Finally the meal was ready, and Awful bowed his head and prayed a quick blessing, then said, “Well, now, how do you like me new place, laddie?”
“All right, Awful.” Barney glanced toward the larger part of the building, asking, “How are you paying the rent on this?”
“Oh, the Lord provides, lad!” Gardner said cheerfully. “And it’s just a beginnin’. Next week we’ll have the space where we can keep men who are really down. You know, give ’em a good hot meal and a spot to sleep.”
“And a sermon to go with it?”
“Oh, that will be available,” Awful laughed.
“You’ll have every deadbeat on the East Side of New York.”
“No fear! The Lord’s table is large, dear boy. Didn’t He feed five thousand with a few bits of fish and bread?”
Barney shook his head. “It won’t work, Awful. You ought to know that.”
“Why should I know it? Didn’t the Lord change me?”
“You’re the exception to the rule. Most of us just go right on the way we have to.”
Gardner didn’t argue, but for an hour the two talked and sipped their coffee. Barney’s misery was obvious, but the older man knew that until the young man hit bottom, he would not hear any sort of counsel.
Finally Barney got up to leave. “Thanks for the supper, Awful. It was real fine.”
“We’ll do it often, lad,” Gardner nodded. “I hear you’re fightin’ next week.”
“Yes.” Barney gave Awful a tight smile. “If you want to pray for me, ask God to let me win the fight.”
He turned and left, leaving Gardner alone. Awful sat there for a while, saddened by the tragedy of young Winslow. Then he bowed his head. “Lord, I ask you to let the boy lose this fight. Protect his life, but he don’t need to be winnin’ no bouts. Dear Lord, I know as how you loves the dear lad better than me, and you knows best. But if you could just cut ’im down to where he don’t have no place to look but up—and then give ’im a glimpse of the Lord Jesus, I’d be most grateful.”
He kept praying for a long time, and finally got up, saying, “Thank you, Lord. I’ll be available when the time comes.”
CHAPTER NINE
The End of Everything
Reynolds Sports Arena was one of the less ornate of the New York boxing centers. It was actually an old warehouse that had a ring in the center and wooden benches for seats. The dressing rooms had been created by throwing up a rickety wall in one corner of the open structure. There was no shower, and Benny Meyers said as he finished taping Barney’s hands, “This is a rat hole if I ever saw one! City ought to condemn the thing!”
Barney nodded absently. He cared little about the surroundings, for his mind was on the fight that was in front of him. “Tell me again about this fellow I’m fighting, Benny,” he said.
“Leonard? Well, he’s not much of a boxer,” Benny said. “Clumsy as a bear—but just about as mean and strong. Nobody’s ever knocked him down, so you ain’t likely to.” He shook his head in wonder, adding, “I don’t think he’d go down if you hit him with a railroad tie! Got a head like cement!”
“So I just stay away from him?”
“You’d better! If he gets you pinned on the ropes, he’ll maul you to pieces. But he’s slow, so you ought to be able to stand off and pepper him with a left. Just don’t try to slug it out with him, Barney.”
A man stuck his head through the door, calling out, “Hey, Benny, get your guy ready. You’re next.”
“Let’s go, Barney,” Benny said, leading the way. Barney followed, with another man behind, carrying the bucket to the ring. Thick cigar smoke and noise from the crowd filled the air as they made their way to the center of the arena. Barney climbed through the ropes and went to the center of the ring, where the blunt-featured referee instructed the contestants to keep their punches up and break clean. The boxers touched gloves, then retreated to the side until the call.
Barney turned to face Leonard. The thick-set, beetle-browed opponent outweighed Winslow by ten pounds. Meyers pulled Barney’s robe off, reminding him of the way to attack, the jabs and the ropes. A few voices from the crowd called, “Beat his brains out, Bat!” It felt good to hear his name and to know he had some supporters, but they wouldn’t be up in the ring trying to keep Leonard from scrambling their brains. They could cheer or boo!
The bell rang, and Benny called sharply, “Remember—stay away from him!”
Leonard came roaring out to the center, bringing a right hand up, and it was easy for Barney to step to one side and let the burly fighter sail by. Leonard plunged into the ropes, and as he turned and reared back, Barney jumped in and shot two sharp lefts to Leonard’s jaw. But he might as well have been tickling the man with a feather, for all the effect the blows had.
The first round went by quickly, with the pattern always the same. Leonard would come rushing at Barney, who would duck to one side, putting Leonard off balance. Then Barney would send his lefts in, sometimes with a hard right.
When the bell sounded and he went to sit on his stool, he said, “It’s like a bull fight, Benny. He just comes charging in, and I dodge him.”
“Yes, well, be sure you keep dodging!”
The second round was a repeat, and so was the third. By now the crowd was getting tired of it. Someone called out, “Hey, Winslow, you think this is a waltz? Stand up and fight!” Others took it up, and when he went back to his place at the end of the round, the crowd was openly booing him. Benny said, “Let ’em boo. You’re doing fine, Barney.”
But in the fourth round Barney discovered that he was getting tired. He was not in good condition, and he was beginning to gasp for breath. His legs were getting rubbery, too, and he knew that sooner or later he’d have to slow Leonard down. He dodged one of the fighter’s wild rushes and took a chance. Planting his feet, he swung with his right and caught the surprised Leonard square in the face as he came careening off the ropes. The blow stopped him dead, and Leonard stood there unable to move.
Barney thought, I’ve got him! He moved forward, his right cocked to send the blow that would put the man down—and then he caught a tremendous right hand in his mouth. It was a disaster, beginning in his face and running down to his heels! Reeling backward, he tried to get his hands up, but he had no chance. With a roar, Leonard came charging in, battering Barney’s face and body with powerful punches. Barney took a smashing left that knocked him to the canvas, and he lay there trying to think. He heard someone shouting “Stay down, Barney!” but he rolled over and got up.
The referee looked in his eyes, asked, “You all right?” When Barney nodded, he waved the two together and stepped back. Barney tried to dodge Leonard’s rush, but his mind was spinning. He got his hands up, but the fists of the raging fighter came smashing through. Barney felt the ropes on his back, and Leonard battered Winslow’s side with short, wicked punches, and then drove paralyzing blows at his head. Barney never saw the punch that sent him to the floor. He found himself back in his place, on his stool, and heard Meyers say, “I’m gonna stop it, kid!”
“No!” Barney cried out. “I can do it!”
“He’ll kill you, Barney,” Meyers said.
“Just give me a chance, Benny!” he gasped. “I’ll stay away from him.”
Benny shook his head, but the bell rang and Barney came off his stool and moved to the center of the ring. He had his left out, and when Leonard came at him, Barney managed a sharp left jab, but it made no impression. When Leonard charged him, he might as well have tried to avoid a freight train. A wild right struck Barney, sending showers of lights in front of his eyes, followed by a barrage of blows to his head and body that drove him to the floor.
He got up, but went down again, and then Leonard caught him with a roundhouse right that knocked him out. He hit the canvas loosely, and Meyers threw the towel in. It fluttered through the air, and the referee stopped the bout, holding Leonard’s hand high.
****
Coming through a long, dark tunnel, Barney tried
to figure out where he was. He opened his eyes slowly, painfully.
“Hey, you’ve come around,” Benny said. “I was worried. You all right, kid?”
Barney looked dazed. He tried to sit up, but his head was spinning and his eyes wouldn’t focus. He seemed to see two of everything. He fell back, and Meyers said quickly, “Don’t try to sit up yet. You took quite a pounding in there.”
Barney lay back, and when the room stopped spinning, he looked around. “Where am I? Where is everyone?” he asked.
“You’re in the dressing room and you’ve been out for three hours, Barney. I was just gettin’ ready to take you to the hospital.”
Barney didn’t answer. Feeling was coming back, and it seemed as if every inch of his body screamed with pain. He tried to take a deep breath, and gave a small, involuntary cry.
“What’s wrong?” Benny asked.
“My side!”
Meyer touched the spot Barney indicated. “I think you got some ribs cracked—maybe broke. We better get you to the hospital.”
It took a long time, for Barney could move only with great care, but they made it to the hospital. The doctor examined him thoroughly. “He’s got two broken ribs, a bad concussion,” he said to Benny, “and he’ll need stitches in that cut over his eyebrow.”
The doctor taped Barney’s ribs and sewed the cut together, but Barney could not see well.
“Why don’t you stay in the hospital for a couple days,” Benny suggested.
“No. Just get me home. I’ll be all right.”
Meyers took him directly to the boardinghouse, helped him up the stairs to his room, and put him to bed. “I’ll check with you tomorrow, Barney,” he said.
“I didn’t do good, did I?”
Meyers looked at him, then said carefully, “Barney, you got to stop fighting. You’re going to be a punch-drunk pug if you don’t.”
Barney lay there silently, then said, “You mean you won’t be my manager?”
“I wouldn’t be doing you a favor if I did.” Meyers stood beside him. “I’ve always liked you, Barney. When it looked like you could do it, I was glad. But I been around fighters all my life, and I tell you that you can’t make it. Maybe prison took it out of you—I dunno. But whatever done it, you’ve lost the touch.” He put his hand on Barney’s shoulder. “It’s not the end of the world, kid. You got a good family, rich people. They’ll help you.”
Meyers saw that Barney was not listening, so he said, “You’ll feel better in a few days. It’ll be all right.” He left the room, closing the door quietly. As he walked down the stairs he said to himself, “The kid is pretty low—but he’ll come out of it.”
Barney lay on the bed, feeling empty and miserable. His body screamed with pain, every breath giving his rib cage a spasmodic jerk. But the futility of his future, his fragmented relationship with his family, his inability to find his place in the world hurt even worse. Fighting was the only thing he’d ever done well. Maybe he could still do it, find another manager and try again. Yet . . . could Meyers have been right?
Barney dragged his battered body to the dresser, where a bottle of liquor beckoned him—the medication he needed to numb his physical and mental torment. He drank heavily, the soothing liquid flowing freely down his throat. Going back to the bed, he dropped down and waited for the liquor to dull his nerves. Soon he grew dizzy and slumped in a heap, but he held on to the bottle. No one had ever told him that a person with a concussion should never drink, so he continued taking sips from the bottle until he finally passed out.
The next morning, he awakened with a splitting headache. The bottle beside him was empty, and he lurched to his feet. The room spun around and he crashed full length to the floor. Great sheets of pain ran through his sides. Unable to curb the agony, he lay gasping for breath. After about an hour, Barney rolled carefully to one side and managed to struggle to his knees; then hanging on to the wall, he made it back to his bed. He searched his pocket and found some cash. “Gotta get something for my head,” he mumbled. He rose slowly to his feet, stumbled to the door, and left the room. His first stop was the closest saloon, where he drank steadily for an hour.
The bartender stared at him, and when Barney looked into the mirror on the wall, he saw why. His face was swollen and covered with purple bruises, his eyes almost slits. The cut over the one eye had bled, leaving the dried blood splashed across his forehead. His lips were puffed like doughnuts, and his hair caked with dirt—a total mess, Barney thought.
Gotta go clean up, he decided as he staggered to his feet, too drunk to do more. “Maybe if I walk a bit—clear my mind,” he mumbled to himself. He headed for the door and down the street. He hadn’t gone far when he felt sick to his stomach, and stepped into the saloon nearby. From that moment on, all was a blur to him. He woke up sometime that night in an alley, struggled to his feet, and made his way back to the boardinghouse. He groped his way up the stairs to his room and headed for the pitcher of tepid water, gulping down all there was.
Falling across the bed, sick again, he tried to think, but his brain was muddled from alcohol. He fell into a stupor, and when he awoke hours later and checked his pockets, he discovered the money was gone. He looked in the dresser and stared at the few dollars left. He began to feel pangs of hunger and decided to get a sandwich at the saloon. But after eating, he spent the rest of the money on whiskey.
When Barney left the saloon in the early afternoon, he wandered aimlessly down the street for hours. Drunken men were no novelty to people, so nobody stopped him or asked if he needed help. As he walked, he tried to think. The more he thought the angrier he became. Life had given him a rotten turn. People had done him in!
Filled with this bitterness, he turned down Pearl Street—just by chance.
It was by chance also that Katie Sullivan was on her way down Pearl Street. She had worked all day at the cafe and was heading home. She didn’t even notice the man coming toward her. As usual, she was so exhausted that her mind was fixed on getting to her room and having something to eat.
Barney saw the woman but didn’t recognize her at first. Then he stopped, shook his head to clear his blurred eyesight, and felt a dull anger race through him.
Katie! Katie Sullivan! It was her fault! He had been frustrated ever since Sing Sing, trying to figure out why he had been imprisoned. Later when he had discovered through his mother that Katie Sullivan had been in possession of the information that might have kept him out of prison, he blamed her. He didn’t reason all this out—indeed, he didn’t reason at all, but had found someone to fix the blame on for his own errors. His mother had tried to counter his accusations, but he had shut his mind; and now as he stared at the girl, an uncontrollable rage engulfed him.
Without thinking, he followed the blind impulse that seized him. Rushing up to her, he grabbed the startled girl by the arm and shouted, “You little tramp!” Shaking her violently, he ignored her cries, then slapped her across the face.
Katie screamed and begged him to let her go. But by now he was so insane from whiskey and the injustice done him that he was devoid of any mercy. He continued to hit her repeatedly until she fell to the pavement. As though driven by an unseen force, he reached down and pulled her up, still cursing her.
Hearing the commotion, Simon Wintz, a tall, thick-set Polish butcher sweeping in front of his shop half a block down, rushed to the rescue. Unlike most street people, who had learned that it was better if they let assailant and victim—even damsels in distress—fight their own battles, he had to intervene.
“Let that woman go!” Wintz shouted. He was new to the country and had not learned to ignore men’s attacks on women.
Barney paid no attention, as though he couldn’t hear Wintz. The butcher grabbed the attacker’s arm and jerked him away. But Barney turned like one robbed of his prey and struck Wintz, catching him high on the cheek. Wintz immediately drew back his huge fist and sent it crashing into Barney’s side—the one with the broken ribs.
&nb
sp; With a cry of agony Barney fell, clutching his side.
Wintz ignored him and helped Katie to her feet. “Are you all right, ma’am?” he asked.
“Yes,” Katie sobbed. She had not even recognized Barney Winslow in his filthy condition, but now she did. Shocked at the discovery, she thought of Lola Winslow and the hurt this would bring her.
“What’s going on?” a voice behind interrupted.
“Mr. McGivern,” Wintz said, recognizing the local policeman on the beat, “this drunk was beating up the girl.”
“You know the man?” the officer asked Katie.
“N-no, sir,” Katie lied. “He just came up and started hitting me.”
Ryan McGivern stared down at Barney, who was doubled up with pain. “What’s wrong with him?”
“I gave him a hit,” Wintz said, “but not that hard.”
“Well, I’ll take him along to the station. Help me get him up.”
It took both men to get Barney to his feet, but he couldn’t walk. McGivern shook his head. “He’s got something busted. We’ll have to have the wagon for him.”
They put Barney down, and he lay doubled up until the wagon came. “Better take him to the hospital first,” McGivern said. The driver nodded, and when the wagon was gone, the officer turned to Katie. “I’ll have to have your name in case something comes of this.”
Katie thought fast. “My name is Eileen Smith. I work at the shoe factory on Tenth Street.” She wanted nothing to do with the law.
The policeman wrote the information on his note pad, nodded, and said she could go.
Katie wasted no time and in a flash she was gone.
****
Barney groaned with pain as the doctor examined him.
“How’d you break those ribs?” the physician asked.
“In a boxing match,” Barney answered.
“You should have better sense than to get into a fight with broken ribs. They’re going to give you some real trouble now.”
His words were prophetic. The police took him into custody and threw him into a crowded cell, but that night he developed a burning fever. The sergeant in charge consulted the captain, saying, “He don’t look good to me, Cap. I think we better let him go. We ain’t got enough on him really. The girl didn’t press charges.”
The Final Adversary Page 10