow silk stitching proclaiming 'The Tadpole Angel' on the back had faded and where some of it had been worn away Mrs Smith had lovingly re-embroidered it, sitting by the fireplace in Colorado.
There was a sudden lifting of the noise level in the auditorium as Jake 'Spoonbill' Jackson entered. Jackson was a smooth-faced man with an elongated head which didn't seem in the least bit negroid. His head was completely shaved, but he'd grown a pencil-line moustache which hardly showed because his skin was so black. Now he wore a white satin dressing-gown with an American flag on the back and a plain pair of basketball boots, with the laces undone, flapping on the floor as he walked. The dirty sneaker-style boots contrasted strangely with the ritzy-looking robe. He untied and removed his robe, allowing it to fall into the hands of Michael O'Rourke, who stood directly behind him. Then he stepped out of his shoes and stood barefoot beside the scales in a pair of white satin boxing shorts. Around his waist hung his WBC World Championship Belt, a grotesque gold and enamelled affair which resembled an elaborate kidney belt. With a grin he stepped onto the machine expecting the official to commence weighing him in.
However, the small bald-headed man in charge of the scales simply waited. Jackson grinned a trifle awkwardly; unclipping the belt, he handed it to O'Rourke. He'd obviously worked up a little scene which had backfired and to cover his embarrassment he now turned to the crowd. Standing on the scales like an orchestral leader, he raised his arms.
'What a Spoonbill stork do to the Tadpole?' he yelled.
'He munch him!' the ten or so people in his retinue shouted.
'And then what he do?' Jackson shouted again.
'He crunch him!' they answered.
'And when he munch him and crunch him what he do then?'
'He swallow him down!!' The group yelled at the top of their lungs, some of them punching the air above their heads like a group of cheerleaders.
Jackson turned to Peekay, acknowledging him for the first time. 'You call me Catfish, you damn right, I Catfish!' He turned to the group once again, 'What a Catfish gonna do to a tadpole?'
'He munch him and crunch him and swallow him down!' they yelled back gleefully.
Jackson pointed his finger at his opponent. 'You hear me now, white boy! You hear me good, Tadpole! I'm hungry, I'm hungry, man! Tonight I gonna eat you!'
Peekay regarded him silently for a long moment. Then he said, 'I have only this to say to Mr Jake Spoonbill Jackson,' he paused as the whole room waited to hear his response to the champion's goading. 'If he takes his hate with him into the ring tonight I will win for…hate is a slow witted ally in the ring.' They were the words he had been given in the night country.
The commission doctor examined them both, measuring their heartbeats and taking the
ir blood pressure. They weighed in almost identically, Peekay just four ounces lighter than Jackson, who came in a pound under the welterweight limit. The whole procedure was all over in less than fifteen minutes. Now only waiting time remained and Peekay returned to the hotel to rest.
Dozens of telegrams had arrived from South Africa, notably from St John Burnham, Peekay's old headmaster, Gert and Captain Smith at the Barberton prison, the mayor and town council of Barberton, Miss Bornstein, Peekay's primary school teacher, Mrs Boxall and one from Gideon Mandoma which read:
Hambari ngokunakekela bafowenu ma bulala ingonyama.
Go carefully my brother and kill the lion.
Among the many telegrams were from some from E. W., Harriet, from England, and one from Doris which read:
Roses are red…Violets are blue. Win or lose, I'll still love you!
Doris xxx
Doris with the wonderful tits, as usual, was about as subtle as a meat axe, but Peekay found he missed her rather more than Harriet.
Hymie came in and sat on Peekay's bed. 'I don't seem to have spent enough time with you, over these last eight weeks, old mate,' he grinned.
'All the time I needed, Hymie.' Peekay punched Hymie lightly on the shoulder. 'As long as you're in my corner tonight, that's all that matters.' Peekay could feel himself becoming sentimental and changed the subject quickly.
'Why were you and O'Flynn having a set-to this morning?' Hymie explained how Aunt Tom wanted Mrs Smith in with the Odd Bodleians and O'Flynn had insisted they forfeit six seats for the space the piano would occupy or pay him two hundred and fifty dollars a seat.
'Jesus, Peekay, I usually love dealing with the Americans, they're open, honest and they make decisions fast. But the guys running American boxing are crud! It's full of hoods, hoodlums and rip-off merchants. I'll be bloody glad when you take that championship belt and piss off.'
Peekay realised what a strain it had all been for Hymie, who'd worked solidly for a year to bring the event off so that they'd end up with some money in the bank despite the lopsided purse they were getting for the fight. Peekay was going to need money to buy his share of a law practice and the often delicate negotiations had largely fallen to Hymie. 'Thank you, Hymie. I owe you a big one,' he said softly.
Hymie looked at his friend almost fiercely. 'Never! I could never begin to give you back what you've given me, Peekay. Without you I would have ended up just another rich Jew in carpet and underfelt.'
Hymie and Peekay left the hotel together, driven to the Garden in Elmer's family Lincoln. Sensing they wished to be alone the chauffeur activated the electric window, sealing the back from the front of the car. It was a ritual the two of them had kept since the first fight they'd worked together at school. Just the two of them going through tactics, talking the fight into each other's heads. Woodrow was directed to a side entrance.
Daddy Kockle and Togger were waiting for them in the dressing room. It was big and cold place about as welcoming as a public latrine. Against the left-hand wall stood a makeup bench above which was a mirror surrounded with small naked globes, most of them either smashed or not working. Peekay entered and threw his bag on the bench which was scarred with a thousand cigarette bums. The surface of the mirror, where the mercury had blistered into brown blobs, made his face look as though it was covered in liver spots. A bentwood chair, the rattan missing from the seat and replaced by a section of plywood, stood in front of the bench. A wooden bench ran down the centre of the room and another ran across the far wall where it was stopped short by a closed door. A rub-down table rested between the centre bench and the wall opposite the mirror. From the ceiling a naked bulb of very high wattage flared concentrated white light into the room. There was absolutely nothing comfortable about the dressing room. It looked like it was; a place to leave and a place to come back to without making any impression. The door on the far wall, Togger discovered, led to a shower and toilet.
Dutch arrived, looking nervously at his watch. There was plenty of time. Togger held a small hand towel. It seemed to be a prop, to give his hands something to do for he was twisting it unknowingly into a length resembling a thick piece of rope. Only Daddy Kockle seemed relaxed and was seated on the rubbing table with his legs crossed.
Peekay started to undress. Togger, happy to find something to do, took Peekay's clothes and hung them up on a wire hanger like a valet. Peekay fitted the protector harness on, a jockstrap device with a hard, leather-covered aluminium crotch box. Then he pulled on the light blue shorts with the yellow waistline which Hymie had ordered for the fight, after which he pulled on a pair of thick socks. Leaving off his boxing boots, he moved over to the rub-down table. Daddy Kockle jumped from the table and Peekay saw he'd brought his clarinet.
Dutch started to work on Peekay's shoulders, first rubbing him down with vaseline, then taking the towel from Togger and rubbing what vaseline remained off again before starting to massage his shoulders. 'Just a light one, lad, loosen you up a bit,' he spoke softly as though only the two of them were in the room. 'Take your time tonight, build it slowly, you've got fifteen rounds.' It was advice he'd offered a hundred times before.
With half an hour to go, O'Rourke arrived to supervise the taping of Peekay's hands. He was smoking a large cigar and looked cheap and ruddy, wearing a grey pin-striped suit, a green-striped shirt with a gold collar pin, a bright green tie and a real carnation in his buttonhole. They were surprised to see him. It was usual to send the fight manager along or even the trainer to supervise the bandaging. 'I've come to do the honours meself,' he announced, smiling. 'The Garden's sold out, standing room only. Mr O'Flynn's a very happy man.'
'He ought to be, he got a grand out of me for the piano,' Hymie said.
'Well now, a piano takes a lot of space, son! At two hundred and fifty bucks a ringside seat, I reckon you got off light, my boy!'
'I'd rather you didn't call me son or boy, Mr O'Rourke. Only your fighter is further from being of Irish descent than I am and I imagine we're both grateful to our antecedents for this fact.' Hymie turned to Dutch. 'Have you got the bandages, let's get this over! Daddy Kockle, you better go do the same and check out Munch, Crunch and Swallow's hands.' O'Rourke removed the cigar from his mouth, tapping ash onto the floor. 'Now, now, no hard feelings, Levy? We've come this far. It could have been worse for you, to be sure, we don't take too kindly to strangers playing on our turf.'
'Sure, Michael, you've been a perfect gentleman. Let's leave it there, shall we?'
But O'Rourke was clearly not finished yet. 'Be thankful you got a crack at the title, we could have held out, made things a lot more difficult, son.' O'Rourke stuck his chin out and pushed the cigar back into his mouth, holding it between his forefinger and thumb, waiting for Hymie to challenge him again on his use of the word 'son'.
'Hey! We're all a little tense,' Peekay exclaimed. 'Did you bring a pen, Mr O'Rourke?'
O'Rourke kept his eyes on Hymie, squinting down at him. Then he grinned, 'Sure thing, Peekay.' He removed his hand from the cigar and looking down at his left-side top pocket he withdrew a solid gold Parker, holding it up in triumph for all to see.
When Dutch had completed taping his hands, Peekay held them out for O'Rourke, who crisscrossed the bandages with his pen. He drew back. 'Okay, may the best man win, Peekay, and we all know who that is,' he said, attempting an enigmatic smile.
Hymie walked over with the Everlast gloves, offering them to the Irishman to inspect. O'Rourke shook his head, indicating that Hymie should go ahead and put them on. The gloves were a new bright red colour and soaked up the light where they curved around the fist. Hymie fitted the left glove on first, the way Hoppie Groenewald had done that first time on the train. First with your head and then with your heart! It was such a long time ago.
Peekay banged the two gloves together, feeling the fit. O'Rourke punched him lightly on the shoulder, then he turned and left the room.
Peekay slipped off the rub-down table and, crossing the room, sat down on the bench against the wall. Togger knelt down, slipped the' soft boots onto Peekay's feet and tied the laces, taping the ends to the boots so they didn't flap around during the fight.
Daddy Kockle entered with an official who stood just outside the door holding onto the lintel with both hands and leaned in as he spoke. 'Ten minutes! The champ wants to go last. Get ready to move when you hear the ring announcer declare the result of the last fight on the undercard.'
Daddy Kockle said, 'We got a police escort to the ring, now ain't that something?'
Peekay closed his eyes, emptying his head. Doc had been dead six years, lying in the crystal cave of Africa, 'You can be it, absoloodle!' he'd said when Peekay had announced he intended to be the welterweight champion of the world. 'Every day you must say, I am champion of za world! You will see, one day you will be it.'
'Son, this for you.' Peekay heard Daddy Kockle say. 'This is the song my daddy played on his horn when something good happen.' He paused, holding the clarinet ready for his lips. 'It's called, "Crossin' over Jordan to the Other Side".' Daddy Kockle, seated once again on the rub-down table, began to play, The sweet low sound of the clarinet climbed slowly, filling the room and calming the sharp light. The negro spiritual lifted Peekay, holding him, cradling him in its arms, rocking him, calming him, until at last it softened to an almost mute note then faded like a snowflake into nothing as it let him go, Peekay opened his eyes and Daddy Kockle put down his instrument. 'Son, I got a whole heap of respect for you,' he said quietly.
The noise of the crowd lifted suddenly and they heard the ring announcer beginning to call the introductions. Though they'd not yet glimpsed the crowd they could feel the excitement in the Garden. The women at the ringside wearing formal gowns and the men evening suits and tuxedos. The mink from the Bronx and Harlem mixed with the silver fox from Sutton Place, and diamonds in every configuration called it a draw between bandit and banker. Boston blue blood mixed happily with prominent figures from boxing, showbiz and the Italian, Irish and black underworld. Several of the better-known TV and sporting personalities drew an excited response from the crowd as they made their way to the ringside, the loudest applause perhaps being for Joe Di Maggio of the New York Yankees.
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